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If Tommy were honest, he had never lived anywhere particularly extravagant. Of course, he was a shapeshifter (an incredibly rare and secretive species); he supposes it should make sense, but he still wishes his childhood would’ve been like the mansions on TV.
The first home he remembers living in was a cabin at the edge of a lake with a blonde woman with pink tips and highlights. He would dive into the beautiful blue water with her, swimming around for hours, shifting his legs into her tail. The woman would read stories of myths and lore while brushing his hair. She’d tell him, at his request, of how she found him on the edge of her lake when he was a toddler, raising him as a big sister figure. She was only about 8 years older than him, so he supposed it made sense.
The second home he lived in was a small, claustrophobic cage. It had large chains around his ankles, trying all sorts of weird magic on him. A nice woman did talk to him sometimes, showing him her delicate wings as he gently poked and prodded at them. He would spend hours observing the pretty things, his body eventually taking such a liking to her that it popped out moth wings itself.
The last home he had lived in was a large room with all sorts of toys and activities for him to do. He’d get three meals daily – a variation of poultry, dairy and fruits. He doesn’t remember going outside or talking to anyone besides people who came inside to observe and talk to him, although it was always a little too condescending for his liking.
Finally; he's now in a small—although pretty—cottage at the edge of the woods in a place called Snowchester. He lives with a phantom hybrid, a rare species, who calls himself Wilbur. He likes the man, really, even though he only started living with him a little while ago. He smiles lovingly at Tommy; hugs Tommy as he watches movies with him, and holds him close as he sings.
Currently, he is panicking the fuck out. His back had just popped out a fresh pair of wings (he’s not sure what type, not that he cares) that are way too similar for Wilbur to not notice.
“Tommy!” Wilbur’s voice rings from outside his door as there’s a loud knock on his door. “It’s time for breakfast!”
He panics; it wasn’t like he would cover the wings, it was the middle of spring! He wouldn’t just put them away either; his powers weren’t powerful enough for him to retract his wings into his back.
“I-I’ll be there in a second!” Tommy yells back. He doesn’t think he would hide them, but it wasn’t like Wilbur could see them either.
I mean, Wilbur could see them. It was just that he doesn’t think the man knows about his shapeshifting abilities. He doesn’t think he’d be mad about the shifting itself since he was himself: a hybrid. He was more afraid about how he accidentally copied Wilbur. What if he found it weird? Worse, what if he was upset Tommy wouldn’t control his shapeshifting? What if he tried to harvest his abilities? Hurt him? Kick him out for being a freak?
Tommy breathes. It’sfine, really — perfectly fine. He would just talk to Wilbur and avoid the consequences with healthy communication!
That sounds so dumb the more he thinks about it, but it would be fine. Wilbur isn’t unreasonable — not really — he wouldn’t get that mad about something Tommy wouldn’t control. Maybe he would fault Tommy for getting attached to him, but the consequences for that would be infinitely better than the alternative.
It would be fine.
Tommy constantly reassures himself as he steps out of the room and down the stairs. He cautiously opens the kitchen door as Wilbur sets the table. Wilbur looks at him, smiles — unknowing of how much of a monster he is — and gestures to a seat.
“Good morning, Toms,” Wilbur greets as Tommy settles himself into a seat. “Sleep well?”
Tommy nods quietly, bringing his knees to his chest. “Thank you for the bed.”
Wilbur smiles — although Tommy can see the slight grim look behind his eyes — then pauses, “You look different today, yeah?” Tommy tenses. Wilbur only shakes his head, then offers a simple explanation, more for himself than anyone else, “Were you trying out Sally’s old makeup, hm? I’ll get you your own if you want any.”
Tommy nods, slowly. He’s unsure if Wilbur will still want to get him makeup after he notices; if Wilbur will even want him here.
“Right, so,” Wilbur claps, once; the loud sound startles Tommy into an upright position. He looks sheepish as he gently places a grounding hand on Tommy’s shoulder, his breath becoming a quiet huff when Tommy leans into it. “I was thinking, your 10th birthday is coming up. That’s a big number, yeah? Do you want to do anything special for it?”
Tommy shakes his head. He’d hate to set up a whole party only for Wilbur to notice the wings sprouting out of his back (which he had currently managed to tuck under the space in the chair) and kick him out.
Wilbur frowns but quickly shakes it away; his lips morph back into a smile. “Well, you like my wings, yeah? Maybe I could take you on a flight on your birthday? Does that sound good, little one?” Wilbur offers; he then reminds, “It’s your birthday, so whatever you want. If that doesn’t sound good, you can say.”
Tommy’s eyes brighten up. He can already picture settling himself on Wilbur's back, or maybe he’d be tucked to his chest with his arms wrapped around his waist, flying over various scenery as the air whirls through Tommy’s nose; it leaving him breathlessly terrified as he looks over the world as if it were nothing more than an ant, yet excited for his next flight.
He dims as he realises Wilbur probably wouldn’t want him anywhere near after finding out about his likeness.
“Yeah, sure,” Tommy smiles, “I like that idea.”
“Perfect, then!” Wilbur exclaims, “Now, let me go fetch your breakfast.”
Wilbur shuffles away as he gets a plate full of two pancakes out of the microwave, gently setting it infront of Tommy as it hits the wood with a small ceramic thud.
“Two?” Tommy questions. “This is dessert. Dessert is supposed to weigh less than 50 grams. These are usually 34. 34 plus 34 is, um- 68.” He manages to calculate.
Wilbur frowns, setting a hand in Tommy’s hair as he gently runs it through his curls. “I know it weighs more than 50 grams, love; we’re not going by those restrictions. You can eat however much you want, as long as it’s in a healthy proportion. There’s nothing wrong with having sweets if you balance it out with other foods.”
“Oh,” Tommy simply says. “Okay.”
Wilbur chuckles, although Tommy can see how he dims. He curls into himself; he didn’t mean to make Wilbur sad—or maybe this was a unique way of showing anger(?)—he just wanted to say that it didn’t make sense.
“Alright, go ahead and eat.” Wilbur smiles, using his index to gently tuck curls behind Tommy’s ear.
Tommy hums, nodding once, and starts breaking the savoury bread into little pieces as he sets pieces of the syrup-infused cake into his mouth. He bites into the cold, contrasted by the warmness of the pancake, light butter making its way into his taste. He finishes them quickly; they weren’t pasty and bland like the ones he’d always had before, they were honestly well-cooked.
He sets the ceramic on the table, licking the edge of his lips quietly as he tries to get more of the taste. He couldn’t ask for more, no matter what Wilbur tried to say, so he’d just bite his lip until it bled to get a similar flavour. Maybe he could steal the salt from the kitchen later.
Quickly, though, Tommy realises Wilbur hasn’t been speaking. That was… odd; Wilbur was always talkative during meals.
“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, brushing a finger against his wing. Tommy freezes, startled; unsure of what to do, he pretends everything is normal.
“Yeah?” He asks, as casually as he can manage.
“Did you always have wings?”
“Um, no.” Tommy mumbles. “I don’t– I grew them this morning.”
“Out of the blue?” Wilbur questions, “Your shapeshifting doesn’t have a pattern?” Tommy freezes at how he knows about his shapeshifting but brushes it off as an assumption.
“I mean, it does,” Tommy hesitates, but ultimately decides to murmur out the truth, “I adopt the features of people I like–or get attached to. I don’t really– um, control it? It just sorta… happens.”
“Wh– so where’d you get the wings from?” Wilbur asks, confused.
“I got them from you,” Tommy murmurs, hesitant. “I don’t– yeah, I’m sorry.”
The silence between Tommy and Wilbur was almost deafening. Tommy flinches at every single beat of Wilbur's heart—or the slightly hitched breaths he takes.
He’s more than a little surprised when Wilbur just picks him up. Tucking him to his chest like he was something precious, Wilbur rocks Tommy back and forth softly as he hums, walking somewhere as he keeps him close.
“Oh, primes,” Wilbur coos. “You are so precious.”
Tommy presses himself closer. He murmurs, hesitant, and asks, “So you aren’t mad?”
“Mad?” Wilbur asks—as if the notion were ridiculous. “Why would I be mad at something so wonderful, not to mention, sweet? I’m not angry; I’m nowhere close to being even irritated.” He shakes his head with a hum. Tommy presses his head further against Wilbur’s chest, letting out a relieved huff of air.
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all, dear,” Wilbur chuckles, “You said it happens when you like someone, yeah? That’s sweet; you’re a sweetheart. I’m honoured you think so highly of me—even subconsciously—since I love you just as much, if not more.”
Tommy feels heat rush to his cheeks, soft pink clusters highlighted as it covers the baby fat puffing up his face. He nuzzles his nose into Wilbur’s collarbone, pondering quietly.
“You mean that?” Tommy questions before he clarifies, “I mean– that you love me?”
“Of course I love you,” Wilbur hums. “You deserve love.”
Tommy pushes himself closer. “I love you too, papa.”
Wilbur smiles, squeezing Tommy once tightly before running fingers over Tommy’s wings softly. He ruffles a feather, chuckling at the way it presses under his finger, letting out a slight crunch when it’s folded. Wilbur adjusts Tommy in his arms until they’re both more comfortable.
“C’mon, let’s go preen them, yeah? Maybe I can teach you how to fly.”