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Tommy’s arm is a fucking mess. Shattered pieces of bone scattered through his flesh, sticking out of his skin in two places. If he doesn’t look at it, doesn’t think about it, somehow, the pain lessens. Every time he moves, he can feel it shift, and that shift causes intolerable pain. He clutches it with his unbroken hand as he runs through the midnight streets of L’Manburg. He can taste salty tears mixing with the pounding rain.
He can barely see where he’s going through his two black eyes. His cheek is swollen. His nose is probably broken, too. Two teeth are gone. He occasionally swirls his tongue around the gaps, subconsciously examining the losses like a second grader being told about the tooth fairy. He can’t stop running. If he stops, Dream catches up. And Theseus “Tommy” Minecraft would not let that happen.
He can’t see, but he knows where he’s going. He knows every turn, every crosswalk, every building on the way. He knows because there have been times when he’s run all the way back, only to hesitate and go back at the final turn.
He heaves a loud sob, drowned out by the rain.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was supposed to be a big man. He was supposed to be living in an apartment, with his two best friends. He was supposed to be L’Manburg’s greatest supervillain, Phoebus’ greatest rival. Not this inconsolable child , whining for his father. He was supposed to be brave.
And now he was a broken, bruised child, wanting nothing more than to crash into the arms of his father. He wanted to be held so tight that he suffocated, that he was crushed and folded back into his father’s essence. He wanted his wings to sprout and he wanted his father to be there when it happened. He wanted his brothers. He wanted his dad .
So he made a break for it.
He knows it’s right there . His father’s house is just around the corner. He can get there in less than two minutes, he knows that. He knows the route by heart, no matter where he’s coming from. So why?
Why can’t he remember which way to turn?
Tommy cries out. He stops. He stops and he feels like he’ll die. Like a shark—despite his Avian inclinations—he couldn’t stop moving.
A voice seems to come to him. To the left, it says.
He listens. And the voice is right.
Just across the street, there’s a familiar house, faintly illuminated in the lamppost light. He can see the lights are on; an orange glow from the windows display the shadows of three people. The sight nearly makes Tommy collapse. They’re so happy. So happy without him.
Why would they want him back?
He’s tempted to turn around and trudge back to Dream through the rain. But he can’t. He can’t face the horrors Dream would put him through if he went back. So he decides to ruin his family’s happiness.
He knocks on the door with his good arm. All laughter in the home stops suddenly. Tommy sniffles. He fucking ruined it. Again .
It was nothing new.
The door opened slowly. His dad—no, Phil—is behind the thick wood. He blinks in surprise.
“Spitfire?”
Tommy, perhaps selfishly, pushes himself into Phil’s arms. He sobs loudly.
Time feels like it freezes. One of them is tense, shocked, unsure what to do. The other is squirming in the arms of this middle aged man, blubbering, searching desperately for comfort. The world doesn’t know what to do with them.
Slowly, Tommy can feel two arms wrap around him, careful and delicate. Like he was fragile .
And he was.
———
There is a child in Phil’s arms.
There is a child in Phil’s arms and he doesn’t know what to do.
Two years since his youngest ran away; two years since he could truly feel something. But Spitfire, one of L’Manburg’s greatest villains, barely more than a child, hiding in his arms—Phil felt every single emotion he’d suppressed over the past two years crash into him like a tsunami. It took everything in his body to prevent himself from squeezing the poor child.
He hadn’t known Spitfire’s age. How could he have known?
He could tell, he could see that the boy was no older than sixteen. During their night time battles, Spitfire could be taken for a college student, a delinquent with a penchant for causing trouble around L’Manburg. But in his arms, soaked to the bone like a rat dipped in oil, Phil can feel the villain’s bony frame. Every bumpy rib, the way his disguise clings to his body, accentuating his gaunt features. God, he looked like a ghost.
The poor thing had his mask on, but Phil could see the egregious injuries beneath the disguise. Two black eyes and a ruined arm. Surely much worse.
“Dad? Who’s that— no.”
Wilbur’s voice comes from the hallway. His jaw is agape, staring at the spectacle before him. His round glasses go crooked. Shock is written all over his face. Spitfire’s costume is a bright splatter of reds, oranges, and yellows—there isn’t a way in hell Wilbur doesn’t recognize it.
“What’s wrong?”
Of course, wherever Wilbur goes, Technoblade follows. However, where Wilbur stood and gawked, Technoblade took action. He approaches his father, looking cautious and suspicious as ever.
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But—” Phil fights the urge to call him by his son’s name— “Spitfire is hurt. And we’re helping him.”
“But Dad—“
“No.” Phil sternly corrects.
Wilbur obeys.
Phil guides Spitfire to the couch, a gentle hand on the boy’s back. He wants so desperately to take the mask off the boy, to see his true identity, to confirm that perhaps this boy wasn’t his lost son. But he won’t. For Spitfire’s sake.
Tommy ran away for a reason. He couldn’t take that from him.
Spitfire heaves, lurching over. He vomits onto the rug, though there’s nothing of substance to it. Little more than blood and stomach acid. The sight makes Phil sick.
“Poor thing.” He sits the boy down, rubbing his back.
“‘M sorry, ‘m really sorry—” Spitfire is stopped by a fit of coughing.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s okay.” Phil smiles gently. “I need to replace that old thing.”
Spitfire sniffles, then collapses into Phil’s lap. He sobs harder.
“Wilbur.” He lifts his head, placing a comforting hand on Spitfire’s tense shoulder. “Make some hot chocolate, please?”
“Yes, Dad.” The brunette scurries off, vanishing around a corner. Technoblade stands alone, uncomfortable out of Wilbur’s shadow.
“Techno? Can you fetch some blankets, please?”
Technoblade nods swiftly, and leaves just as quickly.
Now it’s just Phil and Spitfire.
Spitfire is still sobbing uncontrollably. He shakes in Phil’s lap, looking like he’d never felt the embrace of a father. Or anybody . Spitfire curls in on himself. Phil’s heart can’t take it.
Phil slips a hand beneath Spitfire’s side, hoisting him up, holding him like an injured child. Phil supposed that’s what he was. The last time he held Tommy like this, he’d been seven years old—scraped his knee while playing with Wilbur. Wilbur carried him inside, cradling him like a baby. The wound was cleaned, bandaged, and Tommy was fine. However, Tommy insisted on staying in his father’s arms. Phil indulged.
Phil wondered if that was the point where he put Tommy down and never picked him up again.
Phil decides that none of his children are too big to be held.
Spitfire bites his lip, but can’t hold back his trembling sobs. Phil wraps his arms around the lanky boy. Spitfire crumbles into his chest, and Phil swears it’s like London Bridge has fallen again.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Spitfire mumbles, the mantra slurring together through snot and tears. Phil notices that his voice changer has stopped working. His voice is so familiar, but much deeper than who he thought could be—
“Tommy?”
Spitfire freezes. He pulls away from Phil, shock apparent in his eyes. He hiccups, then peels the mask from his face.
Underneath the blood, bruises, and scars, it’s Tommy.
It’s Phil’s turn to start sobbing.
“Tommy!”
The cry of their youngest brother’s name drags both twins into the living room. Wilbur fumbles to keep the hot chocolate from spilling. Technoblade drops everything to rush towards his father and brother and tackle them in a hug. Wilbur candidly places the hot mug down before joining the love tackle. Tommy groans.
“Gentle boys. He’s still hurt.”
The twins immediately let go, concern washing over their faces. Phil rubs Tommy’s back, gently moving his chin to look him in the eye.
“How’d you know it was me?”
Phil cups the boy’s face.
“Your voice, songbird.”
Tommy sniffles. He turns to his brothers, who look as shocked as they do hurt, betrayed, and full of love. He throws one arm around each of them, pulling the twins closer, afraid that if he lets go, they disappear.
The boys tackle him into Phil.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Toms. Now let’s get you fixed up, right?”
They’re gonna be okay.
They’re a family again.