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Tommy is slow to wake up.
The blankets piled on top of him are impossibly heavy, sinking him deeper and deeper into the mattress. It’s cold in his room, since he shares a wall with Niki and her always-warm sheep familiar. He doesn’t mind most of the time, but this morning he thinks it might be the end of him— he does not want to step on the floor, it’s most definitely super cold and awful. Tubbo needs a warm room for him and Ranboo, but they’re across the hall, past the library and bathrooms. In a perfect world he’s next to them, or on the third floor, where Phil and Kristin have the master bedroom. Tommy’s not jealous of the fact they have a balcony and walk in closet, because he knows one day he’ll be rich and famous and have a huge house with his own one day. Now’s just his humble beginnings.
It’s going to be a boring day, he thinks. The sun is already peeking through his window, casting lazy beams of light along his desk. His clock, which is a couple minutes ahead because of an accidentally violent levitation spell and a baseball, says it’s three minutes until he has to get out of bed. That means he really has six minutes. That means he can go back to sleep. He groans and closes his eyes.
Only to be awakened immediately by a feathery bastard standing over him.
“What the fuck!” Tommy shrieks, jumping out of his skin and falling off of his bed in the process. His covers catch and twist around his ankles, leaving him a tangled heap on the floor. Phil offers no sympathy.
“Sorry, mate,” Phil chuckles a little like an audacious bitch, trying to fix his bedsheets from where he’s pulled them down with him, “you sleep through me yelling upstairs for you, you get the consequences.”
“My ass! You never do that to Niki!” Tommy cries indignantly, attempting and failing to drag himself up via clutching his blankets, messing them up again in the process. He winces at his bare feet on the wooden floor, as icy and unforgiving as the winter. Phil shakes his head at the sight.
“Because she would give me a hoof to the face. You, on the other hand, just complain.” He’s smiling, and while Tommy would really like to continue being mad, he has to admit it is pretty funny to imagine Niki sucker-punching their dad at 7am on a Tuesday.
“Tubbo?” he tries, less bite in his voice as he hauls himself off the floor and stands up. His movements are slow, like he’s procrastinating every inch, desperate to fall back into his mattress and remain a motionless lump throughout the entire day. Phil smiles up at him kindly, wrinkles crossing his face like shooting stars as his eyes crinkle with mirth.
“I’m not risking a snake bite. Come down for breakfast once you’re dressed. I made oatmeal for you.” Tommy gasps with a big, toothy grin. Now that’s something worth waking up for, a reward worth risking hypothermia of his toes.
He looks at his dad with the biggest, most pathetic puppy eyes he can muster. “With the brown sugar?” He asks, all high-pitched and childish. He knows the answer. Phil always makes his breakfast how he likes it. He’s reliable like that, in everything he does. He’s also very strict on Tommy’s diet, lovingly, because he knows even one day missing meals can make him sick. He’s a good dad like that.
“Yes, Toms, always with the brown sugar.” Tommy melts into the hand combing through his curls, all the tension he hadn’t even noticed draining from his shoulders. Phil coos, a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Phil’s the best dad he could ask for, really. He slips out his bedroom to let him change, leaving only a feather behind.
Tommy kicks on jeans, singed at the bottom from a potion gone awry. He wants to grab his cotton shirt that Niki embroidered a flower onto, but Kristin must’ve put his laundry away, because all of his shirts are sitting at the very top of his closet. It’s out of his reach. Stupid crows and their stupid flight, putting things at ungodly high places.
Tommy isn’t short, he’ll let that be known. He’s not. Tubbo is short, Phil is short, Niki is short but badass enough it doesn’t matter, and Tommy is tall. He has three options here. 1, he asks for Phil to grab Kristin to fly up and retrieve the shirt. 2, he asks for Tubbo to grab Ranboo, the lanky prick, to use his height for something other than looking ominous. 3, he calls for Techno, his familiar, who stands a couple inches above him, and would probably be able to grab the shirt. Easy decision, right? Right. It would be stupid to drag another witch’s familiar to fix his problem. The voice in the back of his head nags him that this is a bad idea. He brushes it off, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and holding up his bracelet. It’s nothing. Techno won’t be pissed at him for not being able to reach. He steels his nerves, and tries to keep his voice level, whispering in the suddenly deafening silence of his room.
”Technoblade.”
Like magic (because it is), the boar appears in a cloud of hazy smoke. Tommy tries not to shit himself. Keep it cool. First time you’ve called for him in a couple days, no worries. Be chill.
You’re stupid, the voice supplies. Very helpful.
“Hi,” he offers awkwardly, “can you grab that shirt with the little, um, orchid sewn on the front?” It’s an easy request. The most simple, easy request ever, probably. Still, it sends a shiver of guilt down Tommy’s back. How silly is it he can’t even get some clothes for himself, really. Needing help for such a basic task. It’s almost pathetic. Maybe he is being stupid.
Techno offers nothing in response, turning his deadpan stare from him into his closet. He grunts while standing on the tips of his hooves, but he gets the shirt, handing it to Tommy without even a hint of a smile. Tommy resists the urge to wince when the soft fabric hits his hand despite it not hurting in the slightest.
“Thanks.” Techno nods, breaking eye contact to look at the clock. Fifteen minutes after from when he first woke up. Bags hang underneath his eyes, pink skin interrupted by purple. Tommy must’ve woken him up for this. Fuck my life. I might be the worst witch ever.
“Are you alright? Do you require anything else?” The question doesn’t read as backhanded, but Tommy stutters like it is anyways. He doesn’t want to be seen as needy, selfish. The thought of being perceived like that burrows into his bones.
“No— no, I’m just fine.” Techno raises a bushy eyebrow, but leaves the conversation at that. Tommy tilts his head to motion at his wrist. Techno doesn’t move other than offering a tiny shrug. Tommy taps his sigil once, calling him back to the bracelet. As soon as the fuzzy feeling dissipates and he’s alone again in his room, all the energy gets drained from his posture and he deflates. He sighs, shoulders slumped as he changes and trudges down the stairs.
The table is empty when he gets there. Both Phil and Niki are in the kitchen, cutting up fruit and making their plates. Puffy is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Kristin— it’s likely the large crow is in the garden, collecting fresh berries. He can hear the slithering of scales against wood coming down the stairs, followed by heavy footsteps and an obnoxiously loud yawn. Tubbo’s on his way down.
In a world of witches and familiars, Tubbo and Ranboo are the standard. Tubbo, a skilled witch who loves pranks and making complicated contraptions, paired with Ranboo, a giant onyx snake, who somehow manages to keep him in line. Tubbo has Ranboo, Niki has Puffy, Phil has Kristin, and Tommy has Techno. Has Techno. It doesn’t flow off the tongue like the other pairs do.
What he really has are annoying health issues and a familiar he hasn’t bonded with, for a multitude of reasons. Buuuut. He also has a passing mark in his witch class-specific studying, so nobody’s the wiser (except all the dickhead classmates he sees daily, because fuck if teenagers don’t notice everything you don’t want them to.) A flicker of annoyance flares in his chest as he sits down at the table, chair scuffing against the floor.
Phil sets down his bowl in front of him, steaming hot with brown sugar carefully dusted on top to make a smiley face. Niki gives him a fond smile, patting his shoulder as she passes with her warm, calloused hands. Her sigil hangs off her wrist so delicately, fluffy white and blue like morning clouds, intricate beading on the inside with little crystals dangling down from short silver chains. Puffy’s either asleep upstairs or not called, neither of which is unusual. They’re close, of course, so impossibly close it’s hard to discern where Niki’s magic ends and Puffy’s begins, but they’re more private. Puffy is a sheep, a big one, the reason why their doorways are wider than average. She’s strong, fluffy, logical, and always there to give a helping hand. Niki is the same. She trains with Tubbo and can do push-ups with both her familiar and Ranboo on her back, but she also volunteers at the local elementary school to teach students how to cook. They’re both straight-laced, firm in what they believe in, constantly ready to stand up for people who can’t help themselves. Tommy admires them both.
Phil and Kristin are great helpers too, he muses. Kristin is loving, motherly, the type of person that makes your fears melt away just by reaching out her hand. She’s gorgeous, almost ethereal, with dark feathers that glisten like the night sky, sharp talons and a shining beak. Phil is so in love with her. It’s not insanely uncommon for witches and familiars to fall in love— it used to be frowned upon, years ago, but times have changed and people are much more accepting of it now. Phil and Kristin are technically married, but they don’t present themselves as husband and wife, so most people don’t realize their relationship. Kristin isn’t really a mom figure to Tommy, not necessarily. She’s a wonderful support and he’s infinitely grateful to her, but she doesn’t have the capacity to be a mother to him. She’s still bound singularly to Phil, magic tangled together like intertwining vines, their very souls weaved to each other.
He has a lot of love for Kristin, and Phil, and every member of his coven. He also harbors a tiny bit of resentment. All three of Phil’s kids (him, Tubbo, and Niki) are adopted, and Tommy’s the only one with any obvious issues. Phil, because they don’t share the same blood, doesn’t have Tommy’s immunodeficiency. Phil’s health is perfectly normal other than the fact that he’s old and gray, practically withering away where he stands. Niki hasn’t gotten sick past a common cold in years. It’s almost infuriating, even though he wouldn’t wish his condition on any of them.
It’s just… irritating. It doesn’t help that Niki and Puffy are sickeningly well-fitted, bouncing off of each other with ease and grace, smiles dripping with affection when they’re together. The pair’s schedule doesn’t coincide with Tommy’s that much, but whenever he sees them together he feels a building pressure in his chest, like it’s sucking the air out of his room.
Tommy’s mind shifts to Tubbo and Ranboo, their effortless bond and playful banter, two perfect puzzle pieces slotting together in a way that makes him jealous. They’re the textbook example of a witch and their familiar. Ranboo is almost always present, whether it be hanging off of Tubbo’s shoulders as an obsidian snake or standing dutifully behind him as a human, leaning his chin on Tubbo’s head as he works on his newest contraption. They’re almost never apart. Tubbo calls Ranboo for company, for help with chores, even just to sit next to him while he does his math homework. Ranboo eats meals with the coven. Tommy can’t help the envy festering in his chest, growing thorns in his ribs, weaving around his lungs and making it hard to breathe. Tubbo and Ranboo are the ideal. Their bond goes deeper than friendship, a familial partnership beyond simple, human connection. They’re two sides of the same, shining golden coin. They’re each other’s other half. It’s enough to make Tommy vomit, seeing them sometimes.
Techno isn’t… like Ranboo. Ranboo is nervous, reasonable, forgiving. They’re a silent presence looming in shadowy corners, a sheepish smile on their face while apologizing to anyone Tubbo offends. Tubbo is a chaotic force of nature unable to be stopped by anyone, only listening to Niki and begrudgingly taking advice from Phil; but Tubbo does what Ranboo suggests, because he loves and respects them. Tubbo trusts Ranboo with his entire soul. It’s jarring.
Tommy is a headstrong, stubborn, sometimes childish character. He hates sitting still and can never focus on a spell long enough to complete it. He’s easily distracted, he sleeps in until noon, he’ll throw a fit over someone messing in his stuff. He can admit he’s still an immature kid at heart. Techno is rational, mature. He acts the same age as Phil but lacks the fatherly qualities that make Phil feel safe. They’re complete opposing forces, him and Tommy. It’s like fire and ice, or day and night.
The first time Tommy called Techno, after he created his sigil after seven nights and seven days of work, he was twelve years old. That’s old for a first familiar impression, but due to his health issues, Phil was hesitant to start the transition. Familiars can (and usually will) cause otherworldly changes to witch’s bodies. Tommy, with his boar counterpart, gained tusks poking out of his jaw and tufted ears. His blonde hair turned light brown, plus the addition of a thin tail. The developments put him under the weather for weeks, having to drop school for a month in order to properly recover. Most witches handled the adjustments within a couple of days— like Tubbo, who (at six!) got used to his new scales, pointed fangs, and forked tongue in a single week; or like Niki, who felt back to normal after just four days of adapting to her sheep traits.
Techno was smaller then, just slightly younger than he appears now. His tusks weren’t sharp yet, pink hair only down to his chin rather than how it now cascades down his back, his eyes a brighter green. Tommy had stared up at him, sweating and shivering on the cool wooden tiles of the library, completely in awe of the giant mass of fur and hooves that was the boar in front of him. He remembers his first thought was beautiful.
He still is beautiful, all dark pink with mahogany details. He’s crisp, clean, and soft, despite the stubbly appearance. When he’s human, he’s tall and imposing, the type of presence that means no funny business. Unfortunately, all of Tommy’s business is funny.
They haven’t quite figured out how to navigate their relationship yet. It’s awkward, stumbling through a dynamic with an incredibly strong and standoffish figure who feels like authority, as a kid who refuses to listen to any rules. It’s almost like they have a language barrier. Techno’s a different dialect, one Tommy hasn’t learnt to recognize and discern patterns from. It’s puzzling, when the boar rears his head and offers no words, not even a smile.
He’ll never admit it to ANYONE, not even Phil or Tubbo, but it scares him. He doesn’t want to be the freak witch with the familiar who doesn’t understand him. Every time he calls on Techno, he feels like a stupid child begging for attention from a teacher who isn’t paid enough to deal with his bullshit. Tommy carries this deep fear of being an annoyance. When he calls his name and that pinkish boar appears from his sigil, he feels like a bother. Like Techno doesn’t want to be there. Like Tommy is the tiresome inconvenience he’s so terrified of being.
He tries to blame their difference on how little time they’ve spent together. He made his sigil six years later than normal witches, ones without the immune system of a goldfish, do. He’s missed more years than he’s had with Techno. Tubbo’s had majority of his life with Ranboo, quite literally growing up together for the past eleven years. It makes sense their development as magic partners has evolved way past Tommy’s own. He tries valiantly to convince himself that he’s just unlucky, but it still stings— it’s still hard to fall asleep most nights, mind running at a hundred kilometres per minute spouting all sorts of reasons why it’s his fault him and Techno haven’t properly bonded.
It’s embarrassing, but in the late hours when it’s just him, the moon, and his sigil burning against his wrist, it’s hard not to believe the voice inside his head insisting he’s the problem. It’s all he can hear, other than blood rushing in his ears and his harsh breathing in the still midnight air. It blocks out all other rationality. It hurts. It makes him feel like his body is collapsing in on itself, like he’s got a black hole where his heart should be, like he’s a collapsing star laying below his handmade quilt. The loneliness is always so cold. He knows, distantly, that he could just call Techno. Say he had a nightmare and wants him to stay near, protect him from his own mind, shield him from his anxiety. He never does. It would be a stupid request, one Techno would surely shake his head and sigh at, do it only because he has to, because he’s bound to Tommy and he has no choice.
Sometimes, Tommy considers setting him free. Familiars can live without their witches, like in the event of kidnapping, comas, or even death. They never find a new witch to attach to, and they lose their human form, but they live. There’s barely any stories of witchless familiars compared to familiarless witches, since most familiars defend their witches to the very end, preferring to die than be separated.
It’s not a scenario to be envious of. And Tommy isn’t. He’s not a little kid, he knows death is serious and nothing to fantasize about. That doesn’t stop him from dreaming some nights of him and Techno, fighting together, staying by each other’s sides until their bitter, grueling end. He wakes up right as he looks into Techno’s green eyes, shining with pride, as they lay on the battlefield bleeding out together. It’s bittersweet, melancholy. He always wakes up with dread pooled in his stomach, an ache of longing deep in his bones.
Techno probably wants to be set free, he thinks. Tommy sees the sadness in his gaze when he’s not focused on a task, looking wistfully out windows like he doesn’t want to be there. He’s always in his own little world, one Tommy can’t approach, can’t even imagine. It’s tiring. He assumes Techno is tired too, but he’s not brave enough to ask.
Maybe it’s selfish, tying Techno to him and not giving him the chance to run free. He just can’t let him go. He doesn’t want to. He wants a normal witch and familiar dynamic. He wants him and Techno to be badasses together, all cool running wild and doing magic side by side. Most of all he wants to fit in. He wants to be like Tubbo and Ranboo, Niki and Puffy, Phil and Kristin. Hell, he wants to be like the pricks from school and their familiars, shooting enchanted paper airplanes at the back of his head. It’s a begging plea screaming in the back of his mind constantly.
There’s almost nothing he wouldn’t give to be a stereotype. An average witch with his average familiar, best friends through and through, inseparable to an annoying degree. That’s his stupid, embarrassing dream that he doesn’t share with anyone.
Tubbo bumps his elbow into Tommy’s as he sits down, a sort of playful gesture to bring him back to reality. Tommy offers a tight smile back, his sigil feeling like a hundred pound anchor around his wrist. It’s woven dark brown strings, with tiny dark pink beads making intricate designs, weightless but the heaviest thing Tommy can imagine. Ranboo, in his snake form, is wrapped around the bottom of Tubbo’s chair, lazily gliding around the wooden legs. Niki has already sat down, eaten her breakfast, and left the table in the time he’s been thinking, getting ready upstairs for her early shift. Phil is sitting next to Kristen at the head of the table, looking as disgustingly in love as he always does.
He glances down. His oatmeal is still warm, no longer steaming, and the brown sugar has become sludge. The smiley face looks nightmarish now. He grabs his spoon and stirs it away, pointedly ignoring Ranboo’s head resting on the table, eyes shut with contentment as Tubbo scratches between his scales. His tongue flicks in and out when Tommy takes his first spoonful.
It’s delicious. It’s always delicious. He can’t help but scarf it down, both happy to consume it all and desperate to leave the table. Nobody bats an eye at him standing from his chair within minutes, rinsing his dish off before setting it in the dishwasher, then going up the stairs just a tiny bit faster than usual. It’s not like he’s avoiding his family. He just— he can’t, this morning. The ache in his chest is louder today than usual. There’s goosebumps wrapped around his limbs, a pounding in his ears.
Some days he can forget how he’s abnormal. He can ignore it, until it’s just a tiny flicker in the back of his head. Today his head is a forest fire.
He dreads what school will be like.
…
Tommy sits smack dab middle of the classroom for first period. He’s close enough he can hear the teacher talking over the students whispering jokes to each other, and far enough away he can rest his forehead in the crook of his elbow without anyone noticing. He sits alone. It’s English, which he’s good enough at, so he doesn’t need a friend nearby to leech notes off of. He likes to think he’s naturally gifted in writing. He can word vomit anything on a paper, tweak it after to include proper fancy words like “flabbergasted”, then hand it in and pass the class with high 80’s. Phil always pats his shoulder and hangs the high grades on the fridge, smiling proudly at the mosaic of test results, report cards, and school photos.
His second period class is math. It’s so fucking stupid he has to learn math even though he’s a witch. He should just be able to enchant shit and be over with! Surely there’s a calculation spell somewhere, right? Why is he stuck learning why the alphabet is in his equations?
Thank fuck Tubbo has this class with him. Where Tommy lacks in mathematical logic, Tubbo makes up with ease. He lets him copy his study questions, use his practice sheets, and in dire situations, he sneakily positions his quiz answers to be in Tommy’s peripheral. Tommy would have died without him this semester.
They sit near the door, in the second row. Their teacher lets them call him by his first name, Sam, and talk in class, and leave without asking as long as they don’t interrupt his lessons. He’s a tall man with a fluffy striped tail. Tommy loves Mr. Sam. He’s got dark green hair he dyes with potions, ones Niki helps make on the weekends, and his familiar is a raccoon his students have dubbed “Sam Nook”, like from Animal Crossing. He’s frequently called, most of the time just to relax on his desk, occasionally to help classmates de-stress. Tommy himself has had a couple panic attacks interrupted by big black eyes and curious sniffing. Sam Nook is a calming presence— it’s hard to feel like the world’s against you when there’s an adorable little creature on your lap, giving you tiny kisses on your cheeks.
Tubbo also loves Mr. Sam. He’s his top student, of course, and he follows him to his next class. Mr. Sam teaches mechanics in a different hallway, next to Dr. Ponk’s robotics lab. They’re Tubbo’s two most favourite periods. He’s always bouncing with excitement when he leaves, arms full of elaborate plans and blueprints for his next contraptions, spare parts of electronics shoved in his bag. Tommy will listen to him ramble about them forever, even though he doesn’t understand a word he says.
Tommy’s third period is by far the worst. He’s alone again, for one. The only people in the class he knows are dickheads. The teacher is… well, the teacher’s fine. He’s old and going deaf and doesn’t care about what his students do in his class, but it’s whatever. Tommy doesn’t care. No, the real kicker is that it’s a magic learning class.
He’s not bad at magic. He isn’t. He refuses to be less than average, lacking in any area of his magic studies. His rune writing may be stilted and clumsy, but it’s legible. The messy letters get the job done. He stutters when casting spells, and his focus slips when they don’t work quickly enough, but he’s passing his enchantment class. His potions might leave a mess behind but god damn it if they don’t meet magical requirements.
It’s just that— well, it’s actually a combination of a lot of things. It’s the fact he never has Techno called, despite this being his only class where familiars are encouraged to be present. It’s the fact he has no friends to fall back on when he misses a day or falls asleep during a lecture. It’s the fact the teacher doesn’t notice when enchanted paper airplanes hit the back of the skull constantly in class, unfolded to reveal middle-school level insults like “fucking idiot” in them. It’s the fact there’s a group of six boys who sit at the back of the class, taunting him when he attempts a spell and laughing obnoxiously when it doesn’t work.
Usually, they leave him well enough alone, just being minor annoyances at best. An attempt to trip him and a whispered jab on how he’s “bloody terrible at being a witch” is nothing Tommy can’t handle. They’re too scared of Tubbo to try anything more most days. Today, though, they’re out for blood. He doesn’t know why, he can’t ask why, they just are.
“Open your textbook to chapter three,” his teacher’s droning voice rings across the classroom, “find the subsection on familiar bonding. That’s what we’ll be studying for the next two weeks.”
Tommy shrinks into his seat. Today’s going to be shitty.
The sentences wash over him, filling his head with anxiety like dirty water in a clogged sewer. There’s a hundred stares pinned to the back of his head, lazers setting his skin alight. He feels like he’s glowing red. It’s like there’s a giant target on his head, the words “THIS LOSER HAS NO MAGIC” scrawled across his back in bold black letters.
“Familiar witches without their companions are rare, but not impossible…” he’s speaking, and as much as Tommy wishes he didn’t hear him, each word is clear as glass. “…if their familiars are left alone, either abandoned or ‘widowed’, as it were, they’ll roam endlessly with no purpose. Witches, when their familiar dies— because a familiar would never leave the witch unless forced, through any means between death, comas, or kidnapping— don’t suffer as harsh a fate, but suffer nonetheless...”
Tommy’s shivering, he realizes. There’s goosebumps poking out his skin, pale and tinted pink, like even his arms are blushing in embarrassment. He fights to ignore his teacher rambling on about facts he really didn’t want to hear, instead clueing in to the vicious giggling from the band of witches sitting behind him. Their comments are quiet, like the hissing of a snake stalking its prey.
“Don’t know how such a nice coven got stuck with a bitch like you.” Barely audible over the classroom ambience, but to Tommy the comments are the loudest anything has ever been said. “You’ve got no excuses for being so… lame.”
Even though he knows it’s bullshit, and he knows his situation is unique, it still stings. It still feels like thorned branches are encasing his body in a shell of spikes, collapsing his lungs and piercing every inch of skin with needles. It’s a hair away from suffocating. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m dragging the coven down with me.
He knows he shouldn’t glance back and make himself angrier. He knows he shouldn’t fuel the fire like that. He knows. He just can’t help himself. His chair squeaks as he swivels around, glaring at the six witches lounging in their desks.
They’re so laidback. Their shit-eating grins with perfect white teeth do nothing but annoy him more, steam coming out his ears because they get to be casual. These dickheads get to be comfortable, lazing around instead of working in school, and even though he works hard he has to be uptight. He has to fight for his place and deal with the lot of them while they sit on their asses and never face anything worse than a paper cut.
“…Familiar witches are of course meant to have familiars, it’s in the name, wouldn’t make sense if they didn’t… it’s against all their magical nature to be alone. They often face paranoia and depression, and end up self-isolating…”
Tommy’s a hundred percent sure they all called their familiars just to dig at him. A cacophony of mismatched animals sit on and around their tables, ranging from a tiny gecko on a boy’s shoulder to a large lynx stretched out on the floor. Even the feline’s eyes are mocking him, pinpoint pupils digging into his skin.
“There’s almost no such thing as a familiar witch who can’t call their familiar. All familiar witches have a contract with their companions…” the teacher continues, but it’s all static to him now. There’s a sinister glint in all of the boys’ eyes.
“Obviously there is, cause you’re right in front of us.” One sneers. He wants to be furious, kick down the pedestal they’ve placed themselves on top, remind them that even without his familiar present he’s still passing the class and they’re not. Tommy waits for himself to get upset enough to retaliate. The anger, usually quick to burn through his body, remains absent. He feels more like he’s been dumped in ice water rather than had molten lava poured over him.
They’re laughing at him. They’ve got the easiest lives, witches with their familiars living peacefully, doing jackshit all day, just being assholes for the fun of it. They think the fact he’s missed out on years of bonding with his familiar is hilarious. They think he’s funny.
He turns back around. It’s just not fucking worth it. There’ll be a pop quiz on this unit sometime within the next two weeks, and he needs to be prepared. Unlike them, he cares enough about his grades to study. Their giggles are shrill, sharp, making his ears bleed.
One of the frog familiars slaps the back of his head with its tongue. It’s just one period, he reminds himself. One hour then it’s lunch, then he doesn’t have to see or hear these guys again for the whole day.
Just one period.
“Familiar witches will often die without their familiar to take care of them…”
…
The rest of his day is easier. Tubbo hisses when he sees the boys at lunch and they scramble away. It makes the whole table giggle. Him and Purple go to enchantment class together afterwards, taught by Ms. Rose who’s a very kind but strict air elemental witch. She likes to tell stories about how she’s used the spells they learn, usually dated in the years she spent in the Hex Trials, an international competition based on skill in all areas of magic. Purpled claims he’s going to go to the Hex Trials one day. If it was anyone else, Tommy would laugh in their face. The Hex Trials are revered for their difficulty, the dangers attached. Purpled, though… Tommy wouldn’t be surprised if he managed it. He’s one of, if not the, top students at their school. It pisses him off sometimes.
It’s pissing him off today, as Purpled corrects his hand movements after he failed to summon some water for a plant they’re trying to grow. “Dude, how do you remember all of this? There’s like a billion tiny gestures to keep up with,” he complains, his posture instantly deflating as a tiny rivulet appears in the air and drains into the dirt. Purpled, the nonchalant bastard he is, shrugs with a quiet hum.
“I don’t know. It just makes sense to me.” He says back, doing the spell perfectly on the first try. Tommy resists the urge to gape at how simple he makes it look.
Purpled plops down on the bench next to him. He eyes the other pairs of students, struggling to collect the moisture in the air into one stream and aim it at the potted plants. Tommy sighs. “I hate you so much sometimes, you know that right?”
“I know,” he grins, smugness practically radiating off of him. Nobody else has finished the mini-test yet, Tommy himself definitely would’ve been fighting to complete it if it hadn’t been for the blonde’s help. He hates when cocky people can back themselves up.
“Did those kids bother you again? You were quieter at lunch. I mean, still loud, but less.” Purpled asks casually, voice light unlike how Tommy’s insides are suddenly very heavy, stomach dropping to his ass. When he doesn’t respond, struggling to find a way to articulate his thoughts, Purpled adds on “I can trip them in the hallways if you want.” in the same relaxed tone.
It’s unexpected enough to make him giggle. He’s dead serious, Tommy knows that. He’s seen Purpled chop someone’s ponytail off for less. “Nah, man, you need your perfect golden record,” he teases, crossing his arms, “can’t ruin it for little ole’ me.”
Purpled rolls his eyes and flicks his wrist. Tiny stars appear and float around his head, dangling down from an invisible halo as they sparkle in the sun. He watches them with awe, twinkling and shining under his scrutiny. Purpled is a zodiac witch, able to utilize powers of light, darkness, and all that fancy space shit. It’s ethereal, otherworldly. It feels like the entire universe has manifested itself through Purpled, blessing his friends with his powers as well. Tommy would never tell him that, though. Purpled already knows and his ego’s high enough already.
“Cheer up. They’ll be jealous of you one day.” Purpled says, waving his hand to beckon the dots of light back to him, the stars absorbing into his palm. Tommy huffs. He loves Purpled, but he doesn’t get it. He’s got his magic shit together. He’s not sick.
“Sure, dude.” There’s no way any of those kids would ever be jealous of him. Not unless he won the lottery or something. Purpled gives him a look he doesn’t have the energy to decipher. He goes to say something, but gets interrupted by Ms. Rose tutting from behind them.
“You know there’s still more spells to do, right?” Her voice is light, joking, but it still scares the shit out of Tommy. Purpled remains unaffected, giving her the same neutral expression he always wears and nodding.
“Alrighty, Miss Hannah.” Another thing about Purpled is that he’s a teacher's pet. He’s lucky Ms. Rose likes him, because calling her by her first name? Crazy. Tommy would never. But he’s also not mister golden boy, number one in every class honours student. What a prick, really.
Purpled knocks his shoulder, lips quirked into a small smile as he explains the next spell.
…
Last period is easy, uneventful, sitting next to a bald kid named Jack who’s funny when he isn’t complaining about how a dragon burnt off his hair. Tubbo’s got fucking potions club after school. It’s taught— monitored, really, by Ms. Rose and Dr. Ponk, and it runs for an hour and a half after regular school ends. Tommy’s happy he’s got a safe environment he can do his experiments in, both so that he can do what he loves and that he won’t accidentally set his room on fire (again). It does mean he has to walk home alone, rather than racing his brother.
He’s quick to leave his last class, scurrying away to his locker, ducking between the crowds of teenagers set free as fast as he can. With his backpack in tow, Tommy squeezes past swarming students at the exit and escapes to the yard. He makes maybe ten feet away before there’s steps behind him, so barely audible over the chattering ambiance he’s trying to leave behind.
His ears twitch, rotating slightly backwards without him meaning for them to move. He refuses to walk faster just because people are near him. He’s not a scaredy cat. People are allowed to walk. It does raise his heartbeat a little, but nobody needs to know that.
“Yo, dipshit! Shouldn’t you be with your mommy?” A gravelly voice calls. He turns around slowly, expecting to see someone else around, someone they were talking to rather than him. It’s just him and three quickly approaching boys, with their eyes locked on him.
He blinks, more confused than anything, just watching them as they stop a couple feet away. It doesn’t occur to him to feel threatened. These are the same losers from his third period class, the same ones that are barely passing despite their magical gifts. He tilts his head at them, takes a second before saying “I don’t… have a mom. What?”
The boy walking in the front rolls his eyes, teal like chips of ice, chin tucked to his chest. “I know that, dumbass. I mean Tubbo, your little guard dog.” He says it like it’s an insult, something he should feel ashamed of. If Tommy had a bodyguard with the same fierceness for protection that Tubbo has making pancakes, he’d be bragging about it. He’d be untouchable, not embarrassed.
“He’s a snake witch. Sounds like you’re the dumbass here, dude.” He flicks his gaze across the three of them. One ginger with tiny hawk wings, one with some sort of cat ears and a fluffy white tail, and what looks like an earth elemental witch with moss growing over his legs. “I don’t need protection anyway, I’m perfectly fine by myself.” He pauses. “Bitch.” He adds, for good measure.
“You sure, freak? You don’t even have a familiar to help you. You’re all alone, helpless, pathetic. No big scary Tubbo to save you now, huh?” Tommy raises his eyebrows. Yeah, Tubbo’s cool, scary sometimes, but he’s not Tommy’s guardian angel. They don’t spend every second of the day together.
Tommy’s fatal flaw, his Achilles heel, has always been the fact he pokes and prods and never goes down without a fight. He’ll talk shit until he loses his voice, even when he knows he can’t win. It’s just who he is. Many people, including Phil, definitely wish he would just shut up sometimes.
“You don’t have a dad to tie your shoelaces, I wouldn’t be worried about how alone I am. Focus on those failing grades, hm?”
He never does, and he doesn’t notice when talking goes to arguing. He doesn’t notice one of the boys leap forward and the fist flying towards his face as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Tommy doesn’t even clock the hit. His spine collides with the concrete, harsh and unforgiving of his circumstance. Tears spring to his eyes despite the impact barely stinging, metal filling his nostrils. He puts a hand to his face in shock and feels liquid.
The growl that tears out his throat is animalistic, just like you’d expect from a witch. Tommy jumps back up and pounces on the one with red hair and red-stained knuckles. He’s all nails and teeth and grit. He’s not a clean fighter. Tubbo always reminds him “you might not be able to win, but they’re always able to lose.”
That’s his mantra as he descends punches down onto the boy’s chest, even though he knows they’re weak, barely enough to bruise. His height is where his genetic blessings end— six feet tall of just skin and bones, about the same ratio of muscle as a chihuahua. He’s got a shitty immune system and is unable to work out because of it. His lungs are smaller than they should be, so he gets winded way easier than the average person, and unfortunately will never be able to smoke (bye-bye plans of being a cool detective with a cigar and notepad). It only takes a couple minutes for him to be breathless, chest heaving and leaving the boy plenty of room to shove him off.
“That was sad, dude.” The boy coughs, shaking dirt out of wiry curls. Tommy flashes him the middle finger, trying very hard not to seem like he can’t breathe even though he very much can’t. He stands back up, only staggering a little.
“Go to hell,” he returns, wheezing a little bit, “you’ll never get anything from this. You’re going to be mentally middle-school till the day you die, and everyone will skip your funeral ‘cause you’ve always been a dickhead.” He says it with as much force as he can muster, all his energy to hit where it really hurts.
“You’re fuckin’ cheeky, saying shit while not even being magic.” The ginger spits a bit of blood before straightening back up, flanked by both other boys. The air comes alive with energy, hissing through the cracks in the sidewalks, biting at his skin.
Tommy is struck with the realization he’s outnumbered. There’s three of them and two familiars, and they’re definitely not afraid to use magic. He might be fucked, actually.
A giant gray lynx jumps at him. Yeah, he’s definitely fucked.
He yelps, barely leaping out of the way in time to avoid the great paws coming towards him. Their claws scratch the concrete where he stood mere milliseconds ago, a hiss ripping from deep within their throat, big dark eyes squinted and locked on him. The witch just laughs at his fear, the shuddering of his chest, the sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Not so tough now, huh?” He bares his teeth, canines long and pointy like his magic counterpart. If it was any other time, Tommy would snipe back about how he’s a bitch, a coward, a stuck-up loser who picks on people to fight his own insecurity. If it was any other time, he’d be firing back insults like bullets, wielding sharp words like weapons.
Any other time. Not now, while vines shoot out of the earth elemental’s sleeve, dark green and thankfully lacking thorns. He can’t dodge them all in time, the thin tendrils slicing through the air and leaving cuts dribbling blood in their wake. He winces. They’re like paper cuts, tiny but stinging like hell.
The other familiar witch only has a small owl, but it’s just as evil as the lynx. The mass of feathers has been circling above, waiting for him to stop paying attention— the perfect moment appears when he’s focusing on avoiding a small fire spell. He trips, but manages to miss the flames. The owl seizes the opportunity and dives down, a lightning fast streak of brown and gray, pecking at his arms and digging its gross little talons into his biceps.
“Fuck!” He screeches, batting the bird away and slapping its wing in the process. The stupid thing leaves bruises and cuts where it had gotten access to him, unfortunately he still has bigger problems. Tommy chokes when the ginger grabs his collar, dragging him up to his feet once more. He searches their narrowed eyes only to find ice cold hatred.
“You’re barely a fucking witch, Simons.” They spit his name, like it’s acid on their tongue. The fingers clutching his shirt are cold, hissing when they graze his skin, sending chills down his spine.
A different hand tugs at his bracelet. No. He hopes they can see the fear in his eyes, praying it’ll turn them off of caressing the woven band. There’s no mercy left for him however, stares sharp and cruel as they fiddle casually with the strings and chimes attached. Not his sigil. Take anything else. Anything else.
“What do you even need this for, huh?” Their breath hits his face. He winces, clawing at their hands, desperately trying to get away. The grip on his sigil turns firm, anchoring his hand in place. The boy leans forward, a smirk on his lips. “You never use it. I bet it’s not even real.”
“It is!” He insists, nails digging into the boy’s wrists, hard enough to leave little crescent shaped indents. He’s mad, he’s so full of anger it clouds his vision and leaves red in its wake, but more than that he’s scared. He can’t lose his sigil. Witches without their familiar are incomplete, listless, left to wander purposelessly because they’re no use to anyone. They’re constantly irritated, paranoid, unable to focus or complete simple spells.
…A lot like he is right now.
Oh my god. He’s so stupid. He’s been pushing Techno away and only becoming more anxious because of it, restless but constantly exhausted, not paying attention in any classes and getting annoyed when anyone other than coven members talks to him. Tommy has been ignoring Techno. He’s been so focused on not bothering him, not being an annoyance, that he’s forgotten Techno is his familiar, for fuck’s sake.
“Oh yeah? Call him. Show us your little piggy.” The trio of them all grin, uncaring for his sudden epiphany. “If you’ve even got one, it’s probably just a tiny little piglet. Something to be embarrassed of.” One flicks at his forehead, another grabbing one of his tusks and yanking it down to inspect it.
Tommy snaps his jaw at them, barely nicking one of the boy’s fingers. “Fuck you,” he snarls, “You don’t want me to call him. You don’t want to see how he’d handle this.”
The boys pause, then huff, then they’re full on belly-laughing in the parking lot. Fine with Tommy, the distraction is enough for him to jerk his head back and escape the hold on his collar. The force is enough to send him tumbling backwards.
“Oh, God, yeah! Please!” They mimic wiping a tear, still giggling to themselves. “C’mon, don’t be a pussy. Show us you’re a real witch, Simons.” They’re all grinning, the three of them. The owl has found their place, perched on their witch’s shoulder, and the lynx is practically lazing at the feet of their witch, purring as he scratches behind their ear.
Tommy grits his teeth, screwing his eyes shut as they whisper more taunts, ignoring how their footsteps only come closer. He takes a quick breath and gathers all of his might into a single yell:
“Technoblade!”
As soon as the cry leaves his lips, a giant boar materializes in front of him, looking like a prayer and glowing like an angel. He stands tall, hooves back, poised ready to attack. Tommy can’t help his surprise, gaping at the sight. Something is different about how he looks today, distinctly beastly, the air around him crackling with magic. He looks like a warrior.
Techno’s brows are knitted in worry, clearly caught off guard by the sudden summoning, but he takes one glance at Tommy’s state on the concrete and his face falls flat. The change in his energy is almost tangible. He lets out a deep, guttural growl before charging headfirst at the nearest boy.
Tommy closes his eyes forcefully as soon as he hears the first shout of surprise. It’s followed by the sound of bodies crashing onto the pavement, limbs knocking into each other, high-pitched squeaks, and one loud shriek. Ice cracks. Techno grunts. There’s a heavy thump, groaning, and what sounds like someone tripping. He peeks out between his fingers to the sight of three teenage boys struggling to stand up and one very angry boar, literally huffing and puffing as he glares into their souls. There’s blood, he realizes. Techno is faced away from him and there’s small splatters of red on the concrete.
The boys run off as Techno shifts to his human form, just slightly taller than Tommy at six foot two and burly, the build of a hunter. His presence is imposing enough to make the hair on anyone’s neck stand up. His dark pink hair is mussed, falling out of his neat french braid. His tanned skin is marred, purple and red spotting along his arms, tiny scrapes all over him. He looks even more imposing than usual. Somehow, the sight is more comforting than ever before.
“You— you actually came.” Tommy gasps, bracing himself on one raw forearm. His head is pounding, a pang of guilt echoing through his body like a plate dropped in a silent room. Everything hurts, but how could he focus on the pain when Techno is right here, standing in front of him, protecting him like it’s the simplest thing in the world? He’s so tall, so strong, yet so scuffed in appearance, soiled because of Tommy.
“Of course I did.” Techno glances back at him, confusion again gracing his features, eyes relaxing from their glare as soon as they land on him, gaze soft unlike his bruised knuckles. “You called for me. I’ll always come when you call.”
His voice is so gentle, dripping with care as blood rolls down his face. Tommy feels the safest he ever has, despite the welts painting his own skin. This is how it’s meant to be, he realizes. Tommy and his familiar. Techno and his witch. It makes sense, like this. It rolls off the tongue.
Affection swells inside him, filling him with so much love it’s hard to breathe— or maybe that’s from when he was punched in the nose. Doesn’t matter. Techno lumbers over, thankfully not limping, offering him a hand to help himself up. He takes it gratefully, murmuring thanks when he’s on his feet again.
Techno is inspecting him. It’s burning, but not like the other stares, not like flames licking at his clothes and leaving him to suffocate. It’s more like drinking hot cocoa and feeling heat run through your blood. Tommy inspects him right back, breath catching when his eyes catch on the frostbitten bruise on his cheek. It’s still got tiny ice crystals around the edges. Techno immediately notices his attention, and puts a hand to it gingerly. He doesn’t flinch when his nails graze the raw skin. Tommy does.
“I’m alright. May I accompany you home?” Techno says, deep voice devoid of emotion. Even though his expression is doting, full of fondness, the words out of his mouth are monotone, lacking the same softness.
Tommy pauses before nodding. Their walk home is both quick and silent, veering on awkwardly so. His head is a whirlpool sucking him to the bottom of the ocean, full of all the thoughts that had been haunting him before being disproved by the discoveries of the past half hour. Techno stays in his human form, walking ever so slightly behind him like a shadow. The only words he utters are small comments on the sidewalks to make sure Tommy doesn’t trip. It’s sweet. It has him mentally stuttering.
The only thought he gives a second glance to is the steadily repeating insistence of I need to make this right. He will, he promises himself. He will.
…
Nobody is home when they arrive. Both Phil and Niki, with both their familiars, are at work, and Tubbo’s already accounted for. Tommy unlocks the door with shivering hands, leads Techno to the bathroom. He grabs the first aid kit tucked under the sink and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. Techno watches, then slowly makes his way to kneel in front of him. Every move he makes is measured, like Tommy is a frightened deer he doesn’t want to startle off.
“Can I clean your, erm, eye thing?” Tommy asks, cringing at the way his words are wobbly. He gets a look of surprise, then a small nod in response, so he raises the wipe to the older’s cheek. Specks of dirt and blood are cleaned away to reveal the skin below, almost blistering. Techno grabs bandages and begins wrapping his arms. Tommy mutters thanks, again. Techno opens and closes his mouth like he’s trying to find the right words to say.
“Tommy— I understand we may not always see eye to eye,” He starts hesitantly, stare locked on his shoes as Tommy pauses his careful swipes of disinfectant, “but I am still bound to you, for the rest of my life. I know I may not be the familiar you were… hoping for, and I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment in that way. I want nothing but the best for you and your coven. I hope I have adequately expressed that.”
Tommy gapes at him, mouth dropped wide open like a goldfish, feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach again. Techno? Thinking he’s the problem in their relationship? Holy shit. He’s fucked up so badly. He needs to remedy this, now.
When he tries to speak, to sputter out an insistence of NO, he is very much not the issue, very far from it in fact Techno waves him off. “I am under duty as a familiar, as your familiar, to keep you out of harm’s way. You should never be afraid or alone while I am with you, both called and uncalled. If you ever…” he pauses, swallows, and carries on more quietly, “I don’t want you to feel pressured to respond. But if you ever decide I am not the right fit for you, I would respect your decision.”
Techno sounds beyond heartbroken. This giant beast of a man, with tusks like Tommy’s own and mahogany hooves, has shaking hands from fear of the idea that Tommy doesn’t want him. He’s been fearing Tommy’s apathy while Tommy has been petrified of Techno rejecting him.
In his anxiety he’s pushed him away, closed himself off, offering radio silence to his familiar and leaving him thinking he’s disappointed Tommy just by existing. God, he’s been such an idiot. He’s made himself blind, unable to consider other options. Then, by denying himself the connection witches desperately need, he’s made both himself and Techno both worse, afraid to take the first step to meet each other. It’s a ball of snow rolling down a hill— just getting bigger and bigger, more destructive as he leaves it uninterrupted. It’s feeding off of him and Techno’s anxiety, in turn making them more anxious, a cycle doomed to repeat without an end in sight when left alone.
Not anymore. Tommy’s cutting this shit off. He’s putting his big boy pants on, he’s ignoring the urge to gag over vulnerability, he’s admitting he was wrong and he’s making up for it. He made a continuous lapse of judgment and refused to change. That’s his mistake. It’s not the end of the world, he reminds himself. He’s allowed to be a dumb teenager sometimes and make shitty choices. Niki tells him that all the time.
“Techno I—” he stops, breath stuttering in his chest, and drops his head down, “I’m so sorry. Shit, dude, I’m so fucking sorry. I’ve been leaving you to rot alone because I was afraid I annoyed you, and that I’m just some shitty kid who you don’t want to deal with, like, I don’t know. It’s so stupid saying it out loud. You’re fucking— you’re crazy, dude, all tall and strong and shit, and I’m just some random kid who can’t even breathe properly. I feel like— I felt like— you should be with someone cooler. And not me. But I’ll always want you to stay, unless you want to leave, in that case you’re totally welcome, it’s fine—”
Techno puts a hand over Tommy’s mouth. His eyes are blown wide open, sparkling green like emeralds, looking positively bewildered. “What.”
Tommy can’t help it— he looks so utterly gobsmacked he has to giggle a little. It washes away all the panic of the situation, wiping the grime of the day’s events off him. Techno narrows his eyes at him. “What’s funny, runt?”
“Nothing! I’m sorry. You just— you look so surprised,” he admits, scratching at the cuts on his hands, “which is my fault, ‘cause I was a shitty witch...” He trails off and looks away awkwardly.
After a pause that has Tommy practically holding his breath, Techno inhales sharply. “I just— I don’t get it. You thought I found you annoying? Did you really believe I didn’t want to be your familiar?”
“It sounds dumb when you say it,” he protests weakly, unable to meet his eyes. It was that simple, but also so much more than that. The teasing got to him. He believed he was a failure of a witch and that everyone agreed, even his coven and familiar. He believed the malicious words the boys in the back of his class spit. The self hatred went so deep to the bone he can’t even explain it.
“Tommy, it’s my pleasure to be your familiar. I’m lucky— I’m blessed to have you as my witch. You’re a good kid. You could be spending each day putting me in bar fights because boars are easy money to bet on, or using me to attack random people, like those kids did to you. You don’t. You’ve always let me be comfortable and safe, and never used me for selfish gain. You were never a burden on me. Never.” He’s blushing, a bit stiff and halting with his words like he’s never talked about his feelings before.
Tommy doesn’t notice the tears collecting in his eyes until they’re falling down his face, tiny rivulets of salt carving a path down his red cheeks. He tries to say something lighthearted back, a tease about how unpracticed his vulnerability sounds, but he chokes and sputters before anything can come out.
Poor Techno. He looks so entirely out of his element, panicked looking at Tommy and not making any move. He’s frozen in fear, a boar in the bathroom like a deer in headlights. Tommy laughs, wet and sounding more pathetic than he feels. He feels fine. He feels a joy so immense it’s fogging the mirrors, blocking out anything else in his mind.
“It’s bonkers how much I needed to hear that, man,” Tommy manages through sniffles, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands, “I’ve been sufferin’ thinking you hated me for nothing, literally fucking nothing, then you show up and say one thing and suddenly I feel like the world’s biggest idiot for every believing otherwise.”
“It was a little dumb.” Techno slowly returns to bandaging where the owl really got him, voice quiet and careful as he speaks, like he’s afraid being too loud will scare Tommy off. “I can’t blame ya. We’re not exactly what you’d expect as a pair.”
“Not really. But I think that’s okay, right?” He asks, trying not to sound as unsure as he feels. Techno nods, not looking up from where he’s checking if the bandages are wrapped too tight. “Yeah. yeah. I just was nervous, I guess—” He’s cut off by a yell.
“Tommy— boys!” Phil’s voice rings from the doorway. The door is thrown wide open to reveal his dad with eyes as wide as saucers, staring at the scene in the bathroom. Tommy, with cuts and welts decorating all visible parts of his body, ripped shirt and tears in his eyes. Techno, with red and purple painting his fists, a minor frostbite burn on his cheek, and his clothes, usually so crisp and proper, sullied by earth.
“Dad, it’s not… it’s not as bad as it looks?” He says, grinning with as much conviction as he can. Phil pauses, wings flicking in displeasure. Tommy can’t imagine what’s going through his head. It’s the first time he’s seen Techno called in weeks, and it’s kneeling by where Tommy sits on the lip of the bathtub, details of a fight written all over him. It probably looks like they got jumped— which he guesses isn’t super far from the truth, but it’s definitely not what a father wants to see.
“Hullo, Phil.” Techno waves, either completely oblivious to the tension or entirely uncaring. Tommy gapes at him, jaw dropped open, and Phil just lets out a long sigh. He rubs his forehead with one hand, hanging onto the doorframe with the other. He looks like he’s aging twenty years right in front of them, because of them. Also not totally inaccurate, again definitely not what a father wants.
“Tell me everything.” His dad says, muffled by the hand dragging down his face, sounding concerned, curious, and also like he doesn’t really want to know. Techno and Tommy glance at each other.
“Welllll…”
…
Phil sends them to bed early that night and Tommy doesn’t make any move for Techno to return to his sigil, so he stays. It’s a silent plea of please don’t leave me, please continue to want me, please tell me you want to stay. Silent, because he can’t find his voice after explaining what happened to his dad, then to Tubbo as soon as he got home (he threatened to throw boulders at the trio, Techno nodded solemnly at the idea), then again to Niki at dinner. She made eye contact with Techno, sitting very on edge at the table and picking at his food slowly, and told him that she’s glad he hit them hard. The boar had just hummed in response. Tommy’s pretty sure he’s scared of her.
They sit on Tommy’s bed in silence. His window is open, a gentle breeze wafting in. For the first time in forever, his wrist doesn’t feel weighed down. He’s not cold. It’s nice, it feels like freedom. He feels almost normal. There’s still the poisonous fog of anxiety looming in the shadows of his mind, but it’s more manageable than before. It’s not like he’s drowning, anchored to the bottom of an ocean of self hate, anymore.
“Thanks for saving me, today,” he whispers into the evening air. It’s a tiny expression of gratitude on the surface, an infinity of begging to be forgiven stretching on underneath. There’s a vastness of complex emotions behind everything he says, his thoughts twisting and turning over each other like complicated tree roots. Techno just tilts his head, like the statement is the silliest thing he could’ve said, not an admittance of guilt.
“There’s not a universe where I wouldn’t.” The sentiment has Tommy breathless, spoken so simply as if it isn’t a promise that’ll keep him up every night for the next year. There’s not a universe where I wouldn’t. It’s a vow of safety, of partnership until the end. It’s quite literally what Tommy’s been dreaming of hearing, said plainly by Techno sitting next to him. They’re on the bed where Tommy would cry about being an annoyance to his familiar, where he would ponder the possibility of one day being loved, cared for like this. It’s a stark contrast that’s sending him reeling.
“I may not fully understand you, kid, but we’re still bound together by a fate bigger than us. The universe chose me for you and vice versa. I care about you. I’m happy to be your familiar… Even though you’re dumb sometimes.” Techno says, a hint of mirth in his deep voice.
“Hey!” Tommy tries to frown, but the joy he feels is overpowering everything else, forcing his lips up into a grin. He punches Techno in the arm and is a hundred percent sure it hurts him more than Techno. “I’m glad you’re my familiar too. And I’m sorry I can’t be a normal witch,” he adds softly, tucking his chin the crook of his elbow.
Techno knocks their shoulders together. He’s warm, practically radiating heat. “Like I said, it’s my pleasure. I wouldn’t want to be some prissy, stuck-up person’s familiar. I could be stuck with a loser who hates pigs, or something. Maybe you’d make me into bacon. That would be bad.” His voice is so entirely monotonous that it takes Tommy to realize he’s joking.
“Who says I still won’t?” He giggles, shuffling around to get under the sheets. He hits his foot on the end of his bed and pain shoots up his leg, reminding him of the aches from today nestled deep in his bones. Techno rolls his eyes.
“Sure, runt. Your neck’s about as thick as my ankle.” Techno says, resting the side of his cheek without the frostbite burn onto his knuckles. Tommy gives him an expression that can only be read as total confusion mixed with a little bit of disgust.
“No— what? That’s such a weird way to measure something, man.” Tommy huffs, pulling the covers up to his chest, and away from where Techno sits. He’s trying exceptionally hard not to giggle, ear twitching.
The boar shrugs, grin showing off sharp tusks. “I don’t think you can say anything. I’m not wrong.” Tommy gives him a playful glare while fluffing both of his pillows, eventually surrendering when Techno bares his teeth.
“Alright, alright, I won’t make you into bacon, I guess.” He tried to come off as miffed, but after years of irritation being his default setting, the happiness he feels leaks into his voice anyways. “Thanks again, really.” He knows he’s repeated it a lot in the past half day, and he’s sure he’ll say it more in the upcoming days, but he just needs it to be known. He’s grateful for Techno, endlessly so, to the moon and back and all that shit.
Techno settles down next to him, stealing the pillow he’s using to prop himself up. “And, again, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” His smile is affectionate, brotherly. “I know we’ll figure it out.” He’s so calm— he’s so sure, so steadfast that Tommy feels a sense of safety he’s never had before. The world doesn’t seem so unforgiving, now.
Him and Techno lay in his bed together, underneath quilts and rays of moonlight. Tommy glances over to see Techno wide awake, emerald eyes shining with what looks like pride. It’s sweet, caring. There’s a weight lifted off his shoulders, a warmth sparked in his chest to replace the feeling of a falling star. He no longer feels shame grip its claws into him, embarrassment gnaw at his heart. Vulnerability feels less like a curse and more an option bestowed to him, a chance he’s been given to either improve his life or rot in the same way he’s been rotting for months. His body aches, but it’s not as bad as how his heart hurt before. It’s freeing.
“Yeah,” he says, words tinted with what he recognizes as love, “we’ll figure it out.”