Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy hates his dress shirt. The damned thing doesn’t fit him to start with, too tight under the arms and too stiff around his neck. The frills don’t win it any favour either, although maybe if they were toned down he could grow to love them.

He hates his waistcoat, too. It doesn’t have any pockets. What kind of coat doesn’t have pockets?! It’s a deep wine red too, which only reminds him of the thick leather tomes he could be studying instead of wrestling with gold buttons and slightly too small buttonholes.

He sighs, resigning himself to a long night. It isn’t often he has to pull out the fancy clothes; just once a year, at his sponsor’s stupid party.

He knows it’s important, something about all the prominent figures of all the different spheres of magic being there, but Tommy had stopped paying attention after this third time.

This year is party number four, and he plans to make it the best yet. How? Simple. Zone the fuck out.

The previous years Tommy had been needed for various tasks or to meet certain people, but his sponsor finally found another kid to parade around so Tommy is free this year to do whatever the fuck he wants. Which is to find a quiet corner and pretend he isn’t there.

As his booted feet (and fuck the toes were pointy, he was going to be sore by the end of the night) descend red-carpeted stairs he braces himself, smiling brightly at the first flash of glittering dresses and tailored robes.

The grand foyer is full of well-dressed people, each with their faces twisted in cordial smiles and performative laughs. Servants carry steaming bites of food and bubbling glasses of some exotic champagne on trays, and periodically a guest will snatch something from them, seamlessly continuing their conversations.

With a mental groan, Tommy steps into the light crowd, nodding his head to anyone who looks his way. He’s about halfway to the first lounge when someone calls him over.

Tommy recognises him, but can’t for the life of him remember his title. Is he a Duke? A Baron? Or maybe some foreign prince…

“Tomathy!” The man calls with a familiar smile. “You are a wizard, are you not?”

Politely, Tommy nods, smiling at the man’s companions (somewhere deep down he knows their names, their titles, their relations to Sir Dream but he doesn’t need that information right now). “Indeed I am, sir.”

“You must tell us of your studies! Are you living up to Sir Dream’s legacy?” The man winks.

Sir Dream, the heir to Essempi, is a rich half-elf with nothing better to do than pick up charity cases and sponsor them. Tommy hated being one of those cases, but if it keeps him in the academy, so be it.

To answer the man's question, he says, “Of course. I’m the best in my age group, and the Masters say I’m greatly exceeding expectations.” He recites, prepared to give this line a thousand times over.

His presence at the party isn’t to enjoy himself, that much is clear. No, it’s to prove that his investment was worth it, that he isn’t tarnishing the Dream name.

“Brilliant. Sir Dream always turns out the best.” The man says with a smile, looking Tommy in the eyes directly. He wants Tommy to see he’s being loyal, to report that back to Dream.

Like he ever even sees Sir Dream. Not that he’ll let them know that.

The moment passes and Tommy is dismissed, free to resume his path to the lounge. There the crowd continues, and Tommy is pulled over several times, and each time follows the same script.

Finally, he makes it to the next room, a smaller parlour. Fewer people are here, and it’s quieter. He recognises one of the Masters at the academy, Master Sam. Thankfully the man does nothing more than nod in his direction when he spots him, engaged in conversation. He makes it through the parlour without hassle and slips into the antechamber with even fewer people, and then into a near-silent hall, and then in a study where the only two occupants are far too engaged to notice him slip past them into another hall, and then finally, into the empty conservatory.

He sighs in relief, sinking into one of the low couches that face the curved wall of windows, shutting his eyes and letting the last light of the sun dance on his skin. This is his favourite place in the manor. When he’s home for holidays, he grows a few plants here in pots, or reads, or studies, or practices magic. Not the big spells of course. Those would probably tear up the foundations of the house.

With a sigh, he props himself upright, digging under the couch to see if he remembered to stash any books. Thankfully it seems he did, as his fingers brush against a thin leather spine.

The door opens, and Tommy snaps upright, smile firmly in place. He…

He blinks. He doesn’t recognise this person.

He’s tall-- his head brushes the top of the doorframe even with him leaning over slightly. He’s wearing a dark beanie, an odd choice at a party like this. The hair that falls out artfully shimmers, dark brown curls making the snowy white streak stand out like a sore thumb. But what really catches Tommy’s attention is the round glasses that cover his eyes, the lenses a vivid blue.

The man smirks. He gestures with one hand, a smoking cigarette between his long fingers. “You don’t mind, do you?” Silently, he takes a puff, and although it’s hard to make out Tommy knows his eyes are locked on him.

He blinks again, smile dimming. “You… you’re not supposed to smoke.” He says dumbly, still trying to rack his brain for who this could be. The letter he got from Sir didn’t say anything about new invitees, so who…?

The man’s easy smirk turns sharp but no less effortless. “You gonna snitch on me?” He purrs, digging his other hand past his dark red tailcoat and into the deep pockets of his shimmering dark pants.

“No.” Tommy says after a pause. The man just leans against the wall, taking another drag as his eyes never leave Tommy. Something about them makes Tommy wish he had pockets, his components. Even just the little clay hand that’s usually tucked in his back pocket.

“Good,” The man purrs again, and the letters drip down Tommy’s spine like ice. “You one of Dream’s strays?” He raises a sharp, thin eyebrow, tilting his head and making his impressive cobalt lenses flash with the warm light of the sun.

Tommy swallows. There’s no pretence here, no shield of social niceties. He knows how to navigate that, but this? This brutal, unapologetic honestly? He doesn’t know how to play this.

So, he goes short and simple. “Yes, sir.”

The man huffs, rolling his eyes. Behind the glasses, they seem unnaturally dark, like his pupil swallowed his iris. “Don’t bother with that. I’m no one’s sir.”

Swallowing again, Tommy decides it’s time for a risk. “Who are you?”

Those eyes snap to him, and his grin widens ever so slightly. “Not many people know that.”

Dangerous, that squirming thing inside him warns. He’s dangerous. But Sir Dream wouldn’t have invited him if he was going to do anything, and besides, everyone here is dangerous in some way or another, so instead of excusing himself politely, he frowns.

“What do you mean?” He eyes the man warily, but his red shirt reveals nothing but a tasteful amount of ruffles and an empty breast pocket.

The man laughs, twisting his head to take another drag on his cigarette. The last of the sunlight flashes on the silver rings in his ears. “I mean exactly what I say.”

Frustrated, Tommy blurts, “I’m Tomathy.”

The man’s lips twitch, and he drops his cigarette on the floor. “Tomathy? I bet you hate that name.” His polished black toe stamps on the lit end, grinding it into the dark oak floorboards.

Staring at the black stain on the wood, Tommy finds his face twisting into a wry smile. “Yeah. Pretentious, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t going to say it.” He tips his head. “Dream named you?”

Tommy leans back against the couch. “Kinda. My name’s Tommy, but he decided… it wasn’t appropriate. Changed it to Tomathy.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling a stranger this, a stranger at one of Dream’s parties no less, but while something about the man sets Tommy on edge, whatever’s left feels familiar, easy.

“Sounds like him.” The stranger crosses the room to the windows, staring out into the greying sky before turning to slouch against the thick windowsills. “Tommy. It’s better.”

“Thanks.” He shifts, itching the sweat gathering under his too-tight collar.

The man tilts his head again, and with the dimming light behind him, Tommy can’t see his eyes, just those startling blue circles. If Tommy squints, they almost look like they’re glowing.

“Tell you what,” He says, leaning forward, “If you see me again I’ll tell you my name.”

Tommy wants to question it, to tug at the thing in his chest that demands he leaves this man alone, but he’s curious. He didn’t get this far keeping on the path, now did he?

“Deal.” By instinct, he offers his hand. He blinks, about to retract it, when a cool hand slides in to grip it, long fingers circling his hand as they shake.

“Deal.” The man grins, canines sharp as the sun behind him dies entirely.

It is far too early for anyone to be awake anywhere but Tommy is bright-eyed and more than energetic. With the party behind him it’s back to the academy for the next term, and then a few more weeks for exams. He doesn’t have to be back here for at least four months. Five if he’s smart about it.

Sir Dream’s head wizard, George, comes to wake him only for the door to open before he can knock, Tommy fully dressed and packed. He doesn’t blink - Tommy does this every time. He just leads him to the foyer, pointing to the centre of the floor.

With the manor empty, the tiles of the foyer are breathtaking. A veritable mosaic of tiles loops and twists in a circular pattern, the centre of which is an empty circle, big enough for several people to stand inside of.

Dutifully Tommy stands inside the circle, tucking his case across the line of small diamond tiles that glitter up at him. He turns to face the door, and George steps back. He holds out his hand and his spellbook appears, the pages flipping until they land on a familiar pattern. Closing his eyes, George reaches out with his other hand, his fingertips glowing blue. His brow furrows, and the lines of tile light up.

Tommy closes his eyes to avoid the vertigo he always gets from Dream’s teleportation circle and when he opens them he’s standing in the same circle miles and miles away.

The main hall of the Essempi Wizard Academy is grand. The ceiling soars above him, supported with twelve columns, six on either side. The hall itself has three levels, each with balconies that look down on the ground floor. Glowing orbs of metal and magic are hung in the air, thin chains linking them to the ceiling. Tommy breathes in. The musk of old parchment and fresh ink settles in his chest, and it smells like home.

“Welcome back, Tommy.” Master Halo greets him, the black-robed wizard smiling warmly down at him. Two smaller figures vibrate excitedly in his shadow.

Tommy grins. “Thank you, Master.”

He nods back, and finally Tubbo and Ranboo pounce, burying Tommy in limbs.

“We missed you!” Tubbo chirps, arms looped around his waist.

Tommy scoffs. “It was one day.”

“Still!” Tubbo insists, unsubtly sticking his hand into Tommy’s pocket. He grins when he pulls out a small pouch. “Score!”

“I see, you missed my spell components.” Tommy jokes, but he smiles warmly at Tubbo’s reaction. He’d nicked the gold dust just for him, after all.

“Anything for me?” Ranboo asks, plastered against Tommy’s side.

“Oh actually,” Tommy remembers, digging through his ratty coats many, many little pockets, “Found some of these, hang on—“ he pulls out the little white chips of tile and marble he’d gotten off of George. “Here.”

Ranboo’s eyes widen. “I can practice so much! Thank you!”

“It’s all good Boo,” Tommy laughs, breaking free of them to grab his case. “Now come on, I wanna unpack.”

It’s a Saturday, which means after their morning history and theory classes, they’re free to go into town and do what they like. Saturday classes end in time for lunch, so when Tommy finds Ranboo and Tubbo waiting for him in the main hall, he grins.

“Niki’s?”

“Niki’s.” They agree, and then they’re walking out of the open doors of the main hall of the academy.

Tommy and Tubbo go over the inaccuracies of the last Essempi wars in their textbooks while Ranboo quietly interjects with questions. The quartz stairs are soon far behind them as they venture out into the streets of L’Manberg.

Tommy loves L’Manberg, and not just because of the academy. Every block is bursting with history and Tommy loves it. The cobbled streets may be grimy, the buildings may be either brand new or so old they’re falling apart, but that just makes it all the more appealing.

Niki’s is only a few minutes from the academy, and is a frequent stop off for the three of them, especially during exams when they need to unwind.

Sure enough, the soft tinkle of the bell when they enter the cafe soothes Tommy’s heart. His mouth waters at the potent smell of pastries and bread, and they all head to the counter.

“Hello, boys! What can I get you?” Niki greets them, and they all order their favourites. For Tommy, that’s a raspberry tart that explodes on his tongue. Tubbo gets something caramel that leaves sticky streaks on his fingers. Ranboo accepts his flaky pastry with a shy smile. Niki also hands over a bag of her stale treats from the other day, and Tommy thanks her profusely.

After eating the treats, they sit in a quiet corner of the cafe and relax, laughing together as the minutes tick by. Finally, Tommy looks outside and groans.

“I’ve gotta get to the market before they pack up.” He sighs, sitting up.

Tubbo frowns. “What is it this time?”

“Gonna see if I can find some cheap crystals, although I need feathers again too.”

“But…” Ranboo tilts his head. “Don’t they have feathers at the academy?”

“Yeah, for lower casters. You’re expected to buy your own shit if you get good, and it doesn’t help that Sir Dream’s sponsoring me.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Never get good, Ranboo, it’s not worth it.”

They laugh, but Tommy feels the creeping threads of exhaustion.

“Right. Well, we’ll see you back at dorms Tommy.” Tubbo yawns. “Shit, I should not have stayed up last night.”

“Hmm, if only someone warned you, oh wait—“

“Oh shut up, Ranboo, I can’t help it.” Tubbo heads for the door, shooting Tommy a goodbye over his shoulder and tugging Ranboo along by the arm.

Tommy waves until he can’t see them anymore, then slumps over the table. He’s drained. The Masters have been pushing him harder ever since Sir’s party and while he could handle it before, he’s starting to struggle. At least Master Sam takes it easy on him.

Eventually, he peels himself off Niki’s table and slinks out the door, shivering as a biting wind picks up. Damn, he isn’t dressed for this. His tunic was made for long hours in the academy’s library, not winding the windy streets of the city.

Pulling his short cloak around him, he speed-walks to the city centre, ducking into the maze of market stalls that he knows like the back of his hand. While no stall is in the same place twice, there is a rhythm to it, a method, and once you have it, it’s easy to find what you’re looking for.

Tommy brushes past stalls piled with herbs, dips around counters so crowded he can’t see the wares, studiously doesn’t look at the stalls that drip blood onto the cobbles and finally finds a jeweller.

The salesman is chatting with another customer so Tommy takes the opportunity to scope out his wares.

Gems of all shapes and sizes are proudly displayed, their polished faces blinking up at him. There’s quartz and lapis and even a few diamonds, but Tommy isn’t here to buy expensive gems. He moves to the emeralds, eyeing a few yellower ones with cloudy spots. Those’ll go cheap.

“You’ve got an awful eye.” The shopkeeper remarks, flipping the silver the last customer gave him. “I’m giving those to the academy tomorrow.”

Subtly, Tommy shifts so that his academy bracelet is hidden under his shirt sleeve. “I’m just looking for something cheap.”

The man’s eyebrow raises. “What for? Can’t do much with a cloudy gem.”

“I’ve got a friend trying to get into the academy,” Tommy recites, “Her audition is tomorrow and she needs a crystal. But…” He pretends to study his shoes.

“I’ve gotcha kid, here.” He pushes three across the counter. “You give me fifty coppers and I’ll call it a deal.”

Score! “Thank you, sir. You’re too kind.” Tommy smiles, making a show of digging through his small pouch to produce the bronze coins. The shopkeeper takes them easily, glancing up at the sky.

“’s no problem. I reckon I’m going to pack up, kid, and you should head home. Don’t want to run into any warlocks now, would ya?” He smiles, although it’s subdued.

“Of course not, but I’ve got a couple more things to pick up,” Tommy admits. “Thank you, sir!”

He waves it off one final time, and Tommy turns to disappear into the market.

“Scamming shopkeeps?” A familiar voice drawls, far too close to his ear, and Tommy leaps away.

The man, the man from the party, leans back from where he’d bent over to talk in Tommy’s ear. His immaculate tailcoat has been swapped for a black trench, the fabric worn but not tattered.

Behind sapphire lenses, his eyes glow.

“I— What—“ Tommy wheezes, too winded to give a proper answer.

The man laughs, slinging a cool arm around his shoulders. “I’m proud. Didn’t think you would. You’ve got something in you, you know?” He smirks, deadly and effortless. The arm around him keeps him against the taller man’s side as Tommy is led into the depths of the market.

“Wait—“ Tommy ducks out from his grip. “Hang on. How the fuck did you find me?”

Lowered eyes sharpen. “I didn’t.”

“Uh…” Tommy looks around. “Look, I’ll just be going…” Meeting him at the party had been all fine and dandy, but now? With the light fading, the wind picking up and the fancy clothes gone? Tommy thinks it might be time to listen to his gut.

“Nonsense.” The stranger snorts, once again pulling Tommy along. “I said I’d give you my name, didn’t I? And I can keep you company, make sure the warlocks don’t get you.” He laughs, something bitter and dark, and Tommy swallows.

“Look man, I’m fine. Just… I’ll just go home.” He tries to move away, but the man’s grip is strong. Really strong. “That whole warlock thing is bullshit anyway.”

“Yeah?” The man grins. “Well, too bad. I’m staying. What else do you need?”

Maybe if he just goes along with it he’ll be okay. He can take his time, the only deadline here is the sun. “At least give me your name first, before you drag me all over the fucking market.” He grumbles.

The man laughs, loud. “Right.” Finally, his arm leaves Tommy, but the man slides in front of him. “It’s Wilbur.” He offers his hand, this time covered in gloves that cut off to leave his fingertips exposed.

Tommy looks up in those brilliant blue glasses, searching the eyes behind. He doesn’t find anything. “…Great.” Tommy shakes it, Wilbur’s chilled fingers spreading goosebumps over his arm.

“Now,” Wilbur’s eyes gleam, “What exactly are we looking for?”

Tommy sighs. “Feathers. And not chicken either.” Oh, crap, lodestones. Tomorrow. He’ll get them tomorrow.

Wilbur tilts his head. “That’s all? Would have thought a young wizard like you would have been burning through components.”

He is. Fuck, he is. He needs copper wire, too. And silver. And didn’t Sam want to see his acid arrow spell on Monday? Then he needs an adder stomach. Fuuuuuuck.

Internally, Tommy is frantically trying to remember all he needs for tomorrow. Externally, Tommy blinks and says “Just feathers.”

Something knowing sits in Wilbur’s gaze, but the man straightens (when had he leaned in?) and smiles. Tommy can see his canine. “Alright, if you insist. This way.” And he turns on his heel, the thick boot clinking slightly with the silver buckles and chains that litter it.

Tommy keeps up with relative ease despite the man’s ridiculously long legs, mostly due to the odd way the crowd moves. Where Tommy had to slip between people who didn’t blink twice at him, people notice Wilbur. Women do double-takes, men shift out of his way when they see him out of the corner of their eyes. Children stop laughing when they pass, and Tommy is wary. It might just be his presence. Wilbur does have a certain gravity to him, something that demands he look and never look away, but this feels… different. Like they’re scared of him.

Maybe Tommy should try slipping away. Can’t be too hard, especially with Wilbur leading. That small crowd looks promising, maybe he can—

“You studying hard at the academy?” Wilbur asks, suddenly right next to Tommy instead of four paces in front of him.

Ignoring the way he wants to jump out of his skin, Tommy nods. “Yeah. I mean, gotta make sure Sir Dream’s happy with me, right?”

“Why’d you phrase it like a question, Tommy?”

Wilbur’s right in front of him, leaning in, in, in, and those damned blue glasses with their vibrant colour that seems unaffected by the dimming light are all he can see, the eyes behind them sharp and wide and piercing—

“What the fuck,” Tommy spits, stumbling backwards. “Personal fucking space, man. Shit.” His heart pounds, tearing at his ribs like Tommy kind of wants to tear at the arm winding around his middle.

“Sorry.” He smirks. “Here are your feathers.”

Tommy and the shopkeeper seem to notice each other at the same time. While Tommy is filled with relief, the shopkeeper pales.

“How can I help you, sirs?” She asks, eyes darting to her wide array of feathers.

Wilbur hums, the noise practically dripping into Tommy’s ear. “What do you want?”

Tommy doesn’t risk moving. “Some ostrich, if you have it.” He says weakly, praying Wilbur will let him go soon. He’s cold, and he wants to get back to the academy.

With a snort, Wilbur stops the woman. “No chance. Those.” He points to the long peacock feathers, each glimmering in the dusk.

“No, I don’t—“ He hisses, “I don’t need those. Please, ostrich is fine.” He pleads, although to Wilbur or the shopkeep he doesn’t know.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Wilbur’s eyes darken. At this angle, he can just see them without the blue lens, just a sliver. The churning brown that meets him reminds him of dark cocoa, or the tar they put on roads.

The shopkeeper hands him five peacock feathers. “Ten gold.” She whispers.

Tommy’s eyes widen. Those cannot be worth ten gold. He pulls out his pouch, fully prepared to pay her triple when long fingers curl over his own.

“I’m paying. You’ve had to put up with me, after all, it’s only fair.” And before Tommy can protest, he’s throwing a bag of gold onto the counter. “Keep the tip.” He winks.

With trembling hands, Tommy takes the feathers. He needs to go. He clears his throat, but Wilbur steers him away. “Not yet.”

Dutifully, he stays silent, noting with some relief that they’re heading in the same direction as the academy. He can see it over the roofs of the buildings, the four-towered hall soaring far above the skyline.

“Alright,” Wilbur sighs, releasing him in some dark corner between empty stalls, “What is it.”

“…I’m leaving.” He says, taking a step back.

Fishing a cigarette from his coat, Wilbur nods to the academy. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”

Tommy instantly makes for the academy, only turning back for a moment.

His tall, lanky body looks comfortable as it slouches against the wall, dark hair and coat not at all hiding his bright glasses and wine-red shirt. He lifts the lit cigarette to his lips, taking a drag as his dark eyes collide into Tommy’s.

“See you soon.” He murmurs, and Tommy hears it loud and clear.

“Why don’t you show me a second level spell?” Puffy asks him kindly, but disappointment slinks behind her smile. “Do you have any prepared?”

Tommy flushes with shame. “Yes, of course Master.” He bows, shaking away the last dregs of fatigue.

He’d stayed up late the past few nights getting that assignment Master Sapnap gave him, a long research inquiry into the science of spell components. The topic was fascinating, but the paper was long, and his hand aches from all that writing.

Taking a deep breath, he strides away from Puffy, stopping a good distance away in the grass. The wind brushes his hair as he pulls out his crude little clay hand. He lets it roll in the dip of his hand before curling it in his fist.

He breathes in. The world greets him. Energy twists around his hand, clay crumbling in his grip. Please, he asks it, do my bidding.

His eyes snap open, as does his fist, the crumbs of the clay gone entirely as Tommy’s hand shines. The earth before him rumbles, before a hand, bigger than Tommy himself erupts from the ground, made of sods of earth and grass, the fingers long and grasping—

Thin, pale fingers, firmly grasping his hand as it dips and rises, cool shivers running over his skin—

Tommy jerks his hand and the earthen one responds, clumps of dirt falling and shifting, the form distinct but fluid. He moves again and watches as his spell does his bidding with ease.

Puffy tosses something in the air, and without even seeing what it is Tommy makes his earthen hand catch it from midair. He brings it closer, gasping when he sees what it is. The spell dissolves in his shock, dirt raining from the air as Tommy reaches in and catches the book.

It’s a spellbook, a new one, with a gilded cover and his initials carved into the spine. It’s his, his to write all the spells he could ever want in, his to bleed over, his to memorise, his to fill.

“Tomorrow, Tommy,” Puffy says, “We shall see just how far we can push you.”

And those words fill Tommy with dread.

“Why, hello Tommy.” Wilbur purrs, eyes landing on the boy as Tommy passes him on the street.

Tubbo does a double-take. “You know this creep?” He hisses into Tommy’s ear, and the blond winces.

“It’s a long story.” He groans. To Wilbur, he frowns. “How do you keep finding me?”

The man grins. “Small town.”

“Not really.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “Does it matter? You’re here, and we’re talking.”

With a sigh, Tommy turns to Tubbo. “Look just… go back to Ranboo, yeah? You know how he gets.”

Tubbo glances between them. “Only if you’re sure, big man.”

Wilbur’s smile sharpens. His eyes burn Tommy from behind his azure glasses. Tommy can’t look away, can’t think, but he knows what his answer is.

“I’m sure.”

Tubbo nods, and with one final glare at Wilbur, heads back to the academy. As soon as he’s gone, Wilbur is all up in Tommy’s space, leaning in and grabbing Tommy’s shoulders with his cold hands.

“You having fun with study?” The man asks, steering him once again into the streets of L’Manberg.

Tommy sighs. “No.” He answers honestly. All the Masters have been getting… harsh on Tommy these days. Not even the smallest mistake can slip by them, and with every step forward he takes they load him with more and more work. He’s being run into the floor.

Wilbur barks out a sharp laugh. “No? I thought you liked that dusty ruin.” They turn away from the streets Tommy usually frequents, into the western outskirts.

“I do,” Tommy groans, “But the bitches keep giving me these huge-ass essays as if I don’t already have three more to finish!”

“Sounds like them,” Wilbur chuckles, pulling him to the side as a couple of tieflings pass. “Right arseholes, the lot of them.”

“Tell me about it.” He mutters. Where are they going? “And to top it all off—“ Tommy cuts himself off. Fuck. He shouldn’t be telling Wilbur this, but it’d been pressing on him lately.

“Go on,” Wilbur encourages, smiling darkly at a swinging sign ahead of them. Tommy can't make it out. “I’m not about to tell you off for dissing that place.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the academy, and everything to do with me.” He complains. “It’s not my fault I can’t do the bloody spell!”

Wilbur pushes him into some kind of bar, and Tommy stops. “What the hell, I can’t drink—“

“We’re not drinking,” Wilbur reassures him. “Come on, in the back.” He pushes forward and against all better judgment, Tommy complies, watching as Wilbur salutes the bartender with two fingers and pushes them past the back door.

They’re greeted by a dingy room and Tommy’s nose wrinkles at the distant reek of alcohol. A round table stands in the middle of the room, it's surface worn and uneven. Mismatched wooden chairs surround it, some tipped over.

“Wilbur!” A man calls, and Tommy realises that there are several men in the corner, all sorting through various bottles.

Wilbur waves, pushing Tommy into a seat. “I’ll chat later, Schlatt.”

The man nods, eyes landing on Tommy before returning to the alcohol.

“What the fuck,” Tommy hisses, eyes darting around the room, trying to see if anyone else is hiding in the shadows, “This is shady as shit, man.”

Wilbur laughs at him, ruffling his hair even as Tommy leans away from him. “Don’t worry about it, you’re safe.” He plants his elbows on the table and props his head on his hands, those brilliant blue circles staring right into him. “What spell?”

Tommy blinks. “Huh?”

“What spell are you having trouble with?” he smirks.

“What, like you know wizard shit,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Just tell me why I’m here. You wanna take me shopping again?”

“No,” He says, head tipping to the side. “And maybe I do know wizard shit.”

He searches those piercing eyes and finds only lithe confidence, so Tommy lets his shoulders drop, ignoring the delighted light behind Wilbur’s gaze. “Some third level shit. Can’t do any of them.”

“You sure you prepared them properly?” He asks, keeping remarkably still.

Tommy huffs. “Yes, I’m sure. Masters checked themselves. It’s definitely me that’s the problem.”

Neither of them moves for a moment. The men in the corner chat away mindlessly, speech slurred, but Wilbur doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Your energy comes from the earth, doesn’t it.” He says, thick with something that Tommy doesn’t understand.

“The world, but yes.” He says cautiously.

“Are you taking enough?”

Tommy frowns. “Am I taking enough energy? I don’t… it doesn’t work like that.” He shakes his head.

He raises an eyebrow. “Then how does it work?”

He shouldn’t answer. Magic is… weird. People’s opinions on it vary greatly, but to Tommy, it feels personal. Like talking about a medical issue, or about family issues (that he doesn’t have, perks of being an orphan). But here he is, explaining how the world talks to him with a man he’s met three times.

“It’s like… asking. I ask it, and then it happens.” Tommy tries to explain anyway, although he’s probably not doing a good job. Words have never been his strong suit.

But Wilbur doesn’t look confused, just intensely focused, like Tommy is the most interesting thing in the world. “Then have you asked for enough?”

He blinks tiredly. He’s too incoherent to figure out what that means. “What?”

Wilbur smiles again, all sharp teeth. “You said you ask the world. Are you asking it for enough? It doesn’t know what you want.” Something gleams in his eyes as he says, “It can’t read your mind.”

Squirming in his seat, Tommy tries to figure out why the idea of asking for more feels so wrong. “I can’t… I just ask it to do what I want. I don’t ask for an amount, whatever I’m given is what I get.” He mumbles.

Leaning back in his chair with a fluid sigh, Wilbur smiles, wide and lethal. “You’re used to giving, aren’t you?” He cocks his head and his glasses flash, like lightning over a stormy sea.

Tommy swallows, but before he can answer Wilbur’s leaning back over the table, close enough that Tommy can make out his eyelashes through his lenses.

“Sometimes, Tommy,” He drawls, gaze so full of fire and violence and blue that it hurts to look at (but he can’t look away), “You’ve just gotta take.” He whispers, and the letters fall like bloody knives onto the table between him.

There’s a stiff moment of silence as Tommy considers the weapons, as he tries to think past the terror gripping his veins. He blinks. So long for clean hands.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t mean to whisper it, but Wilbur doesn’t seem surprised. He just grins wider, leans closer and doesn’t blink, has Tommy ever seen him blink?

“Trust me,” The man purrs, “Sometimes, to do what you need, you have to take. And you can’t be apologetic.”

Tommy runs his tongue over his dry lips. “If you say so.”

Yawning, Tommy squints at the diagram Master Sam is drawing on the blackboard, desperately trying to copy it while his eyes are still focusing. From the desk next to him, Tubbo frowns, but before he can say anything Tommy waves him off. He’s fine.

Sam taps his diagram with the chalk. “And that is the basic glyph. Depending on the spell stored in it, smaller details change. For example,” he draws a line away from the top point of the glyph, “A circular tip indicates a non-violent spell, such as feather falling or the unseen servant.”

Squinting, Tommy tries to copy down the alternative tip, but his lines are too shaky for it to be accurate. Whatever, he knows what he means. If he needs this later, he’ll get the picture.

“Aggressive spells, such as the explosive properties these glyphs are known for, have the pointed tip, although this can be one of several variants—“ He pauses, eyes on the door of the classroom. “…Master Puffy, how can I help you?”

Tommy turns in his seat along with everyone else, and sure enough, there’s Puffy, leaning against the doorway in her typical navy robes. “I’m just here to observe. Please, continue.”

Slowly, Sam nods. “Right… as I was saying, the more aggressive spells use a pointed tip, and there are several variations that work. I’ll show you the three most common, starting with the simplest. Here we see—“

“Master Sam,” Puffy interrupts, that smile on her face. “Wasn’t the lesson plan for today modifications?”

From beside him, Tubbo tries to catch Tommy’s eye. What’s happening? Do you know? Subtly, Tommy shakes his head. He has no clue what’s going on.

Sam doesn’t speak for a moment. “Yes, however, there were questions on the origins of glyphs which took up a lot of time. Unfortunately, we’ll have to delay the teaching of that topic.”

Puffy’s smile grows wider. “How about we start that topic now?”

A shiver runs down Tommy’s spine. This isn’t good. Whatever is happening isn’t supposed to be happening. What is going on?

With a sigh, Sam places the chalk on his desk. “Very well.” He turns to the class, eyes cold. “As I’m sure you all know, wizards gain their magic from the world around them. But what you may not have known, is that there are ways to make the connection between a wizard and the world stronger.”

Instantly Tubbo’s hand shoots up. “Master, you’ve never mentioned a connection with the world before. What do you mean?”

With a small smile, Sam nods. “That’s true Tubbo, I haven’t. Every wizard has a connection to the world, thanks to our study and dedication to it. I’m sure you’ve all felt it, in one way or another.” He gazes across the students and Tommy blinks.

Oh. That’s what he feels. A connection?

“Anyone can develop this connection, just as anyone can become a wizard. However, to have a connection that can use magic requires many years of study and understanding. That’s why sciences, literature and other subjects are a requirement.”

Once again. Tubbo raises his hand. “Can anyone become a warlock or a sorcerer?” He asks, and Tommy understands. Ask as many questions as possible to derail the topic that Puffy wants, whatever that is.

Sam raises his eyebrow. “Surely you know that sorcery is dependent on bloodlines and ancestry, but yes, theoretically anyone can become a warlock.”

It’s Tommy this time who raises his hand. “Theoretically?”

“Well, to become a warlock you need to be able to reach out to a deity or god, and there are a few requirements with that.” Sam smiles. “You have to know how to summon that god, and what they want from you, etcetera. And then you have to make a pact with them, which is easier said than done.”

Tubbo. “What’s the difference between a warlock with a deity patron and a warlock with a god patron?”

He chuckles quietly. “Deity patrons are more available and tend to interact more with their warlocks. This means that they can boon more things to their warlock. God patrons are more powerful but don’t tend to be very interactive. If a warlock needs something, they’ll have to pray, and there’s no guarantee the god will even hear it, let alone respond.”

“Aren’t deities what clerics--“

“Perhaps you should take questions at the end, Master Sam.” Puffy calls and the room falls silent, Tommy’s hand dropping to his desk. “And you should teach your students to wait until you call on them to speak.”

Sam clears his throat, face falling. “Where was I…? Uh, the world. Right.”

“Over the years of study and learning, a wizard’s connection to the world grows stronger and their magic grows stronger as a result of this. The stronger your connection to the world, the stronger your spells will be. While typically this connection develops naturally, there are ways to… grow it quicker, extend the connection beyond what was previously possible.” He grimaces. “These methods are called modifications.

“Traditionally, modifications are… a great honour,” Sam says, although it looks like the words pain him. “At a certain level of learning, the best students are given modifications, and it represents being among the best of the best.”

The room is silent. No one is taking notes.

Sam looks Tommy in the eyes. “Here at the Essempi Wizard Academy, we follow this tradition. The teachers monitor the students closely and pick who they deem to be the best in that level of learning.

"Only the best of the best in the academy receive this, and it’s for a good reason,” Sam says, eyeing Puffy. “It’s a simple thing to do, but there’s a high risk involved. There’s a high likelihood that the student loses their connection to the world entirely, and therefore their magic.

“It can be rebuilt, but the student has to relearn everything they lost. It takes as many years as it took to develop the connection in the first place.”

Losing magic? That sounds awful.

Once again, Sam looks Tommy in the eye. “Losing magic is a tragedy, and we try to avoid it at all costs.”

“Tomathy, can I have a word with you?” Master Sapnap knocks on the dorm door.

Tubbo stands, bowing respectfully. “Tomathy’s not here, Master Sapnap. Sorry.”

The wizard frowns. “Do you know where he is?”

Ranboo shakes his head. Tubbo says “No.”

“If you see him, tell him to come to Master Puffy’s office, please.” He says and then leaves.

Tubbo turns to Ranboo. “I think something is wrong.”

Ranboo nods, then frowns. “But… don’t the Masters want what’s best for us?”

“Sure, but…” He sighs. “I can’t shake it.”

Ranboo hums. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Now come on, you promised you’d help me.”

Tommy has no idea why he’s here, or what he’s doing, but he just… had to get out. Clear his head, try to make sense of it all.

He’s so tired. Exhausted, really. Master Antfrost insists he keeps up with zoology and magizoology, and Sapnap is determined to get the sciences through Tommy’s thick skull, and no matter what spell he does Puffy always seems so disappointed, so maybe he just needs to get away from it all.

“Tommy, come meet my friends.” Wilbur appears from the shadows, his arm firm and cool against Tommy’s shoulders.

He sighs. “They better not be as much of a bitch as you are.” He mutters.

“A bitch, huh?” Wilbur hears, which he really wasn’t supposed to, “Well then, you’re not going to have a fun time. Schlatt’s even worse than I am.”

Tommy waits for the shoe to drop, for Wilbur to get mad, show the side of him that makes Tommy suffocate. But they just walk on, and while the flashes he does get of Wilbur’s eyes are dark, it’s not from anger.

So Tommy does what he knows. Fills the space, but not too much. “Okay, so this Schlatt guy, and who else?”

Wilbur hums, his smile dangerous. “Oh, you’ll see.” And he pushes open the door to the pub, the same pub from before, and when had they gotten here?

Once again, Wilbur nods at the bartender and boldly strides straight to the backroom. Only this time, the table is occupied, almost all the chairs full. He does a double-take when he spots Niki, a dark bottle by her elbow across the table from him. She winks.

All the people cheer when Wilbur enters, leaning back from the table and Tommy is given a clear view of what’s on it. Piles of coins, for one, mostly silver and gold. Various bottles and dirty glasses gather around the edges, clustered around hands and elbows. A space has been cleared in the middle of the table, and Tommy catches cards, stained and yellow arranged in lines and piles. They’re betting then, and as Tommy squints against the hazy air he realises it’s not just money. Folded pieces of paper are tucked away in the piles too, as well as random items like a box of cigarettes or an engraved knife.

“Everyone, this is Tommy,” Wilbur introduces, planting a hand on his shoulder to push him forward. “No funny business with him.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” A skinny man snarks, downing a shot of something dark and brown.

Wilbur ignores him, but his smile turns into a smirk. “Tommy, this is Schlatt.” He points to the man closest to them, who turns to face them fully when he hears his name.

“Hey, kid.” He grins, just as predatory as Wilbur, his face sculpted with thick stubble and facial hair. A fat cigar sits between his pale lips, lit and smoking. Tommy wants to cough just looking at it. “Nice to meet ya.”

Tommy eyes his gleaming leather tunic and thick black pants and says “Same.”

“That’s Charlie, don’t worry about him,” Wilbur gestures to the man beside Schlatt, who waves vigorously and doesn’t seem phased in the slightest that Wilbur brushed over him, “and that’s Niki.”

Her soft hair is pulled back, revealing half-pointed ears shot through with iron. Her usual black corset is present, although this time over a dark red shirt, similar to Wilbur’s, with embroidery of skulls in black thread around the collar.

She smiles at him, a familiar and welcome sight. “We’ve met. He comes by the cafe.”

“That’s good to know,” Wilbur says darkly. Niki nods. “Me and Niki go way back. If you can’t find me, head to Niki.”

The person on Niki’s left raises their hand in greeting. They also have a corset, with a frilled white shirt. Silver braces gather the loose fabric at their elbows, and shining eyes are hidden by thick curls. “I’m Eret, and since he’s not going to introduce himself, this is Fundy.”

The scrappy man next to him sneers, taking a swig from a bottle. He wears a long trench like Wilbur, but it’s brown and there are frayed holes in the elbows. Expectedly, he doesn’t speak.

The last man, the skinny one, tosses Tommy a grin and a silver coin. “You can call me Quackity, kid. Nice to meet you.” His spiky black hair tops his equally sharp face, his high-waisted pants and well-fitting vest add to the skinny image, and when he smiles again, Tommy catches a glimpse of a gold tooth.

Wilbur catches the copper quick as lightning, giving Quackity a cool smirk. “Try not to bribe him, will you?” He jabs, slinking off Tommy and into the free chair next to both Schlatt and Quackity.

With a start, Tommy realises all the seats are now taken.

Wilbur glances back at him and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you gonna sit?”

He blinks back at him. “You’re fresh out of chairs, big man, where ‘m I supposed to sit?”

Slowly, Wilbur’s grin widens, and he shifts his legs into the wedge of space between him and Quackity’s chair.

He snorts. “Yeah, no. I’ll stand.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur’s expression doesn’t change, eyes burning out from his cornflower glasses. “Sit.”

After a moment of hesitation (is he really about to do this?), Tommy shuffles over to Wilbur. He hesitates again, staring at the man’s lap, before finally perching on his knee, ready to bolt up at the first opportunity.

He grits his teeth as Wilbur’s arm snakes around his torso to pull him back against his chest, but he doesn’t fight it.

“Damn,” Schlatt mutters. “You got ‘im good.”

“That I do,” Wilbur laughs darkly. “You gonna deal me in?”

Someone hands Wilbur a hand, and he eyes the cards, his face right beside Tommy’s. Every few moments their cheeks will brush, Tommy shivering at the cold skin.

Wilbur digs out a bag of something (coin, judging by the sound it makes) and throws it on the table carelessly. “I’m in.”

Silently, Tommy watches the group play, trying to follow what’s happening. Piles of coin and items are pushed around, cards are played, everyone laughs and Schlatt keeps smoking. Quackity joins him after he wins what turns out to be a box of Schlatt’s cigarettes, and quickly the air grows hazy.

After a few rounds, Tommy shifts in Wilbur’s lap. As the minutes had passed, he’s found himself relaxing, leaning fully into the man’s chest. An arm is around his shoulder, the hand resting on his collarbone as cold, thin fingers trace patterns on the skin of Tommy’s neck.

Wilbur hums questioningly as if sensing Tommy’s thoughts. He plays another card, laughing at Eret’s expression.

“…How does it work?” Tommy mutters, embarrassed to admit he doesn’t know what’s happening.

To his despair, Wilbur stops entirely, turning to face him in disbelief, glasses down his nose. “You don’t know how to play poker?” The fingers on his neck come to a stop, and as Wilbur shifts, they press into his skin slightly.

All eyes fall on him, and Tommy squirms. “Well, all the rich, stuck-up pricks at the manor know dragonchess. And we never have time at the academy to place more than dice.” He defends himself, embarrassed.

Wilbur laughs all the same. “I’ll teach you. Q, give him something to bet.”

The slim man nods, turning to grab something. Tommy shakes his head, “No, no I’m okay, really Wilbur, I’ll just watch you—“

“We insist, kid.” Quackity smirks. “You’re not a man until you’ve played poker. C’mon.” He pushes a fresh pile of silver coins in Tommy’s direction, as well as a few cards.

“I—“ He tries to protest, moving to push it all back, but Wilbur’s chin on his shoulder makes him freeze.

“I’m teaching you how to play poker.” He says, low and dark.

Tommy picks up his hand.

“Master Sapnap…?” Ranboo wrings his hands, anxiously glancing up from his feet.

The Master turns from the blackboard, dusty eraser in hand. “What is it, Ranboo? Need me to check your answers again?”

“Um. No, I was just, ah, wondering…” Ranboo takes a deep breath. “Have you seen Tommy?”

Sapnap’s face clears, and he sets down the eraser. “Tomathy? He’s fine. Puffy just took him for a little… trip, is all.”

Ranboo shifts on his feet. “Trip, Master?”

“Hmm.” He hums. “He’ll be back in a few days. Nothing for you to worry about. Now, run along and get on with those questions, okay? And don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

Ranboo opens his mouth, but Sapnap has already turned his back, humming a tune under his breath as he finishes cleaning the blackboard.

Maybe something is wrong…

Niki wipes down the bench of the cafe, mind wandering as it so often does when she’s alone. Tonight, it drifts across skies and oceans, swimming in clouds.

She’s pulled out of the image when the bell rings, and she looks up in time to see the familiar figure of Wilbur, lit from the back with the blue light of the night and the moon.

“What’s up?” She asks, setting down her rag. It’s not often Wilbur comes this late, and when he does it’s usually something urgent.

Sure enough, he doesn’t enter the shop, lifting a lit cigarette to his lips. “You haven’t seen Tommy, have you?” He says, and while it should be a question he doesn’t say it like one.

Niki shakes her head. “Sometimes I don’t see them for a while. It’s not unusual.”

He doesn’t move, and Niki knows he’s not convinced. “I’ve still got him, but he hasn’t turned up recently. I should have seen him by now.”

“I’ve heard them talking, the academy keeps him busy. He’s probably just doing some assignment that can’t wait.” She tries.

Wilbur’s eyes flash behind his bright blue glasses. “For two weeks, Niki?”

She swallows. “Maybe.”

They both know she’s grasping at straws. And they both know that the academy is nowhere near trustworthy.

Wilbur turns back to the city. “I’ll find him either way.” He tosses his cigarette onto the cobbles. “Let me know if you see him.”

He’s gone before she can agree.

Tubbo has to say he was worried when Tommy went on the trip (disappeared), but he’s relieved to know it was just that. A trip to the Kinoko border to learn from a travelling wizard there. Just a way to further his studies.

And Tubbo can see that something has changed in Tommy, but it’s been a few weeks (a month. A month). He’s probably tired from all the work he did. From what Tommy tells them, it was a gruelling few weeks.

(The smart part of Tubbo screams that something is wrong, something is very wrong. He tries to listen, but what can he do?)

Ranboo sticks his head into the dorm. “Anyone wanna come with me to Niki’s? I could use something sweet.” He smiles gently at Tommy’s back, which is currently hunched over a roll of parchment so long it could wrap him up like a mummy.

They wait for the joke, for him to turn around and laugh and say that Ranboo never orders anything sweet anyway, and that he needs this spell component and can they grab that on the way? But Tommy just grunts.

(Something is wrong. What happened?)

Silently, Tubbo grabs his shoes. “I’m coming, Boo. How ‘bout you, Tommy?” He prays, to each and every god he knows. Anything. He just wants anything.

“Can’t.” He breathes, his quill moving to a new line. “You go.”

(This isn’t Tommy. Where is Tommy?)

“Okay big man.” Tubbo chirps, because what is he supposed to do? Tommy hates sympathy. That’s how it’s always been. “We’ll bring you something back.”

With a sigh, Tommy says, “Don’t bother.”

Ranboo and Tommy share a look.

(Where is Tommy?)

“I’ve got your components this time, but next time you buy them yourself, got it?” Puffy instructs, and silently Tommy nods.

“Good.” She hands him the bag. “Now, I want you to try a third level spell. How about… lightning bolt? That’s always useful.”

Tommy nods. “Yes, Master.”

She backs away, hands clasped behind her back. Tommy opens the drawstring of the back, pulling out the tuft of fur and the smooth rod of glass.

He closes his fist, holds it out in front of him. The wind kisses his hair. He breathes in. The world greets him.

Sometimes, Tommy, you’ve just gotta take.

Do my bidding, he demands, determined. His back flares in pain, but the energy cracks around his hands, thick and bubbling. If magic before was like dipping his hands in a pond, this is plunging his hands into fire. There’s just so much.

Between his fingers, fur disintegrates, and he hears the glass shattering into dust. His eyes snap open, and with a shout, he lifts his pointed finger.

Thunder shakes the earth, and a lightning bolt big enough to engulf Tommy whole shatters down, blinding and powerful and roaring, a crackling beam of pure energy that Tommy made.

The bolt vanishes, the grass before him is nothing but scorched earth, and Tommy thinks so this is power. He doesn’t like it. Or at least, he doesn’t like how he got it.

(Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.)

A slow clap draws his attention, and Puffy’s rewarding smile almost makes his breath hitch. “Well done. That was impressive, Tomathy.”

He smiles back, wondering when he learned how to separate his heart and his mouth.

(Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think--)

“Here.” She hands him a new bag. “Why don’t we try something else?”

Tubbo rolls over in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. What time is it? He glances out the window, but that doesn’t tell him much. He can’t see the moon, so it’s either in the middle of the night or early morning.

With a sigh, he slips out of his sheets, rubbing his eyes. He’ll go sleep in Ranboo’s room tonight. Ever since… Tommy, he’s been having trouble staying asleep. Ranboo’s the same, but he’s never been one to seek out help.

His door opens with only the slightest creeks, and he pads into the hallway on bare feet, wincing at the cold floorboards. He creeps down to Ranboo’s door, pausing when he sees light shining under the door of Tommy’s room. What’s he still doing up?

Unable to squash his curiosity (and worry), Tubbo knocks gently on the door. “Can I come in?” he asks when he doesn’t immediately get a reply.

“Sure.” Tommy grunts and he pushes open the door.

Tommy sits in the middle of the room, his bed sitting in the corner with crisp sheets. On one side of him is a stack of books, each thicker than the last, and on the other are a few inkwells, one already dried up.

When Tubbo doesn’t say anything, Tommy looks up from his latest essay, an ink smudge over his eyebrow. “What?” He’s hunched over it, back painfully bent.

“You’re… What’s this one on?” Tubbo asks, unsure. Is he supposed to ask directly, or let Tommy bring it up? His friend has never really had strong emotions before, so this is all uncharted territory.

With a sigh, Tommy finishes his sentence, dropping his quill in an inkwell. “The most recent honourable wizards to come out of the academy. I have to talk about what they studied and shit.”

Tubbo blinks. “That sounds… boring, actually.”

“It’s fine.” Tommy waves him off. “You can go, I’ll sleep soon.”

He pauses. Should he push? Should he bring it up anyway? He doesn’t know what to do. And for that reason, Tubbo turns to the door, ignoring the blatant lie. He shuts the door, ignoring that part of him.

He slips into Ranboo’s room, who is already awake. “We’ve got to help him,” His friend murmurs, wringing his hands. “He’s not okay.”

Tubbo sighs. “We will. It’ll take time, but we will.”

Tommy stuffs his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his academy vest and pants, although he probably should have, because he’s getting a few weird looks and the stallholders are going to charge him more.

He doesn’t care anymore. He just needs components. If he thought he was burning through them before, that was nothing compared to now.

Ignoring the biting wind, he turns into the market, headed no direction in particular. He’ll just pick up what he needs as he wanders around. He can’t be bothered making a list or an order, and he’s even less bothered with Dream’s money weighing down his money pouch.

“Where you been, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, long coat snapping in the wind. His eyes rake up and down Tommy’s form, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t remind him of anything.

(Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t—)

He grunts, tearing his eyes away from blue glasses. “Trip.”

Wilbur pauses. “What kinda trip?”

“Shitty one, innit.” He growls as Wilbur tosses an arm around his side. “Now shove off, I’m buying shit.”

“More spell components?” Wilbur questions, pulling Tommy into his side more. “I’ll keep you company.”

Tommy scoffs. “Yeah, right. Fuck off.” He makes no move to separate himself from Wilbur, as much as he’d like to.

“Hm, I don’t think so,” Wilbur cocks his head. “Where to first?”

Scowling at the cobbles, Tommy wishes that damned trip never happened.

(don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t you fucking think about it—)

“Silver and gold powder and wire,” Tommy starts listing, “Some sulphur, couple straight scraps of iron, uh, and some fine sand.”

Wilbur chuckles. “They got you pulling out all the stops, don’t they?” He steers them around a corner.

“You could say that,” Tommy mutters darkly.

True to his word, Wilbur accompanies Tommy through his entire trip, letting Tommy pay every time (snorting at the idea of spending Dream’s money). Slowly, Tommy’s pockets grow full and his money bag grows lighter, and he’s got most of his components.

They’re just missing sulphur when a man approaches them from the crowd.

He’s got long braided hair, tinged pink. He’s tall, and muscled too, easily dwarfing both Tommy and Wilbur. When he’s close enough to make out the details on his face, Tommy is met with the shimmering outline of red scales, and slitted eyes with yellow sclera. It’s easy to see the man is a dragonborn, or at least has dragon ancestry as he points to Wilbur with a taloned finger.

“Techno,” Wilbur grinds his teeth, “What do you want now?”

“He wants to see you.” The stranger’s voice rumbles and Tommy watches as his eyes flick over to Tommy. His piercings shine as his eyebrows lower and his lip curls.

Wilbur snarls. “I just got him back, he can wait.”

“That’s the reason he wants to see you, Wilbur,” The stranger rolls his eyes, “and no, he can’t wait. We’re going.” He insists, planting his hands on a low slung belt, several scabbards and pouches attached.

“I’m not leaving.” He hisses. “Make me if you want to.”

The newcomer rolls his eyes, then says something in a language Tommy doesn’t understand. It might be draconian, although it sounds more like infernal (but Tommy doesn’t care. He just tunes it out).

“Wilbur. Your toy can wait.” He grunts. There’s no tone to pick up on, and his face doesn’t change.

Whatever he said, Wilbur doesn’t like it. His arm shifts, squeezing Tommy closer to his side. “The academy broke him. Something happened.” He glances down at Tommy, who just stares at the floor. “He’s mine. I need to know.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly. “You wanna explain that to Phil? You come, or he’ll really break him. He’s in a bad mood, you haven’t been back in weeks.”

“Fine.” With a groan, Wilbur’s arm falls away from Tommy’s body. “I’ll be back.” He promises.

Tommy just turns to find the sulphur.

Ranboo lifts his hand to knock. No. No, he’ll come back. Tommy is busy, and obviously, he doesn’t want distractions. Yes, this is a bad time, and Ranboo will come back later. He’ll just… go. And find Tubbo. Who wants him to talk to Tommy. Rrgg.

Okay. Okay, he can do this. He just has to knock.

He taps on the door. He did it. He did it! He knocked! Oh, but it was probably too quiet, right? Hmm. He can’t hear Tommy moving at all, so… he probably didn’t hear him?

He knocks on the door lightly. He doesn’t want to be rude! But there’s no noise, no response. He can’t hear him getting up or anything. Nnnnnnng. He can’t knock a third time.

He swallows. “Tommy? Can… can I come in?” He asks, trying to keep quiet but simultaneously be loud enough to be heard.

Distantly he hears a grunt, and he decides to take that as a yes. He winces as the door creaks open, the wood scraping against the floor slightly.

The room is… a mess. There are too many books to count, piled everywhere Ranboo can see. Even the bed is covered, the sheets beneath the stacks folded. Loose sheaves of parchment cover everything like a layer of snow, some full of hasty scribbles and diagrams, the rest blank or covered in violent ink stains.

Tommy himself is at his desk for once, holding his head up with his hand as he pours over the tome in front of him. The desk faces the window, and today the curtains are thrown open haphazardly. From the threshold, Ranboo can see the curve of Tommy’s spine and his shoulder blades pressing against his loose white shirt as his back bends over.

“…Tommy?” Ranboo whispers. He’s almost afraid to interrupt him. He waits anxiously, fingers twisting, but Tommy doesn’t move.

Hesitantly, he tiptoes into the room, picking his way through the books. At one point he nearly steps in an inkwell, and he has to steady a particularly tall pile of books that have unlit candles stacked on top of them.

When he’s a pace away, he stops and clears his throat. “Tommy?” There’s still no response, not even a twitch or even a sign that he heard him.

Holding his breath, Ranboo closes the final distance. He hesitates, before settling a hand gently on Tommy’s shoulder. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

Tommy’s eyes are locked on his book, and Ranboo glances at it briefly to see unfamiliar shapes and words (is that… elvish?). His usual blue irises are grey, purple smears circle his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t had anything to eat in a while either.

He shakes his shoulder gently, and when that doesn’t do anything, more firmly. “Tommy. Please, it’s me. It’s Ranboo, I just want to talk.”

Finally, the blond blinks blearily, before turning to look up at him. “‘Boo?” He croaks, running a hand down his face. “What’re you doing here?”

Ranboo sighs. “We haven’t seen you in days. I… I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Dull eyes return to the pages. “I’m fine.”

Ranboo waits for a moment, but it seems that was all Tommy was planning to say. “You’re not.” He whispers.

“I am.” Tommy says.

“Then…” Ranboo blinks away tears. “Then stand up.”

He sighs. “What?” The word falls flat like he didn’t even want to say it. Ranboo swallows the sob that he’s choking on.

“Then stand up. Stand up, look me in the eyes and tell me you’re okay.” He challenges, although the effect is a little undercut with the way his voice shakes. And his hands, but Tommy isn’t looking anywhere other than the book.

“…If I do it, will you leave?”

He’s not going to cry. Tommy hates crying. “Yes. If you stand up, look me in the eyes and say it and I believe you, I’ll go.” It’s getting a little hard to breathe properly now, but Tommy doesn’t seem to care.

With a weary sigh, Tommy pushes back his chair. Braces his hands on the desk as he forces his body upright, and then onto his feet. His eyes flutter closed for a second before he straightens, looks Ranboo dead in the eyes, and says with no emotion whatsoever, “I’m fine.”

“No,” Ranboo sniffles (oh no, he’s started crying), “No you’re not. I wish you could see it. I wish you could see what I see right now.”

“No don’t—“ He massages between his eyes, “Boo, don’t cry. I’m fine, see? I’m fine.”

And all of a sudden it all comes out at once. “You’re barely standing up!” He cries, furiously wiping his eyes. Tommy doesn’t like crying. “You look like you haven’t eaten for a month, you haven’t laughed in forever, you never take a break, and we know you’re hurting but you won’t say anything!” He shouts, desperately pressing against his chest in some futile attempt to calm himself down.

Tommy blinks, opens his mouth, but Ranboo can’t stop himself.

“You’re not— you’re not you. We can’t see you anymore, Tommy. We just want you back. We want you to be happy, and something happened, and you won’t tell us, and please won’t you tell us because at least then we could help you!”

Both of them sit in stunned silence for a moment. Tommy, eyes wide, and Ranboo, chest heaving.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to— word vomit all over you, I didn’t— sorry—“ He digs the pads of his thumbs into his eyes, desperately trying to pull himself together. Tommy doesn’t like crying, he can’t cry, he has to stay calm and focused.

Tommy winces. “No, listen, you’re right.”

He blinks, sniffling. What?

“I… I just.” Tommy cuts off, looking out the window. Following his gaze, Ranboo can see the grassy field at the back of the academy, with the usual peaceful traffic of the masters.

Ranboo had noticed the large earthy furrows and patches of torched grass recently.

Taking a shaky breath, the blond slumps back into his chair. “…I’m fine. I am,” He half-heartedly glares at Ranboo, who closes his mouth. “But… I. Yeah. Something happened, I guess. I’m just…” He sighs, and all the colour drains from him. Even his red and gold vest, usually bright and cheerful, seems muted.

“I’m just… tired.”

He nods, swallowing. “Okay, Tommy. Okay. You…” He blinks away more tears. “You have to promise me something.”

Wearily, Tommy lifts his head. “What?”

Ranboo straightens his spine. “We’ll drop it. We won’t push, we won’t ask, we’ll leave you be.” He says, voice only wobbling a little. Tommy slumps, but Ranboo’s not done.

“But.” He takes a deep breath. “You have to talk to someone. I don’t care who. Me, Tubbo, Sam, your—“ He grimaces, “your shady friend. Someone. You have to tell someone.”

Tommy’s head falls into his hands. He groans quietly, and his fingers circle his eyes tiredly. “I’m—“

“You have to promise,” Ranboo demands. “You have to promise me or else I’m— I’ll— Just— Please?” He begs. He doesn’t want to have to threaten Tommy, but he will if it means his friend will get better.

There’s a long pause as Tommy takes deep, exhausted breaths, back hunched painfully over the desk. Then, finally, “Fine. I promise.”

All of the adrenaline rushes out of Ranboo’s legs, and they shake slightly as he turns back to the door. “Thank you, Tommy. I’ll go now.”

The blond just grunts, face still resting in his hands. Ranboo reaches the door, debates saying something else, but decides that maybe it’s time to go. The door shuts with a soft click, and silence rings in his ears.

Soft footsteps. “I heard yelling.”

“It’s okay.” He reassures Tubbo. “He promised to talk to someone.”

The shorter boy frowns, pulling Ranboo into a hug. “You don’t like yelling.”

He drapes himself over Tubbo, who just squeezes tighter. “I’m okay, Tubs. I… I didn’t like it, but I’m glad I did it.”

“If you’re sure, big man.” Tubbo’s hand scratches along his spine, just how he likes. “Is he… he’s going to be okay, right?”

He rests his forehead in Tubbo’s hair. “If he talks to someone, yeah. He’ll be okay.”

Tommy doesn’t have many options. He can’t go to the masters (never. Never, never, never). He can’t go to his friends (…they can’t see this). He can’t even go to Dream, or George (he saw them, there, but he can’t think about that).

Tommy doesn’t have any options. It’s Wilbur or nothing.

Part of him thrashes at the idea of the man seeing him like… this.. It screams at him that Wilbur is dangerous and needs to be avoided at all costs. It reminds him that Wilbur scares him, it reminds him of smoky rooms and laughed demands. It shows him blue glasses and the burning stare behind them.

Most of Tommy is so desperate for his attention. Longs to follow his orders, to sit in his lap, to turn to Wilbur in a moment like this.

He doesn’t have any options.

There’s only one time that Tommy can even think about leaving the grounds of the academy, and that’s at night. He’s kept busy during the day, but if he hurries his assignments he can squeeze a few hours in to sleep. Or in this case, to wander the freezing city of L’Manberg in the hours before dawn.

He didn’t bring his coat, because it’s in the storage cupboard by the door of the main hall, and he’s seen Master Halo check it in the mornings. He’s shivering, and he’s sure his fingertips are going numb. He hopes Niki’s is still open. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it isn’t.

He stumbles down familiar streets, ignoring the instinctual fear that comes with the night. Warlocks won’t be interested in him, after all. Not like this. Still. He can’t help the sparks dancing down his spine, but at least he can blame that on the cold.

And now that he thinks about it (and desperately wants a distraction from the way his back aches), all the warnings about warlocks have come from either the academy or Dream’s manor, which… yeah. They’re not exactly great sources right now.

There are other things out here than warlocks, he reminds himself as he turns a corner, only a block away from Niki’s now. I could get mugged. Robbed. Kidnapped.

But as he glances into the shadows of dark shops and the faint light from the stars (no moon tonight), the only thing he can make out is tall silhouettes, with laughing grins and squirming shapes beside them. They prowl along beside him, never reaching out but just waiting for him to come close enough.

He walks in the middle of the street.

With a sigh of relief, Niki’s swings into view. He doesn’t care about the cold anymore, he just wants to be somewhere. To not be alone in the dark in the hours before dawn.

To not be alone.

He slows to a stop outside Niki’s. There’s a curtain pulled over the windows, and the door is solid wood. He’s come here during the evening when the dying sun dusts the storefront and Niki’s smile is tired and genuine. But it’s different now. The wood feels darker in the twilight, the building taller, more imposing. He can’t see inside.

He should open the door. Or at least try to. It might be bolted. If it is, he’ll… well, he’ll have to come back again tomorrow night. Hope the door is unlocked then. Hope Niki will be there to call Wilbur.

With a shaky breath, he tries to twist the doorknob. The brass yields beneath his fingers, and the air rushes out of him in relief. The door is open. Step one is done.

The door creaks open, revealing a cold, abandoned interior. The counters that are usually full of baked goods are barren, the cheery lanterns and candles that light the room are shadows along the wall. Chairs are tucked immaculately into tables, straight lines that reveal nothing of the laughter and merriment that usually imbues the air.

…Maybe he should just go. He’s tired, and his back hurts. There’s no one here. He should go.

His feet don’t move. He can’t stop staring at the room, at the way it feels so sinister in a different light. It reminds him of the sharp gaze Niki had in the poker game. Her pointed smile. It all feels so sinister in a different light.

The door behind the counter clicks open. “Who is it?” Niki calls, a flickering candle in her hand. The orange light makes the shadows of her dark red shirt writhe.

Tommy clears his throat. He’s about to speak up, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to. It feels…. he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this.

At the noise, Niki’s gaze snaps to him, and she blinks in surprise. “…We haven’t seen you in a while, Tommy.” She says carefully. “What have you been up to?” Her eyes study him, picking apart his clothes, his posture, his face.

He swallows. “Um…” It comes out far too soft, so he tries again. “I’m. Um… it’s just…”

“Come in, Tommy.” Niki gestures, setting her candle on the counter. “I’ll get you something warm, sit down.”

Exhausted, Tommy shuffles in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Sitting down sounds good. He can sit. He picks his usual seat, but that just leaves him staring at the empty chairs in front of him.

“Here,” Niki slides a mug in front of him. “Drink.” She pauses at his table, eyes boring into the side of his head. “…What happened?”

Tommy wraps his frozen fingers around the mug, shivering at the rushing heat. “I…” He ducks his head, taking a sip and savouring the way the hot cocoa burns his tongue. “It’s… I can’t. It’s hard.” He settles on finally.

Slowly, Niki nods. “Okay. That’s okay.” She smirks down at him. “Do you want Wilbur?”

Face burning, he nods. He’s— he shouldn’t be calling for Wilbur. He barely knows the man, why is he turning to him when everything’s turned to shit? Why does he want his comfort? Why does he want Wilbur?

Niki leaves, and Tommy is left with his hot cocoa. He’ll hand it to Niki, it tastes delicious. Normally, the cocoa’s too dark for him, too rich, but Niki has found the perfect blend of milk, cocoa, and honey. He’s fairly sure she even adds some spices; it doesn’t smell like normal hot cocoa.

He sips it in the darkness alone, watching the small flame of the candle dance. It makes the shadows move, but now that Tommy is sitting and has something to keep him going, they don’t seem as menacing.

His back is to the door, so he almost doesn’t notice when someone slips in. His only tip-off is the way the candle sputters briefly, the small light dying before flaring up again. Then, Tommy hears the door shut with a soft thud. He doesn’t turn around.

“Tommy!” Wilbur says, amusement curling his voice. Tommy doesn’t jump, even when the voice sounds from right behind him. “What do you want so early in the morning?”

He can’t breathe. He has to do it, he’s come this far, he needs Wilbur to see. To help him. He promised Ranboo, he needs help. He’s not okay. But he can’t breathe, and suddenly it’s so hard.

“Tommy?” His voice darkens. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Before he can think, before he can panic, before the voices of the Masters can clamour in his mind, he fumbles for the buttons on his vest. His fingers are shaking, but after a moment one button is free. Then another. Then another.

As Tommy flings his vest across the room (he’s gaining momentum now, the desperation setting in) Wilbur laughs. “What’s this? I’m not doing that, you know, I have some standards."

As his white shirt joins the vest, Wilbur adds, “Although I’m sure Schlatt would know someone. You should ask him.”

Finally, finally, Tommy’s ripping off his last layer, the thin white singlet that Ranboo gave him, and flinging it away. “Please,” he gasps, desperate for relief as the cold on his back makes the wounds ache, “Please, get them out, I can’t stand it, please—“

A firm hand appears on the back of his neck, pushing. “Lean over.” Wilbur demands, the sound of wood scraping on wood as he pulls up another chair. The mug of cocoa disappears, set on a different table.

Instantly Tommy’s spine curls over the table, screaming at the stretching of the skin around them. He feels a trickle of blood drip down his bare side. He presses his forehead to the wood, heaving for air and shivering in the cold.

Wilbur’s hand doesn’t move from his neck, still pushing as his other trails down what used to be Tommy’s uninterrupted spine. “I haven’t seen modifications like this in a while. Was it Dream?” He prods the one about a hand’s breadth from the base of his neck. Tommy whines at the sharp spike of pain.

Gritting his teeth as Wilbur continues to explore, he says, “No. Academy. But—“ He cries out as fingers try to peel the skin away from the exposed faces. “Dream was there.”

Humming in response, Wilbur’s hand finally disappears from his back. “I’ll need help.”

“I don’t care,” Tommy whispers, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t care, just get them out, please, please I’ll do anything, anything Wilbur just get them out—“

The fingers around his neck squeeze lightly. “I’m getting there, don’t worry your little head about it. Niki!” He calls, and Tommy jumps at the volume.

“What?” Tommy hears Niki, but his head is turned the wrong way to see. With the pressure on his neck, he can’t turn.

“Get Techno in here. And Schlatt too.” Wilbur pauses. “Who else?”

Soft footsteps come closer. “That should be enough. I mean, this goes without saying, but Phil would be good to have on standby.”

Wilbur sighs. “Why not. Message him too.”

Someone snaps their fingers. “Oh, I forgot. Schlatt’s with Quackity tonight, they’ll probably come together.”

“Fine.” Wilbur dismisses. “So long as he gets here.”

The door into the back room opens and closes, and then Wilbur and Tommy are alone again. Tommy doesn’t have the mental capacity to speak right now and Wilbur seems content to wait in silence anyway, hand still applying pressure to the back of his neck.

Between fevered blinks, the room lights up, the lantern he can see from his position winking into life.

Niki comes back. “Techno said he’d—“

The front door opens this time, the edge of it swinging open in the blurry peripheral of Tommy’s vision. A familiar stature and leather armour walk into the room, and there’s a streak of something pink that dangles over his shoulder.

“Wilbur? What is it this time?” The deep voice drawls, heavy boots thumping against the floor as he comes round into Tommy’s blindspot.

“Need you to heal,” Wilbur asks, tapping one of the gems. “Do you think he’ll bleed out?”

The man hums. “Maybe. They’re pretty deep, and that big one… I’d say high chance. I’ll heal for you. You got Phil ready?”

“Yup. Just waiting on Schlatt at this point, need his advice on the...” Wilbur pauses briefly, “magic semantics.”

“You can’t ask me?” The man asks.

Wilbur snorts. “You know it’s different. Niki, do you have a knife?”

“You want big or small?”

“…Both. And when is Schlatt getting here? The lazy fuck.”

“Hah. I’ll message him again.”

“Tell him to hurry his ass up. I don’t have all night.”

The door to the backroom opens and shuts. Niki’s gone then.

“Wilbur, this isn’t like you.” The man hums. “Are you keeping this one?”

“That’s the plan,” Wilbur replies, and Tommy takes a break from hyperventilating to shiver at the dark thing prowling behind the letters. “He’s powerful, mouldable. You and Phil will love him.” He laughs in infernal.

“Is this really necessary now? He couldn’t leave if he tried at this point.”

Wilbur hums. “True enough. He’s the fastest I’ve taken, that’s for sure.”

The door swings open again, and Schlatt’s familiar swagger totters in. “Wilbur!” He growls, “What the fuck! I was having a nice night man, had to leave—“

“Yeah yeah,” Wilbur dismisses, “Stop whining over leaving your dick warmer and come look at this.”

Schlatt’s uneven gait comes up to Tommy’s side, filling his vision. As he gets closer Tommy can smell the alcohol on the man stronger and stronger. When he stops, Tommy can pick out every detail of his belt, the leather-panelled vest that sits over a stained white shirt.

Upon seeing Tommy’s back, he barks out a laugh, loud and sharp. “Oh, Wilbur. Your dog’s been collared!”

“They tried,” Wilbur growls, nails digging into Tommy’s neck, “and we’re about to undo it. What can you tell me.”

Schlatt shifts, his giant silver belt buckle catching the light. “Those smaller ones will be fine. Jus’ dig ‘em out. Might be bloody but eh,” He brings his hand up and Tommy can hear him scratching his beard, “nothing on my end. Those’ll be worth a pretty penny.”

A snort. “Sure, Schlatt. You have them after. Think of it as repayment, or whatever.”

“Cheers. That big one though…” He whistles.

“What?” Wilbur demands.

“If you just take it out, it’ll act like a drain. A magic drain.” His hand falls onto the table, inches from Tommy’s face. “You’ll have to patch it with something.” His tone falls a little, becomes a little more serious.

“I’ve got that covered,” Wilbur’s voice slides like honey, “And besides, he knew that. Didn’t you?” His pointer finger moves to tap at the very base of his skull.

Tommy jerks his head. He… suspected. Somewhere deep inside him. He didn’t have options. It was only Wilbur for a reason.

Schlatt laughs again, darker this time. “You’ve done it, alright. He’s yours through and through.”

“Don’t I know it.” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy shudders. “Give me the knife, and we’ll start. Techno, you ready?”

“The kid’s gonna bite his tongue off, Wilbur.” Techno points out. “He won’t stay still, either.”

“Fine, gimme his vest. Niki, you grab his legs, and Schlatt and Techno can take a shoulder and an arm each.” He orders. “Up on the table Tommy, come on.” Wilbur murmurs somewhere near Tommy’s neck, and he scrambles to lie flat as Wilbur takes his hand off his head.

He ends up with his head facing the door and his feet facing the counter, head pushed against the table as Wilbur takes up his old position. He hears the chairs moving and sees people passing in front of him, but when the dust settles he can’t see anyone.

After a few seconds, someone is pushing fabric against his clenched teeth. “Open.” Wilbur says, and Tommy forces his jaw to unlatch. Wilbur’s long fingers stuff the fabric between his teeth, and when Tommy tries to clench down he can barely move.

He jumps when cold hands settle on his calves, stroking his skin for a moment before settling down and slowly applying pressure. Instinctually his leg twitches, but it doesn’t move; Niki is stronger than she looks.

“Alright, thanks,” Wilbur says, and then thick, warm fingers latch onto his arms and shoulders as the two men walk into position. “Everyone ready?” He asks and assumedly gets non-verbal responses.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warns, whispering in his ear before leaning back again and pushing against his head.

He braces himself (it can’t hurt more than going in), and tries to jerk when he feels the freezing tip of the blade, poised right against the edge of the gem, embedded just inches away from the rim of his pants.

And then it goes in.

There isn’t any pain, not for a moment, but then it all catches up to him, and Tommy is trying with all his might not to scream, teeth grinding against the vest in his mouth, his whole body tense. As Wilbur keeps making cuts, a low groan builds in the back of his throat, until he’s keening into the wood of the table, wrists tugging uselessly against iron grips.

After a few minutes, Tommy feels the knife leave his flesh, now painfully aware of the blood pouring down his back.

“Does it need anything?” Wilbur asks casually, dropping the bloody gem into Tommy’s field of view.

The hands on his right shoulder and arm shift as Techno leans over. “Normally I’d say no, but you cut a little deep. Might’ve hit something important.”

“Better safe than sorry, I suppose. If you would.”

There’s a pause, and then Tommy feels a slither of magic crawl across his skin. It writhes up over his side and then buries itself into the open wound. Tommy can feel it pulling his flesh together, tying up the loose ends inside him. It still hurts, like a fucking bitch, but Tommy was right. It hurt much more going in.

“Right, next one. Everyone ready?” He asks again.

This time, Wilbur doesn’t pause, instead digging the knife in straightaway. Tommy’s better this time, not moving as much and not being as loud. They don’t need Techno to heal him either— apparently, it’s not that bad of a wound.

As the next crystal falls to the table, Wilbur gives his neck a light squeeze. “Two more to go.”

Schlatt giggles. “Easy thousand gold. Three of four if you let me have the big one.”

“Nah, Phil’ll want it,” Wilbur dismisses, and Tommy shouts when Wilbur starts the next one. This one is more on the upper half of his back, above the larger central one.

They’re both getting better, which is evident when Wilbur digs the bloody thing out of his back in mere minutes, and Techno’s magic goes unused. With three blood-drenched crystals sitting on the table, there’s only two left. The small one just below Wilbur’s hand, and the big one.

Without preamble, Wilbur removes the final small one, and when he’s done the bloody knife joins it clattering to the wood. “Pass me that bigger one, no, yeah that one.” One of Niki’s hands briefly leaves his leg. “Alright,” Wilbur hums. “I’ll leave the healing to you Techno, just do it when you think he needs it. I’ll patch it when it’s out.”

A grunt from his right. “Make sure to hold him tight. He’ll feel this one for sure.”

The hands on him tighten, and Tommy tries to breathe through his rising anxiety—

The world whites out as the tip of the new knife carves a line down the edge of the gem. He can feel it, scraping along his bones. The knife must be laced with molten rock as fire pours through his body, wracking him with burning pain.

“Schlatt, hold him still,” Wilbur complains, making another cut. Tommy screams into his gag, teeth pushing hard enough to make his gums ache.

One of Schlatt’s hands moves to clasp around his forearm. “I’m fuckin’ trying, your mutt is stronger than he looks.”

Wilbur digs the blade deeper and deeper until Tommy’s voice is hoarse from screaming and it hurts beyond anything he’s ever felt, and it hurts and hurts and please can anyone make it stop—

His fingers scrabble into the wood, nails broken and fingers sore. They curl into fists as Tommy desperately tries to move, to escape, to end it please stop it hurts hurts hurts hurts—

“He’s gonna—“ Schlatt curses. “Fuckin’ stop moving, the magic’s gonna come up at some point— Mother fucker—“

The world greets him. Pain crackles through him like lightning, sparking around his fists as Tommy pulls and takes and twists and make it stop stop stop stop stop stop

“Fuck,” Wilbur hisses, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Counterspell,” Schlatt pants, “Now, quick, that looks like a-- fifth, or even sixth level, now, fuck, maybe dispel magic—“

“I’ve got it,” Techno says firmly, and something cold and heavy settles over his skin, restricting and squeezing and where did the world go he wants it back please he just needs the pain to end it hurts so much so much it hurts— “Fuck, Wilbur. You’ve got one powerful toy.”

Wilbur laughs, victoriously, darkly, possessively, like a scientist with his experiment, like an owner with his slave, like a warlock with his plaything. “Told you you’d like him. Phil too.”

“Phil will be overjoyed,” Techno breathes, “This is… no wonder the academy wants him. Dream too.”

The words float above Tommy as he screams into the table, tearing up his throat as he tries desperately to buck and writhe but the hands locking him down won’t move an inch. The pain is something like a great dragon clawing its way through his spine, down into him, shredding anything it touches with scales rimmed with blades and fire and acid and every painful thing that lies in wait in the world.

“…It’s almost there… there’s just…” The knife twists and suddenly—

… His back.

His back really hurts.

Like, really hurts.

His hands hurt too. And his mouth. There’s something in there. Fabric. Wet.

He can’t open his eyes, but he can feel the grain of wood below him on the table. He can feel hands, strong and bruising gripping his legs, arms.

One hand is pressing his head against the table, the fingers long and cold against his scalp. Wilbur. Wilbur’s here. Wilbur’s holding him down.

And then it all rushes back to him, the blood running down his skin, the pain everywhere, the bloody gems blurry in his vision as his eyes snap open. As he watches, something much bigger rolls into view. It’s just as bloody as the others, but scraps of skin stick to the cut faces. It has a point, a long, rough point that looks uncut and jagged, like it grew there and the academy cut the exposed faces from his back.

That was in my back, Tommy realises. That was part of me.

“…do it soon, it won’t be long until it starts draining away his magic.” Schlatt’s voice fades into his hearing.

“Wonder how that works, exactly. He said his magic comes from the world.” Wilbur hums, and very faintly Tommy can feel a fingertip tracing around the gaping wounds, dancing patterns through the blood.

Niki sighs. “Now is not the time to test your little theories, Wilbur. Fix it before he breaks.” When Wilbur doesn’t respond, she says, “You don’t want to lose that power, do you?”

“No,” Wilbur admits, “No I don’t.” He sighs. “Schlatt, what exactly am I doing?”

“The crystal acted as a sort of… tree tap. It also kinda worked like a funnel, which is why those bastards put it there in the first place. You can channel magic through it to add to his… I don’t know. Energy?” The man explains.

“…He’s less powerful with it out?” Wilbur’s voice is quiet but darker than Tommy’s ever heard.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” Schlatt reassures. “That’s what I’m saying. You can patch the tap bit, and also replace the funnel. It’s finicky, but it’s easier than it sounds, especially if you link it up to you.”

Wilbur hums. “So I’m stopping magic coming out, but making it so he can pull magic in?”

“Something like that. It’s hard to explain and even harder to wrap your head around. It’ll all come easy when you try though, take it from me.” A pause. “Oh, and don’t worry if you feel resistance. You’re more powerful than anything he can scrounge up to stop you like this. Just push through.”

“Gotcha.” Something shifts above him, and he’s pushed against the table once again. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Tommy doesn’t have the strength to tense or even brace himself. He just closes his eyes and hopes it’s over soon.

Pain skitters down his sides as Wilbur’s hand presses on the hole (because it is a hole in the middle of his back, bleeding and aching and raw). There’s nothing for a moment, and then Wilbur’s fingers are cold.

They’re really cold. Freezing. And they just get colder and colder and colder, until the shattered nerves on his skin and in his flesh tell him that the hand is hot and boiling and like pure lightning, burning into his flesh and Wilbur pushes harder, and harder, until there’s something sizzling and something cracking and something knitting itself back together.

And even when Wilbur’s seared and frozen his skin shut he keeps his hand here, pushing down on his vertebrae and leaving his permanent mark on Tommy's body, his soul, his mind.

It’s minutes before Wilbur lifts his hand from Tommy’s numb back. He wasn’t even resisting, towards the end. One by one the hands leave him until he’s left lying boneless on the table. It’s minutes after that when Tommy realises.

I’m Wilbur’s now. That’s… forever. And he’s scared, and he’s alone, and he’s terrified but he chose this and now he has to deal with the consequences.

“Well. What do you think?” And that’s Wilbur, and even though he can hear Wilbur moving, walking around, the sensation on his freezing hand is still burned into Tommy’s skin. He can still feel him.

“See, told ya.” Schlatt gloats. “It makes more sense doing it. May I?”

Wilbur snorts. “I suppose I need a quality check. Be a shame if I had to do it twice.”

And then Tommy cries out as a spike of magic pokes against his soul, hot and slimy. It feels around Wilbur’s startlingly blue handprint (just like those damned glasses), tapping against it and tugging at its corners.

“It’s perfect. Dunno what I expected, to be honest. It’s on there good, and it’s doing all the things it’s supposed to.” Schlatt grumbles, his magic retracting. “You did it.”

“Of course I did. Now, get your grubby ass back to Quackity, I don’t want to hear both of you complaining tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The diamonds are scraped off the table, the largest left behind to haunt him. “How come you get a good kid? All the ones I try with break.”

“I’m sure there’s someone out there for you,” Wilbur teases. “Maybe Tommy has some friends.”

“Friends? They’d better be good. I’m too busy to scout, you…”

Tommy tunes the conversation out, both exhausted and too-awake at the same time. His body is tense, but his muscles are loose. His mind can’t focus, but nor can it shut off. He’s stuck in this sort of limbo, trying to process what just happened but unable to think through the lingering pain.

Dimly he hears the front door of the shop open and shut. Someone left.

Techno rumbles something in infernal, sounding a little more distant than before. “When are we taking him, then?”

A hum. “Couple weeks. I want us all to have the time to mould him properly.”

“…You’re really keeping him.”

“Why are you so surprised? I haven’t shut up about him.”

“Hmm. He’s out of it. You’ll need to take him back, probably.” Techno switches back to common.

“Tommy?” Wilbur pokes him in the neck. “Toms?” He whines. The touches burn now, too much, but Tommy can’t get enough of them.

“Oh, Tommy.” He chuckles. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you back into the academy. Can’t have them finding out about this, can we?” The words brush the shell of his ear, snarling.

As best he can he shakes his head. No, he’s not going to snitch. He can’t, even if he wants to.

“Good,” He purrs, “Now up you get. We don’t have much time, after all.”

Relief. That’s the best way to describe it.

Pure relief that Tommy’s in front of him, laughing as he butters his toast. Pure relief that he can hear the boy snoring when he passes his bedroom. Pure relief that Tommy is back.

It’s been about a week since Ranboo yelled at him. They didn’t notice an instant change; in fact, he seemed to get worse for a day or two, but then… he just perked up. Slowly, the shadows under his eyes faded. He looks up when they enter the room, he cracks jokes, he’s Tommy.

“What you looking at, Tubs?” Tommy grins, stabbing a sausage with his fork. He stuffs it into his mouth eagerly, a far cry from his absence at breakfasts previously.

Tubbo smiles, glances at Ranboo and says, “It’s just a sunny day today.”

The fork pauses. “The fuck d’ya mean? It’s winter! Pretty sure it snowed last night.”

With a laugh, Tubbo grabs the last sausage from the serving plate, ignoring Tommy’s squawk. “Ranboo knows what I mean.”

The taller boy blinks. “…I do?”

Tommy cackles as Tubbo puts his head in his hands. “Come on, Boo. It’s sunny!” He gestures to Tommy’s blinding grin and watches as the confusion melts off Ranboo’s face.

“Oh.” He says as Tommy gasps for breath, “Yeah, I get it.”

Tommy is dreaming. He knows this because everything is grey, and the normal world isn’t grey.

He can’t feel anything either. The sand below his fingers doesn’t register, just trickles silently down onto the beach. The grey beach. Waves lap without noise, inches from his bare toes.

He’s sitting on the beach, watching colourless sand fall through his numb fingers. White cloth wraps around his body, and he knows they’re clothes but the more he looks at it the less he can tell exactly what they are. A shirt and pants? One continuous thing? It doesn’t matter, he supposes.

He stands. There’s nothing else to do.

To his left, the beach and the ocean extend into the grey sky, the horizon foggy and blurred. If this was real, maybe he’d be cold. To the right looks the same.

Behind him, the sand rolls into dunes, like the big waves that can carry ships across oceans. A man is sitting on them.

It’s Wilbur. His dark coat, his grey shirt, his dark hair, and those blue glasses. Except, it’s not the glasses that are blue. It’s his eyes. The dark lenses do nothing to filter out the shining azure, with no pupil or iris— just blue.

Tommy stumbles up to him. “What are you—“ He stops, blinking when no sound comes out.

“Hello?” He tests, but he still can’t hear himself and judging on Wilbur’s lack of reaction, neither can he.

Wilbur… there’s something wrong. As Tommy gets closer Wilbur doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t twitch… He’s not even breathing.

As Tommy stops in front of him, close enough to trace the dark veins on his translucent flesh, close enough to see the perfectly blank expression on Wilbur’s face, the open posture like he’s a puppet with his strings cut, Tommy thinks maybe that’s not Wilbur.

He stands in absolute silence as he considers what to do now. The thing that looks like Wilbur isn’t doing anything.

Slowly, he reaches out. His fingers land on the bridge between the two circular lenses, tapping against the silver wire as no feedback comes from his fingertips. He grasps the glasses, and when not-Wilbur doesn’t react to the touch, he slowly pulls them off.

The metal and glass fall to the sand. He only knows this because he watches. And then he’s looking back into those eyes. Just… blue. That’s the only word eligible to describe them.

With a morbid sense of curiosity, Tommy raises his finger. It’s a dream, right? So he can…

Painfully slowly, he touches not-Wilbur’s left eye. The tip of his flesh sinks into the bright colour, warmth sparking down his wrist as he pushes it in and in and in.

And then his whole finger is in the-thing-that-looks-like-Wilbur’s eye.

He blinks, and then with a jolt snatches his finger back. What the fuck. What the fuck? That… that’s not normal. Why did he do that?

He stares at his finger. It took some of the colour with it, and now there are thick globs of the blue falling like congealed blood onto the sand. The grains are stained with it, like veins spreading under skin.

Wiping his hand on his clothes, he stumbles back from the still body, almost tripping as his feet shift on the sand. His… his finger stains his clothes, but it’s still blue. And not like the stuff is still clinging to him, but like his skin is actually blue now. Right down to where it joins his palm.

He wipes it on his clothes again. The blue is an ugly mark against the white fabric but he can’t stop looking at his finger.

What is happening? What is going on? What is this dream?

He stumbles backwards, falling onto the sand. Every grain his finger touches saturates with the colour, like a disease. He frantically looks to not-Wilbur, gasping.

The-- blue, the liquid, it’s leaking from his eyes like a twisted version of tears, pooling on his jacket and soaking into his pants. He still hasn’t moved, not even slightly. It’s like he’s dead, like someone has propped up Wilbur’s body and filled him with this-- stuff.

He needs to leave. He hates this. Why is he here? Why is he dreaming this? Is someone trying to tell him something?

Wilbur’s body twitches.

Tommy bolts upright, chest heaving. He can’t breathe, can’t see anything in the darkness of his room.

“Tommy?” He hears Ranboo whisper, just outside his door. Blinking, he twists his hands in his sheets, trying to ground himself. He’s awake, this is real, it didn’t--

He blindly gropes for the candle he keeps on his bedside table, fingers scrambling for the copper dish. He finds and traces the candle up to the wick, frantically twisting the world around his fingertip to spark it into life.

His finger is fine. It’s not blue. He’s awake, it didn’t happen.

With a sigh, he falls back onto the mattress, watching the dancing shadows on the ceiling. It didn’t happen. He’s okay. He lifts his finger to his face, squinting at the skin. It’s not blue. There’s not even the slightest trace. But… On his very fingertip, there’s a patch of pale skin. It wasn’t there before, he’s sure.

“Tommy?” Ranboo asks again, a little louder.

“Come in, Boo.” He brings the… scar over to the light. It’s a tiny starburst, the faintest of outlines raised from his skin. Like the swirls of his fingerprint.

The door opens silently, and Ranboo pads in. He joins Tommy on the bed, staring at his own hands. They’re shaking, Tommy realises.

“Are you okay?” The taller boy asks. “I heard… I’m not sure. You weren’t breathing right, and then I couldn’t hear anything.”

Tommy nods. “Just a bad dream.” He stares at the white mark. When he blinks, it flashes blue. “How about you?”

He hums softly. “Just a bad dream.” His hands curl into fists, but even that can’t hide the tremors. “Felt real through.”

“The worst ones always do.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the flame of the candle.

“My bed’s a little bigger.” Tommy suggests.

Ranboo slumps in relief. “Thank you.”

“Don’t tell Tubbo?” He doesn’t want him worrying.

They both lie down, curling up against each other. “Of course not.”

Tubbo is bored. Magic history is always tiring, even for him. Too many words, too many dates, and most importantly, too much talking from the masters. He’d much rather study it on his own, with the textbook and a library.

“Now, the religious history of the great Storm God is long and complicated,” Master Halo explains. “But the most important thing to remember is that He has never taken a warlock. He deems it--”

“Surely that’s not the most important thing?” Tommy interrupts, propping up his head on his hand. “I mean, isn’t it more important to know that He actively encouraged several death cults for decades?”

Tubbo hides his smile behind his hand. Tommy has been doing that a lot, recently. Questioning the Masters, poking at the stigma around warlocks and just generally making his classes much more entertaining. And informative.

Master Halo blinks. “...Thank you for your contribution Tomathy, but please raise your hand next time. As for those… rumours, I can assure you they were nothing but that. Hearsay spread by non-believers.”

“It’s in the textbook.” He shoots back. “Chapter three; the comprehensive history of the most popular gods and deities in Essempi.” He flashes Halo a smile. “I wrote an essay on it.”

Carefully, Tubbo strangles down his giggle. This is too good. Especially considering it was the chapter he’d specifically told them to skip.

“Ah.” Master Halo’s smile seems strained. “Who set you this essay?”

A blond eyebrow lifts. “You did.”

He can’t help it. He bursts into giggles, trying to cover them by turning them into a cough. Judging from the look on Master Halo’s face, it’s not working very well.

“Alright, Tomathy. I bet you feel very smart. You’ll be having detention with me this afternoon.” Master Halo says sternly (well, as sternly as he can. It’s hard to take him seriously when he refuses to cuss).

Tommy just rolls his eyes.

He watches the dull ocean wash up on grey sand. Why is he here again? Is something trying to reach out to him? At least he knows to avoid the not-Wilbur this time. He looks down at his hands. His finger is blue. At least it isn’t dripping.

He nudges a pale shell with his toe. When will he wake up? How long does he have to be here?

He sits on the sand and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Okay. So maybe he has to do something to wake up. He doesn’t want to touch Wilbur though. So… maybe he can do something else?

He looks to the left. He looks to the right. Nothing. Just sand, ocean, sky.

He sighs, only indicated by the rise and fall of his chest. He can’t feel the air in his mouth, can’t hear the noise in the stillness. Reluctantly, he turns around.

Not-Wilbur’s body is lying down this time. There aren’t any dunes either, just flat sand for eternity. His coat is flared open, with his arms and legs spread. Cautiously, Tommy walks up to him. Once again he’s staring up at the sky, blue eyes wide open and hard to look at.

With a huff, Tommy pokes his side with his toe. The body just moves listlessly, his glasses falling askew.

Tommy shoves the body harder. He watches as his head turns to the side with the force.

He kicks him. It’s easy. His limbs jerk, the movement ripples through his lax muscles.

He kicks him again, harder. Flesh gives way, bones snap too easily.

He relishes the crunch as his toes hammer themselves into his side, without pain or consequence. Glasses fall to the sand.

He throws everything into the next kick, and with a silent yell something breaks. Instead of pushing around flesh and blood and bone, Tommy’s foot tears through his body like paper. When he draws it back, blue clings to his ankle, his toes, splattering onto the grey grains.

His mouth falls open in an unheard yell, and he drives his foot into that wet, blue cavern of something that isn’t not-Wilbur’s bloody insides, and sick satisfaction cracks up his spine with every glob and thick splat of burningly blue liquid that he spills onto the beach.

“Tommy!”

He launches upright, limbs scrambling. One hand catches the wooden post of his bed, the other falls into open space. Sheets tangle his legs, and he pitches over the end of the bed.

“Are you okay? Tommy?” Ranboo asks, hauling him back onto the mattress.

He wipes the cold sweat off his forehead, shivering. “I’m. It was just--” He throws his duvet back, uncovering his pale and very not blue foot. “It was just a dream. Nightmare.”

Ranboo sighs. “Another one?”

“Like you can talk.” He snorts. He traces the edges of the faint white shapes that decorate his toes.

Silently, the taller boy studies his fingernails. They’re longer than he usually keeps him, and oddly pointed, too. “I guess I can’t, can I?”

Tommy gently takes his hand. “It’s not--” He bites his lip. He can’t say it’s not real. “We’ll get through it.”

“What’s happening to me?” He whispers, broken. “To you?”

The blond sighs. “I dunno about you, but... I’ve got a pretty good idea. At least, somewhere in here.” He taps his temple with a dark smile.

Ranboo shakes his head. “I think… Tommy, I can do things I shouldn’t be able to do.”

Silently, he raises an eyebrow.

The boy takes a deep breath, grabs one of the ceramic bowls Tommy had on his desk. He lifts his hand over it, closes his eyes. Tommy blinks, all tiredness gone as he watches something slowly leak from Ranboo’s fingertips. It’s dark and hisses slightly when it touches the bowl. Acid.

Wait. Acid? Ranboo’s magic wasn’t aggressive. He can barely cast dancing lights! His connection to the world (when they’d all described it to each other) was calm, peaceful. It’s why he’s struggling so much.

But acid? That… that’s something he shouldn’t be able to do.

He watches as it slowly fills the bowl, falling faster and faster until it’s a steady stream. In the dim moonlight, Tommy can just make out the way his eyebrows twitch, the slight downturn to his lips.

“Ranboo,” He murmurs, eyeing the rising level of acid.

The taller boy’s lip curls. He doesn’t stop.

Tommy grabs his arms, pushes the bowl and his hand so the spills land on the floor. “Ranboo,” He hisses, “Stop!”

The moonlight shines on his canine, long and sharp as Ranboo growls silently.

“Ranboo!” Tommy shouts, tapping his face. Abruptly the bowl falls to the floor, and Ranboo staggers back, shaking his head.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, sorry, sorry--” He rambles, back hitting the wall. His eyes are wide, darting between his fingers as he stares at his shaking hands. “I don’t know what’s happening, please, I’m so sorry--”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tommy scrambles to comfort him. The acid can wait. “It’s okay. It was a mistake, you’re okay.” Carefully, he takes Ranboo’s hand again. “It’s okay. Whatever’s happening, it’s alright. We’ll make it.”

He just sobs, latching onto Tommy. He hugs back, ignoring the way fingernails (too sharp, too hard, too dark) dig into his back.

The door creaks open. “Boo? Was’ going on?” Tubbo murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

“Careful,” Tommy warns, “There’s acid on the floor. By the bed.”

“Acid?” Tubbo wakes up, finding them by the wall. “What happened? Are you guys okay?!”

Tommy nods as Tubbo picks his way over to them, sinking into a crouch as he rubs Ranboo’s back. “We’re okay, I promise. We just…” He looks at Ranboo, squeezes his hand. “Some bad dreams.”

A hand lands on Tommy’s shoulder. “That’s not it, is it?” Tubbo guesses, dark eyes staring Tommy down.

“No.” He sighs. “It’s not. But there’s nothing you can do.”

He glances between the two of them. “Try me.”

“We’ve been getting…” He stares down at his fingertip. “Nightmares. But they, ah, they’re not entirely dreams. For me, at least.”

“...That new scar.” Tubbo whispers, tapping the white mark. “From one of these?”

He nods. “I think… I think I know what’s happening with me though. It’s Ranboo we need to be worried about.”

“Explain.”

“He made the acid, Tubs,” Tommy whispers, hugging the boy tighter. “You should have seen him. He couldn’t stop, I don’t even think he could hear me.”

Tubbo’s eyes glaze over as he thinks. “This isn’t normal. This is…” He looks up at Tommy. “You know what’s up with you?”

“You can focus on Ranboo,” Tommy affirms. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Right then.” He strokes down Ranboo’s spine. “We’ve got you, Boo. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

“Tomathy, come here.” Puffy demands. With a huff, Tommy crosses the grass to her side, eyeing the bow and quiver in her hands.

She holds them out to him. “Could you cast flame arrows on these for me?” She asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah.” He scratches his chin.

She blinks at him. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to cast the spell?” She asks, something hard in her voice. Tommy shrugs us away, watching a cloud float by (it looks like a cat, sue him).

“You just asked if I could,” Tommy smirks. “And yeah, I could cast that.”

“Then let me rephrase,” He smiles sweetly at him. “Tomathy, cast flame arrows. Now.”

He rolls his eyes but takes the quiver. “Don’t gotta be rude,” he mutters, gathering the arrows in his hand, the fletching tickling his skin.

“What was that?” Puffy demands sharply.

He fights back a smile. “Nothing.”

“If I hear something like that again, Tomathy, I’m not going to be lenient.” She hisses. “You already seem to have forgotten who has the authority around here. Perhaps we need to teach you again.”

At that, Tommy stills. He can’t shake the blurry images, the flashes of pain, the voices, the leather straps, the clicking and whirring of machinery, the spotlight, the seating, the shining tray of knives, the way his soul bled--

Puffy smiles. She knows what that’s doing to him, knows every damn thing running through his head. He looks at the arrows in his fist.

Trust me, sometimes, to do what you need, you have to take. And you can’t be apologetic.

He smirks, before holding his fist up in front of him. He takes a breath. The world greets him. Energy twists in his palm as he runs his tongue over his teeth.

You have to take. And you can’t be apologetic.

He grins, imagining the blood dripping from his bared fangs, and whispers into the world’s ear do my bidding.

Flames lick up from his fingers, darting tongues greedily taking in his skin, the air, and more importantly, the wooden arrows clutched in his fingers.

He makes eye contact with Puffy as the fire roars, a small pillar shooting up into the sky. He can do this without her, without them, without the fucking crystals embedded into his back.

He takes a breath. The world greets him. Wilbur greets him. As a familiar dark laugh echoes in his ears, the feathers and shafts in his fist disintegrate with a cracking explosion of dissolving splinters and burning feathers. Only ash falls from his hand when he opens it.

“Oops.” He breathes, eyes locked with Puffy’s.

Tommy swaggers down the marble steps, breathing in the sunshine. It’s a good day today. There are only a few clouds, and despite the chill of the wind, it’s warm. They’re through the worst of winter.

“Are you sure you don’t have classes?” Tubbo asks from behind him, hand in hand with Ranboo.

“I’m sure, big man,” He laughs. “Nothing worth attending anyway.” And it’s true; all his classes nowadays feel useless. Thanks to all those extra assignments he’s miles ahead of everyone else, so there’s no point in him sitting through the lessons. He’d much rather get lost in the library chasing topics that make shivers run down his spine or get out into the city, see Wilbur, explore.

Speaking of Wilbur, the man seemed to find him closer and closer to the academy every time, with a laugh and a possessive arm around his shoulders or his waist.

It was the night after the first dream, where Tommy was still shaken up. Idly he wandered the streets, half looking for Wilbur and half hoping he didn’t find him. Thankfully, the man decided for him.

“Tommy!” He purred, draping himself along Tommy’s back. The handprint burned where Wilbur’s warmth leaked into it. All of Wilbur’s touches burned now, addictive and impossible to ignore or forget.

When Tommy didn’t respond immediately, Wilbur grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up into the older man’s eyes. “Tommy? You’ve got something to tell me?”

Slowly, Tommy nods. “I--” The words weren’t coming easy, not that night. So, he silently raised his hand, his fingertip.

Long fingers grabbed his wrist, drawing it closer. Tommy shuddered as he traced the white marking. “Well.” He growled, smiling. “That makes things easier.”

“What is it?” Tommy dared to ask. He didn’t really want to know, but…

Wilbur laughed, dropping his hand. “Ghost likes you too. Just means you’re mine, in every way.”

He shouldn’t have asked. Now, with Wilbur’s fingers deftly woven through his hair and the handprint scorching on his back, he couldn’t help but think that maybe it was a good thing.

“Tommy?” Tubbo elbows him. “You good?”

“Yeah, Just got lost in thought,” Tommy admits, shaking his head slightly. Wilbur has been on his mind lately, more than usual. It’s part of the reason he’s ditching school now, to chase the incurable itch in the centre of his spine.

The three of them all head into the streets, taking their familiar route to Niki’s. Tommy’s mouth waters as he thinks about those raspberry pastries waiting for him (and the hot chocolate, now a free addition to any purchase he made).

Normally, Wilbur doesn’t come out if he’s not alone. Today is different.

“Well, look who it is,” Wilbur smirks, melting out of the shadows. Tubbo and Ranboo startle back, but Tommy just rolls his eyes. Dramatic bitch.

“Don’t sound so surprised, we both know you came for me.” Tommy snarks, letting Wilbur throw his arm around his neck so long fingers brush fire against his collarbones.

Tubbo grabs Tommy’s arm, tugging him away slightly. “Hi. What was your name again?”

“You can call me Wilbur,” He says, pressing Tommy closer to his side as he offers his free hand. Reluctantly, Tubbo shakes it. “We never did meet formally.”

“No. We didn’t.” He eyes the hand drumming on Tommy’s sternum. “You two are close.”

Wilbur smirks, tilting his head up so his stunningly blue glasses eclipse his eyes. “And you’re smart. Defensive.”

“For a reason.” He insists, tugging weakly on Tommy’s arm.

“It’s cute.” He laughs, leaning down to whisper. “You think Schlatt would like him?” The words brush the shell of his ear and Tommy shudders.

Schlatt…

Tommy lets his mind go there. Drops his mental walls for just a moment. Really thinks about it.

He looks at his friend, at the steel in his eyes, at his posture, at the spell components that he shouldn’t technically have, at the books he’s seen on Tubbo’s desk recently. He’s powerful, he’s stubborn, and like Wilbur said he’s smart.

Schlatt would like breaking him, Tommy realises. Schlatt would enjoy chipping his defences away, burning in loyalty and twisting him up until he’s just like Tommy, dependent and caught. He would love seeing him completely under his command, knowing how satisfying the fight was because Tubbo wouldn’t go willingly. He would fight, and struggle and make Schlatt’s life hell but he’d realise all too late that the battle is what Schlatt wants.

He shakes his head, just once, for his friend. He’s a ring around Wilbur’s finger, sure, but that doesn’t mean Tubbo has to join him.

Wilbur’s dark chuckle chills him to the bone as his hand slides over his heart. Nails tap in time to his pulse. “You’re a terrible liar, Toms.” He hisses, victorious. “You should know better than to try that on me.”

Wetting his lips, Tommy swallows. He should have known better.

“Hey,” Tubbo glares, “What are you telling him?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Wilbur breezes. “Now, who’s your friend over here?”

Immediately, Tubbo shoves Ranboo behind him. “What does it matter?” His eyes are storming, and the only thing that Tommy can think of is Wilbur’s not going to like that.

Sure enough, Wilbur’s brows darken. “Now I’m even more curious. Come on, lemme see him.”

When Tubbo doesn’t move, he laughs. “I’m not going to kill him or drag him away. And I’m sure he wants to meet me, don’t you?” He directs at Ranboo.

Slowly, Ranboo’s gangly form peeks out from behind Tubbo (honestly, how he’d squeezed himself down to fit in Tubbo’s height was a mystery). The shorter boy grabs his shoulder, trying to pull him back down, but Ranboo pushes his hand away.

“Hi.” He says, rubbing his arms.

Wilbur’s grin widens slowly, like a predator narrowing in on prey. “Well.” He purrs. “I know someone who’d love to meet you.”

With a snarl, Tubbo steps forward. “You said you wouldn’t--”

“And I won’t,” Wilbur dismisses, but Tommy can see the gleam in his eye. “But he’s… interesting. You don’t know what you have, do you?”

Ranboo blinks. “You… Do you know what’s wrong with me?” He says, ignoring Tubbo’s hissed warning.

“Wrong with you?!” Wilbur barks out a laugh, “No, nothing’s wrong with you. But you’re special. Rare.” The weight of the word sits heavy on Tommy’s chest, and he squirms slightly.

Warm fingers tease the edge of his shirt. “Don’t worry Toms,” He whispers again, private, his, “I’m not interested for me. You’ll have me all to yourself.” He punctuates the words with his fingers, marching them slowly along Tommy’s bare skin, down under his shirt.

“Stop that.” Tubbo demands. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

His grin sharpens. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You are.” Tubbo steps forward, trapping Tommy between his chest and Wilbur’s. “You’ve done something to him, I know it. For a while, too.”

“Pray tell, what have I done?” His bony chin settles on the crown of Tommy’s head.

Tubbo flinches. “That! He’s… he trusts you, for no reason. He’s happy, sure, but something’s different. You’re carving him up, just so he follows you.” He spits, grabbing Tommy’s hand to show Wilbur the white marking.

“It’s good to know you trust me, Toms,” Wilbur murmurs into his hair, ignoring Tubbo’s fierce gaze. “And that you’re happy. That’s good.” Something rushes up Tommy’s spine at the blatant praise.

“As for carving him up,” Wilbur’s eyes flash, “I don’t believe I was the first to do that.”

Tubbo pales. “What?”

“You heard me.” He shifts so his arm keeps Tommy close to him but still able to move. “Now come on, Toms. We’ve gotta get going.”

“No, no you’re not going anywhere with him.” Tubbo latches onto Tommy’s wrist.

Wilbur leans forward, so there’s barely an inch between their eyes. His azure glasses shine, bright and dizzying to look at. He tilts his head, like an insect, like a lion. “And you’re going to stop me?”

Tubbo breathes hard, looking between Tommy and Wilbur’s lazy smile. With a muttered curse, he spins on his heel, dragging Ranboo back towards the academy.

“Thought so.” Wilbur chuckles, regaining his grip on Tommy as he digs a cigarette out from the pocket of his trenchcoat. Somewhere between finding it and lifting it to his lips, it’s lit. He takes a long drag, guiding Tommy down a familiar alley.

Tommy glances at his friends’ backs. “Did you have to be mean?” He mutters.

“It doesn’t matter what they think of me.” Wilbur sighs, smiling up at the grey sky. “And they’re certainly not going to leave you, so it’s all fine.”

He watches as the older man grins, cigarette twirling between his teeth. “You’re in a good mood.”

They turn a corner, heading to the outskirts. The pub then. “I suppose I am.” He gazes down at Tommy, who has to look away. That blue is sickening.

They walk for a few more minutes, Tommy trying not to breathe too hard as the cigarette smoke soaks into his vest, his hair. He’ll have to bathe when he gets back. Before long, the swinging sign of the pub comes into view, and Tommy is led into the now-familiar pub.

There are a few patrons, all laughing and nursing large tankards of ale. Wilbur slips through the hubbub, whistling at the bartender who just nods at them. Schlatt’s the only one in the back room, sitting alone at the table, shuffling a deck of cards.

“Wilbur,” the man greets, picking up his cigar. “I didn’t think it’d be you who came in first.”

“What can I say? I’m excited.” Wilbur falls into his usual seat, dragging Tommy down with him. He collapses into his lap, resting his head against Wilbur’s collarbone.

Schlatt raises an eyebrow. “It’s happening soon then?”

“Soon.” Beneath him, Wilbur shifts, positioning his arm so his fingers can run through Tommy's hair. The meat of his thumb and his wrist brush against his ear. “Very soon.”

With a laugh, Schlatt pulls out a large bottle, the dark liquid inside sloshing. “Can I pour you a glass?”

“Please. Oh, and speaking of soon.” Wilbur catches the glass deftly as Schlatt slides it across the table.

“Yeah?” He leaves the bottle out.

“Hm.” He swallows, empty glass hitting the table with a thunk. “Spoke to some of his friends.”

“Anything I’d like?”

“Something right up your alley.” Wilbur grins.

Tubbo. They’re talking about Tubbo. He can’t-- what can he do? He doesn’t want his best friend to end up like him, but it’s not like he can fight against Wilbur, or even Schlatt. There’s nothing he can do, he’s-- he’s helpless.

He must have been squirming because Wilbur’s grip tightens on Tommy’s hair. “None of that Toms. This isn’t your decision.” He smiles. “Just let us adults talk, yeah?”

Tommy wants to lash out, to fight. He’s not a child, and this is Tubbo’s decision but it’s Wilbur and he can’t. Instead, he slumps back against him, staring at the ceiling as Wilbur continues petting his hair.

“Gods, watching you with him makes me all riled up.” Schlatt slams back a glass. “At least tell me he’s going to be a good fight.”

Tommy swallows. He was right.

“You think I’d recommend him if he wasn’t?” Tommy can hear his smug smile. “He’s a stubborn kid. Saw right through me.” He chuckles. “Almost.”

Tommy looks down in time to see Schlatt’s eyes gleam. “So, how soon is soon?”

A snort. “Figures you’d care after that. A couple of days, that’s what the others said. Just one more thing to tidy up, and then we’re good.”

“I’ll clear my calendar.”

Then Eret arrives, Fundy scowling behind him, and Tommy starts tuning out. People come, voices and blurry faces he recognises, but they all greet Wilbur and so Tommy fixes his eyes on the table and dully follows the cards.

Wilbur isn’t making him play tonight, so that’s good. While he understands the game now, he’s still the worst player by far, and it just proves for a stressful experience. Not like now, when he can blink away the hours and savour the heat coming off Wilbur in thick waves.

Smoke fills the air as round after round is played, with almost half the group smoking. Wilbur, Schlatt, Fundy and Quackity all have some form of nicotine dangling from their lips. He’s surprised to see that Fundy is rather relaxed when he’s smoking, his signature scowl missing. Instead, he grins like Wilbur, sharp and predatory.

Someone passes a bottle around the table, everyone cheering as one by one the people around the table take a swig. It scrapes against the wood as it’s passed to Wilbur.

Tommy jolts as the rim is pressed against his mouth. “Drink, Toms. Come on, It’ll be fun.” Wilbur laughs behind him, barely heard over the uproarious laughter.

“Yeah, Tommy. Drink!” Quackity shouts, echoed by a much drunker Schlatt.

Desperately, he finds Niki’s eyes across the table. She smiles, lifts her own glass. “Bottom’s up, Tommy!”

“Toms,” Wilbur coos, leaning forward so his entire body is pressed against Tommy’s back, his head slotting in between his ear and his shoulder. “Drink. Don’t make me ask again.”

And the chanting gets louder, and Wilbur’s whispering against his neck, and the bottle is right in front of him and how bad can it be, really--

The room whoops as Tommy snatches the bottle, pouring the drink down his throat.

Immediately he chokes, slamming it on the table again as fire eats away at his stomach, his mouth, his throat. It tastes like something vile and feels like he just drank pure acid. He wants to throw up, he wants to scream, he wants to spit but there’s nothing in his mouth. It’s dry, dryer than parchment.

“Good, so good, and just for me,” Wilbur murmurs into his skin, and while Tommy’s gasping for air, he’s also gasping for the praise, drowning in it but so desperately needing more. “Gods, Toms, you should see yourself right now, you’re mine, so totally mine, aren’t you? Like a good boy, like my good boy.”

Somewhere deep in his chest, the alcohol is settling, not in the way that the burn is going away but in the way that it’s spreading, leaking down his arms and legs and fingers and toes until he swears he’s dripping the fire onto the floor.

He shudders, a full-body shiver as the drink makes the world fuzzy around the edges and the sensation of Wilbur’s arm crossing over his chest so real and so solid and the only thing he needs to focus on right now.

Wilbur laughs, free and happy, mesmerising and possessive, curling and so warm. “That’s it, Toms. Mine, aren’t you darling?”

“Y’rs,” Tommy slurs, unthinking, following, fuzzy and warm and just where he’s supposed to be.

“Mine.”

It’s the damn dream again, the one with Wilbur’s corpse and the blue stains and the grey world.

This time, he’s staring out at the ocean. This time, Wilbur’s body floats in the non-existent waves. This time, the entire sea is blue.

This time, it’s easy.

He walks forward, watching the way the briny water laps at his ankles, and then his calves, and then his knees, turning skin and fabric bluer than anything that could possibly be real. He runs, wading through the ocean as the water rises over his hands, arms, stomach, chest.

Finally, he stands in the middle of an ocean he can’t feel, with skin coloured so blue he can’t look at it. Just in front of him, not-Wilbur floats, limbs moving with the current that doesn’t bother Tommy, eyes open, glasses missing, coat torn.

Tommy wraps his arm around the body and then shoves them both under the water.

When he blinks his eyes open, blue water surrounds him, light filtering through and dancing over Tommy’s blue skin. He lets go of the body, marvelling at its grey hands. He doesn’t float, because there is no surface anymore. But that’s okay. He isn’t looking for the surface anymore.

As Tommy watches, the corpse finally moves, slow, fluid movements bringing him face to face with the blond. It tilts its head, blue eyes a continuation of the ocean behind it.

“Who are you?” Tommy whispers, unsurprised to find he can’t hear himself.

It doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t do anything but stare. Still, Tommy knows what it’s saying.

A shadow. A ghost.

“A god?”

Some call me that.

“I’m a wizard,” Tommy mouths, “Why are you here?”

It makes it easier.

“You’re Wilbur’s patron.” Tommy stares at the coat, the shirt, the cigarettes floating out from its pockets.

Yes.

“And you don’t want to be mine?”

You’re his. That’s why I’m here.

Tommy doesn’t know what to say. He knows it’s true, just like he knows the entity in front of him has immense power.

It tilts its head. You’re his. That’s why he’s there.

What?

BOOM.

Tommy bolts out of bed, instinctively stumbling to his feet before he even registers the threat. And there is a threat, because something just exploded, didn’t it, that’s what woke him up. Fuck.

“Tommy--” The door bursts open, Tubbo reaching out. “We’ve gotta go, come on--”

They dash into the hallway, Ranboo getting dragged along by much faster Tubbo. They file out of the dormitory, racing down the spiral staircase.

“What’s happening?” He cries.

BOOM.

Ranboo catches Tubbo by the back of the shirt, stopping him from tumbling the remaining ten meters to the stone floor. Tommy loosens his grip on the railing, ignoring the looming dread as he swears he hears screaming.

The three of them stumble onto the third level of the main hall, joining the small crowd of students all thundering down to the door.

“Careful!” Sam shouts over the murmuring, “One at a time! Don’t push--”

BOOM.

Screams ring out as the western wall explodes outward, blocks of marble and chunks of wood raining down on students.

Sam runs forward, hand raised as energy cracks between his fingertips. The debris slows, allowing those underneath to escape before it falls to the ground. “Everyone! Evacuate out the east hall! GO!” He roars, digging his spellbook out from his robes.

Several figures emerge from the dust, all tall, all imposing and all familiar in that forbidden corner of his mind.

“Fuck,” Tubbo hisses, “We’ll never make it. Come on, here.” He shoves Ranboo into the shadow the tall bookshelf makes as it sits against the wall. They slide to the floor. “Tommy, can you-- shield us, or something?”

His hands are shaking. “S-Sure.” He presses himself against the wall, digging through his pockets as a booming laugh echoes through the hall.

“You think you can stop us?” The voice growls, low and so familiar (but it’s not Wilbur, he knows that).

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t find it, where is it, he needs it. Other than the people down on the floor, it’s dead silent, the rest of the students either gone or hiding like they are.

“Stop you? Maybe not on my own.” Sam admits. “But that won’t keep me from trying.”

He still can’t find it. He double-checks his pants, his vest, the pouches on his belt. It’s not there, fuck, where could it be. He has it on him, he swears.

“Then you’ll die.” The voice tells him, and then there’s a flare of light, bright and flickering. There are a few muted screams as students can’t help themselves. Tommy can’t see what’s happening from behind this bookcase but he can see that he can’t find the fucking bead.

Lights and noises erupt from the ground floor, but Tommy won’t get distracted, he can’t. He needs to find it, and so he needs to keep searching, even as Tubbo and Ranboo glance at him nervously.

He hears Sam cry out and he pauses.

Steps echo up the levels. “That’s all it took? You wizards are weaker than I remember.”

“Now, now, Techno, don’t be mean.” A new voice chimes in as Tommy’s blood runs cold. Techno? “Make his death quick and we can get to finding him.”

“Tommy!” Tubbo hisses, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on!”

“Very well.” Techno drawls, and he hears Sam giving one final shout.

Silence. Dead silence as Sam’s body hits the marble floor.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“That was easy. Do you think there’s any more of them? I’m bored.”

He can’t move. Can’t think. Sam… Sam’s dead. That’s Techno down there, Techno killed him, and Wilbur can’t be far behind him. He clasps his hands over his mouth to stifle the sobs, the tears, the choking grief that swells within him.

“Mate, you should be happy the place isn’t swarming. But I reckon we’ll see a few more in a minute.”

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be-- crying over him. Sam was there. Sam strapped him to that fucking table, Sam picked out the damn gems, Sam betrayed him.

“Hopefully they’ll prove more of a challenge. I’m disappointed.”

But… he tried to warn him. In that class. He listened when Tommy was frustrated with science, hugged him when he admitted he hated hearing about the other kid’s parents, made him feel better when he was down about having to go back to Dream’s manor.

“Hmm. I know, mate. Maybe we should look for him here while we wait.”

Sam was… he can’t put words to it. But now he’s gone. And now he’ll never get to understand what Sam was. Never get to figure it out.

“Nah, there’s no point. Wilbur’ll be able to sniff him out of the crowd. We’ll just wait to see if he turns up.”

Scrubbing his eyes, he turns back to Ranboo and Tubbo. They’re both crying too, Ranboo sobbing silently into Tubbo’s shoulder. He’ll do this. He can do this. Sam-- He would have wanted it. Now, where is the fucking bead?

“Get away from my students!” Puffy, that’s Puffy.

Wait. Wait. He gave it to Ranboo. For-- good luck, and shit.

Techno laughs. The lights and the shouts start up again.

He scrambles over to Ranboo’s lap, ignoring his questioning look as he buries his hands in Ranboo’s pockets, checks his necklace, pats down his leg-- there--

“Am I missing all the excitement?” Wilbur laughs, and oh gods Wilbur’s here, fuck, shit, fuck, this can’t be good, fuck.

His hands are shaking again but he snatches the bead from Ranboo’s pocket, closing his fist around it as he draws his friends close. I’m so sorry, Sam.

“Wilbur? The kid’s here then?”

He can’t focus. Gods, why him? Why now? Why Sam?

“Must be. But don’t mind me, you lot continue. I’ll just have a little browse, yeah?”

Breathe. He takes a breath. He closes his eyes, he needs to focus. He lets his mind settle, lets his ears drown out the noises. He takes a breath. The world greets him. Wilbur greets him.

Fuck.

”Gotcha.”

Energy twists around his fingers and Tommy screams at it to do his bidding and it does, the dome swirling outward from Tommy’s clenched fist. The bead doesn’t break, not yet, but as soon as the spell ends it’ll fall like sand from his palm.

His magic shivers as a thin finger travels down the curve of Tommy’s spell, his tiny hut. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel Ranboo and Tubbo clinging to him harder.

He can’t get in. He can’t get in, Tommy reminds himself. He can’t get in.

“Tommy.” Wilbur whispers. “Toms. Open your eyes.” He’s smiling, Tommy can hear it. “Don’t disobey me, sweetheart, it won’t end well for you.”

Tommy opens his eyes. Through the shimmering layer of magic, he can see Wilbur, crouched, head cocked. Grinning.

“Hi, Toms.” He wiggles his fingers.

He’s still crying. Tears are still streaming down his cheeks. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants Sam back. He wants Wilbur to go away, but not really. He wants Wilbur to hug him, to make everything fade.

“Come on, Toms,” He coaxes, like an owner offering their dog treats to leave the house. “Don’t you want to see me?”

He bites his lip. Yes. No. He wants-- Fuck, he doesn’t know. He should, it should be easy, but it’s not. He should desperately want to keep Tubbo and Ranboo safe, to keep himself out of Wilbur’s clutches, but he’s right there and it’s so hard.

“Darling,” Wilbur’s voice curls. “Don’t you wanna be good?”

Tommy shudders. Yes, yes he wants that.

A hand tightens around his loosening fist. “Tommy. Tommy, look at me. Don’t you listen, you hear me?” Tubbo whispers furiously.

“Don’t bother.” Wilbur laughs. “He’s mine. He’ll come to me eventually.”

“You bastard, I should have done something sooner, the minute I saw you on the street. You’re-- you--” Tubbo spits.

“Toms.” Wilbur ignores him, blue glasses like stars behind the shimmering magic. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

It’s so easy to lose himself in Wilbur’s eyes. So easy to give in to the longing desire for Wilbur to touch him, to throw that arm around his shoulders like he always does, to laugh at him, to share his warmth. He wants it.

The spell flickers. For one, heartstopping moment, Wilbur’s finger slips through.

“No!” Tubbo grabs Tommy’s face, blocking Wilbur from view. “Tommy. Focus. You can do it. Don’t listen to him, he’s manipulating you, he wants to kidnap you!”

Even through Tubbo’s body, he can still see those glasses.

“Tommy! He’s a warlock!”

Wilbur’s laughter rings in his ears.

“Tommy--” Tubbo cuts off, looking around. “Tommy?” He sounds scared, so scared, like he’s seeing something that isn’t there. He scrambles off Tommy, crying. “Tommy!”

Ranboo grabs him, muttering. But Tommy can’t think about that, because Wilbur is staring at him.

Slowly, he takes his glasses off. Somehow, that’s worse. “Tommy.” He whispers, but Tommy hears it anyway. “Come home, Toms.” He opens his arms. “Let me take you.”

He feels his grip loosening on the bead, on the spell, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. He wants Wilbur to snatch him away from the rest of the world, but logically he knows that’s bad, that Wilbur scares him sometimes.

But Wilbur owns him. There’s a blue handprint burned into his back, a brand. A collar.

Ranboo screams as the bead falls from Tommy’s fingers, dust before it even hits the floor.

And then all he can see is Wilbur’s manic grin, all teeth and dark violence. He hears Wilbur’s coat wrap around him, knows that Wilbur has tucked him against his side, but he can’t feel anything. “Phil!”

Something falls to the ground with a wet slap. “You got ‘im?”

“Yeah. Need some help with the other ones.” He calls over the railing, hand firmly planted in the centre of Tommy’s back, waves of fire erupting across Tommy’s body. He can’t think, can’t feel, can’t breathe. He needs Wilbur, and that’s all he knows.

A man swoops down, perching on the railing (was he flying?). Blond hair falls to his chin, and grey eyes burn through the shadows on his face. “Right. Them, I presume?” He points an adorned finger to where Ranboo is desperately trying to wake Tubbo up, frantically glancing between Tubbo’s face and the newcomer.

After Wilbur nods, the man drops onto the balcony proper, dropping into a crouch before the two boys. Wilbur breaks whatever spell he has on Tubbo, and before either of them can try anything, Phil opens his mouth.

“Be still.”

Instantly, they both freeze. Ranboo’s shaking. The man, Phil, straightens, dusting his hands. “That should do it. At least ‘till Schlatt gets here.”

Was that… a word of power? Fuck. He’s powerful. He’s the one they’d been warned about, the stories that make the streets unsafe at night. A warlock who could do whatever he wanted with just one word.

What does it say that Wilbur knows him so well?

“He’s almost here. Give him a minute. In the meantime,” Wilbur leans back over the railing. “Techno! You done with them?”

“I can be, why?”

Tommy’s eyes find Ranboo’s.

“Got a present for you.” Wilbur sings, grinning down at the sorcerer. “You’ll like this one, I promise.”

“It better be worth it if I have to climb all these stairs.” He rumbles, and Tommy flinches as something drops to the ground with a thud. He can’t-- he can’t think about that.

Puffy, his mind whispers. She’s gone now too.

“Quit whining,” Wilbur huffs, significantly quieter as Techno comes up the stairs.

“I heard that!”

“Boys, not now.” Phil rolls his eyes, and fuck, Tommy almost forgot he was here. The man leans against one of the pillars that link the balcony to the ceiling, shadows dancing at his feet. Grey eyes catch him staring, and Tommy hurriedly ducks his head.

“Oh, come now mate, there’s no need to be shy.” He teases. “Lemme see you.”

Wilbur’s fingers tap his temple, and so Tommy lifts his head. Phil smiles softly, and Tommy blinks. Phil’s shorter than him.

“There you are.” He breathes, a scarred hand coming up to skate along his jaw. “And aren’t you a pretty thing?” Darkness spreads across his eyes and Tommy gasps as he feels something gently stroke against his soul, his magic.

If Schlatt felt like an eel, or snake dripping with venom, Phil feels like velvet. Like ink, soft and black and infinite, like staring into the night sky and finding nothing. It envelops him, smothers him, pours into every crack and crevice.

And then it feels like Phil reaches inside him, cradles his centre like one might cradle a baby bird. “Such a pretty thing.” He whispers, marvelling at the light that Tommy casts. “So bright, so full of life.”

A thick spiral of blue spins out from inside him, pirouetting in the ink. The colours don’t mix but do circle around him. “So I take it you like him?”

“Oh,” Phil breathes, fingers cupping his very essence, “I love him.”

And then, like scales tipping, he’s poured back into himself, disoriented and starving to feel held like that again. The ink retreats into Phil, and the blue winds itself back into Tommy and suddenly he’s snapped back into his body.

Blinking, he looks around. Wilbur’s holding him up, arms looped under his armpits and Tommy’s head under his chin. Phil’s fingers are buried in his hair. His palms resting on his temples.

He’s breathing hard, his body still recovering. He catches Tubbo’s gaze from the corner of his eye, and the boy looks terrified, staring up at Phil from where he’s frozen on the ground. Ranboo has his eyes screwed shut.

“What’s this surprise?” Techno drawls from the stairs, mounting the final few. He looks even bigger than Tommy remembers, all rippling muscle topped with hard and shining red dragon scales.

Wilbur points with a flourish towards Ranboo, who still isn’t looking. “Tada!”

Red eyes flick over Ranboo’s form, before rolling back to Wilbur. “That’s a child.”

He leans forward, over Tommy’s head. “A child, who has draconic ancestry.”

Techno’s head whips back to Ranboo. He storms over, grabbing Ranboo’s head in one hand (holy shit his hands are massive) and his arm in the other. “You’re sure?”

“Dead sure.” Wilbur nods. “Could see it from a mile off.”

“How old is he?” He grunts, thumbing open his eye.

Wilbur shrugs. “Dunno. How old is he?” He turns to Tommy.

He clears his throat. “He turned sixteen last month.” He croaks. Gods, his throat is ruined.

“It’s about the right time for traits to be coming in.” Techno muses, examining Ranboo’s darkened, sharp fingernails. Like Techno’s fingernails.

A steady stream of silent tears pours down Ranboo’s face. Tommy pointedly does not look at them.

Techno stands, letting Ranboo’s limbs freeze once more. “I’ll take him.”

“Told you.” Wilbur sings.

He just rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” Wilbur straightens. “Schlatt’s here.” He nudges Tubbo with his foot. “You excited?”

Tubbo glares at him. If he could move, Tommy’s sure he would have spat. Or shouted. Or maybe screamed.

With a laugh, he waves his hand over the railing. “Up here, Schlatt!”

“Oi! You’re making me climb these stairs on purpose!”

“I would never!” Wilbur shouts, mock offended. “How could you say that?”

“You little shit.”

He laughs, tugging Tommy over to a chair. Somehow, it’s still in one piece. “Come on Toms, let's sit for a bit, yeah?” He hums, moving the chair to face the others before sitting in it himself. Without prompting, Tommy settles into his usual spot, completely spooned by Wilbur’s lanky body. His feet don’t even touch the ground.

Phil laughs at the sight, cooing. “Aw, look at him Wil! You did a good job.”

“That I did.” He purrs. “He’s so good for me, aren’t you Toms?” He whispers, and Tommy nods because he needs it, he needs more of Wilbur’s words and his touch and everything about him, he needs more.

“Oh, you did a splendid job.” And suddenly Phil is right there, brushing his hair behind his ear. “He’s so good, and just for you Wil.”

A thumb brushes across his cheek and it’s not Wilbur but it’s someone and it helps to fill the gaping hole in his soul. He leans into it, the touch, Wilbur’s control over him, his life. This is how it’s going to be now, and Tommy decides to accept that.

He’ll be good, he’ll be so good. Anything for Wilbur.

“Ha! I see we’ve got the grandpa hooked.” Schlatt jokes as he reaches the top of the stairs. His eyes flash with gold, and his magic trails in front of him like feelers. “Now,” He rubs his hands together, “Where’s my prize?”

Wilbur just points. Shining eyes follow his finger, and when they land on Tubbo, they burn.

Step by step, he corners his prey, looming over the boy as a cat might loom over his mouse. He stops, his thick leather boots touching Tubbo’s leg. The boy glares up at him, all fire and sparks, and Schlatt laughs.

“I’m gonna have so much fun with you, kiddo.” He twirls his fingers and between blinks a cigar appears, already smoking. “You can drop it, Phil. I’m assuming the weedy one’s latched onto Techno by now.”

With an easy nod, Phil releases his word of power, and Tommy watches as Ranboo scrambles back, hitting the wall as his eyes are locked on Techno.

Tubbo, on the other hand, pauses. He stares up at Schlatt, fury etched into his face, and slowly pulls his feet under him. As he rises to his full height (not even up to Schlatt’s sternum) he stares the man in his eyes in defiance, bright and strong.

But Tommy recognises the look in his eyes. Knows what that glint means. Tubbo’s trapped. Caught. He’s being sucked into the magnetism, the same way Wilbur hooked Tommy into him. That first conversation, a few words, just being in his presence was like a forbidden secret, something to hide. Scandalous, heady, addicting.

Tubbo’s hooked. Just like that.

The boy swirls his mouth, about to spit (ha, Tommy was right) but Schlatt grabs his jaw, fast as lightning. “You don’t wanna do that.”

Tubbo doesn’t react, just keeps shooting daggers at the man. “Do what.” He forces out, reluctantly swallowing as Tommy watches the thick fingers tighten.

“Simple.” He growls. “Don’t make me mad.”

With a wry smile, Tubbo spits on Schlatt’s shoe. “Like that?” He huffs, cheeks flush with adrenaline.

Schlatt tips his head back and laughs. Really laughs, putting his whole chest into it. Tubbo blinks, eyes darting across the man’s face. When he finally calms down, he shoots Wilbur a look over his shoulder.

“You were right. Stubborn.” His shining eyes turn back to a pale Tubbo. “A good fight.”

“Of course I was right.” Beneath him, Wilbur’s legs shift. “Can we go? I wanna take him home.”

Phil waves his hand at them. “Of course, mate. Makes sense you wanna get ‘im settled. We’ll follow in a bit, yeah? I’ll stay to make sure these two don’t need any help.” He sticks a gilded thumb at Schlatt and Techno, both fixated on the child before them.

Wilbur hums, tipping his head back. “Might wanna close your eyes, Toms.” His fingers trip over Tommy’s eyebrows, and before he can close them for him, he shuts his eyes.

Magic rushes over him like water, electric and cold, dancing across his skin as he’s pulled away from the academy, away from L’Manberg and Essempi, wrenched from one place to another, twisted up into energy before imploding into existence once more. It’s vaguely nauseating, and he’s sure it would have been much worse if he’d seen it.

When he cracks open his eyes, he is met with an unfamiliar room. They’re both still sitting, but he realises they’re sitting on a bed. It’s soft, bouncy. The sheets are smooth as Tommy glides his fingers over them.

Wilbur chuckles, wrapping his arms around him from behind. “Welcome home, sweetheart.” He murmurs into Tommy’s hair.

Tommy is too busy taking in the rest of the room to answer. The walls are a royal blue, with gold filigree shining in branching patterns like vines. The floor is carpeted, white and soft. There’s a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, gold and positively dripping with sparkling crystals of all shades of blue.

“Wilbur…” He whispers, trying to take it all in. He’s tired, he realises, really tired. So much has happened. The dream. Sam. Puffy. More, probably. Wilbur. Tubbo and Ranboo. And now he’s here.

They fall back onto the bed, Wilbur rolling them onto their sides so Tommy is lying on the softest bed he’s ever felt in his life, with Wilbur’s touch radiating through him as he holds him close.

“I’m here, Toms.” He whispers, “Right here. And I’ll never leave, and you’ll never leave me.” He sighs, the air brushing over Tommy’s cheek. “You’re mine. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Isn’t that wonderful?

Pressed up against him, Tommy can’t refuse. His breath hitches as he nods, tears building behind his eyes but not threatening to spill over. He’s too exhausted to cry.

“You’ll be safe here,” He murmurs into Tommy’s hair, before rolling upright. He leaves Tommy on the silk sheets, blankly staring at the wall. “You’ll never leave. You’ll love us.” He grins, crouching down into Tommy’s field of view.

“Sleep.” He orders, and the words run out from his back in drowsy waves. “We’ll be busy when you wake up.”

He dreams of dead skin and silent laughter, of blades slathered in blue blood.

When he wakes, there’s something cold and heavy around his neck, and a black marking of a crow on the back of his hand. Wilbur appears before he can even think about getting out of bed, a steaming plate of food in one hand and the other curled around a familiar spellbook.

Isn’t that wonderful?

“Let’s get to work, Toms.”