#fit was talking to him and for a second tubbos mind like drifted and his voice was tinged w the deepest sadness because his feelings were

[cabinetduo]

tubbo is genuinely so so good at this villain arc thing, he's thought this out fully and has his motives laid out and is wholly committed to ruining quackity by forcing him to spiral via psychological warfare.im getting chills every few lines like he's grinning and giggling and genuinely getting so much joy from the idea of causing q to suffer. also after he delivered a sick line to fit, post dramatic exit he went "THAT WAS SO COLD" like yes king hype urself up

[justarandomsideblog]

This is thrown together on the page with zero editing so there's probably many glaring mistakes but I wanted to get it out there so here ya go

oOo

Fundy falls in love with the piano when he is very young and L’Manburg is nothing more than a van, and it’s just a small keyboard he can play with on the floor while his father makes war plans but it’s how it begins. He plays it in the months it takes him to grow up, maturing faster than it takes for Tommy and Tubbo to reach adulthood.

He plays it until he’s old enough for his father to replace the keyboard in his hands with a sword.

He’s seven months yet thirteen years old when he’s allowed into the war room, fidgeting hands folded tightly in his lap. There is no time to play keyboard anymore, and it’s left forgotten in his nest of blankets and pillows when the whole thing goes up in a devastating blast.

The war ends and he plays again on a makeshift piano, given to him by his uncles who teach him to play more complex melodies in the quiet moments when they’re not working. Yet those moments become few and far between in the months it takes Fundy to age to sixteen, the same age his young uncles had turned before Fundy was even born barely ten months before.

He cherishes the moments before everything falls apart once more. Yet another war begins and he sets aside the keyboard again to fight. His fingers are calloused in ways soft paw pads like his should never be, raw and bleeding from the sword he holds the second time he watches his home go up in smoke.

Eret gifts him a piano one year after he was born, when he turns seventeen and his aging has finally begun to slow. They help him set it up in his home, way too large for the orphaned teenage hybrid, and it gleams beautifully in the flickering torchlight. His passion, lost with his father, flares up once more and he plays for Eret and Phil, a moment of peace. Finally peace. Finally, he thinks, the swords will be hung up on the wall and peace will reign at last- swords have no place in peace, as art has no place in war.

The moment shatters; Eret, having never received Fundy’s message, doesn’t make it to the adoption, and Phil leaves- the Butcher Army, Fundy and Tubbo’s subsequent disownment and Tommy’s exile leaving the angel nothing to stay in L’Manburg for. So now he plays for the silence, not even the music filling the emptiness he has always relied on, and there he realizes the truth that will always weigh heavily in his gut.

There will always be another war.

Doomsday carries with it the weight of this realization, and he grins painfully through the tears pouring down his face as his house is blown away, piano keys withering into nothingness, and he says to no one in particular, “There’s no place for art in war.”

And so, even though L’Manburg is gone, even though everything is over and done with, Fundy knows it’s not. He knows the next war is waiting around the corner, and so he quietly stays prepared- his sword always on his hip, a bow strapped to his back, armour settled into his holding bag ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice.

He doesn’t own a piano anymore.

Phil doesn’t speak to him for a long time, except when Fundy forces him to. He forgives Tubbo- tentatively so, with a lack of trust- long before he’s even willing to acknowledge him and Fundy are related, and even when they’re speaking again- awkward, stilted, not natural like before- Phil doesn’t ask about the scars on Fundy’s hands. He doesn’t ask if Fundy is eighteen or twenty now, though Fundy no longer knows himself.

His grandfather asks only once if Fundy has learned any new songs.

“I don’t play the piano anymore,” Fundy answers, short and more broken than he sounds. Phil doesn’t press for more, and Fundy goes home to silence once more.

Then the nightmares start, and the silence is even worse than before- because now he wakes up and never knows if he’s awake, the song in his soul having died out long ago. He remembers bits and pieces, forgets others, and he tries to run away. He pulls the TNT he has ready for the next inevitable war and rigs his home- big and empty and echoing loneliness- with as much as he can fit up the stairs, in the walls, on and under the floor. He takes only what he needs most and puts it into a wagon, pulls out an arrow and sets it alight-

His grandfather messages him. Wants to meet up. Fundy is in no state to walk on eggshells but he goes anyway, because he wants his family back, and learns his father is alive. They search for him but by the end Fundy is ready to give everything up. He leaves Phil, mind made up, and waits until he knows Phil is through the portal.

This time when he watches his home go up, it’s by his own hand.

He leaves and speaks to no one for months, but the nightmares stay. He finds a kit. He takes the kit in, considering briefly calling Phil to let him know he’s now a great grandfather, but he decides not to- Phil hasn’t reached out at all, no one has, even though his home is no more than a crater in the ground... again.

So he says nothing and focuses on being a father, now. His kit doesn’t like being indoors, running out to play in the woods whenever he wants, and Fundy learns to keep up and keep him safe. He builds a nest on the porch, under the awning, a nice, dry and warm place where his kit likes to curl up and sleep at night, white fur standing out against the reds and oranges of Fundy’s once-favourite blankets.

He names the kit Yogurt, after arguing with the foxes that like to hang around.

Between the nightmares and the crippling loneliness, with no one but a child too young to understand speech and a rowdy skulk of foxes who come and go as they please, Fundy finds himself.

He doesn’t remember much of the nightmares but he does remember one big, important thing.

Quackity can’t be trusted.

Quackity appears to him just as he had in the nightmare, and Fundy already knows their conversation as it happens. Knows every little thing as they walk across the remains of L’Manburg. He knows what the next war will be.

This time, Fundy decides, he will pull the strings. Early the next day, while his skulk is out who knows where and Yogurt is bundled up, safe at home, Fundy dons his armour and grabs his sword and axe, and he makes his way to the place he knows Las Nevadas to be.

He arrives and stands on the hill overlooking the beautiful, daunting city, and he watches Quackity disappear into the casino while below him a totem god looks around.

In those few seconds, when Fundy sees the harsh gleam in Foolish’s eyes, a new plan forms.

They speak briefly, over the dune and out of sight of the casino, and they come to an agreement. With no witnesses, they shake hands and Fundy goes back home, and Foolish does not tell Quackity of his visit.

Later, when Fundy finally joins Las Nevadas with his skulk a few steps behind, he mixes truth in with the lies and hopes the skulk will not out him.

To gain the trust of one who doesn’t trust, it takes someone who also doesn’t trust.

Yet Fundy, who at his heart and soul is a fox- a trickster- a spy- knows how to play the part of one who does. One who doesn’t know that he will always be left alone.

When Quackity asks him about his war experience, he answers truthfully- “I have been in every army and every war.”

He is a soldier to Quackity, first and foremost, and so when Quackity presents to him the piano inside the casino polished to perfection, he looks on it with silent discontent.

“I don’t play piano anymore.”

There is no place for art in war.

-

“Your hands are made to create, not destroy.”

Fundy looks up from the dagger he is playing with, seeing Foolish standing in front of him. Purpled is off to the side, on guard for Quackity and pretending he isn’t listening.

It isn’t the first time they’re meeting like this and it won’t be the last. Plans have to be made. Escape routes planned. Snowchester and Las Nevadas will tear each other- and themselves- apart long before Fundy and Foolish could ever put their plan into action. Playing nice and trying to keep everything from blowing up too early is getting exhausting, but it has to be done. After all, Fundy’s family is in the crossfire now- he silently curses Tubbo and Ranboo for building the mountain outpost, and he outwardly curses Tommy and Wilbur for making their ‘country’ right across the river.

“A lot of things are made to do what they’re not supposed to,” Fundy says to the god, putting the knife down. Tonight he has messaged Phil, pleading with him to stay away from Las Nevadas- but it has remained unread, and similar messages sent to Niki and Tommy and Ranboo are all the same. “What are you even talking about, anyway?”

“Tubbo said you used to play piano,” Foolish says, gaze drifting past Fundy to the piano left, abandoned, against the wall. “He asked me to put one in the mansion big enough so you guys could play together.”

“I haven’t played piano in a long fucking time,” Fundy scoffs, drumming his fingers anxiously against his legs. As much as he wants to... “But I guess Tubbo wouldn’t know that. We haven’t had a proper conversation since L’Manburg.”

Tubbo isn’t much like his uncle anymore. Tommy, neither. They don’t come around or check on him, they haven’t since long before L’Manburg fell. Tubbo feels more like... that neighbor kid you play with because there’s no other neighbor kids your age. They mess around and talk and joke when Quackity sends Fundy to investigate the outpost but it’s only because they don’t want to fight anymore. They don’t want to be on opposite sides, anymore.

Fundy can’t even tell him that they aren’t on opposite sides.

Ranboo says to choose people, and they all play the part easily enough, him and Tubbo and Fundy, but Fundy has always chosen people. He chose his family in the past, every time, regardless of what side they were on, until suddenly the family was split. What did sides matter, when it came to love, to friends, to family, to acceptance? How do you choose between the uncle who raised you and the grandfather who was there when you needed him?

Well, it no longer really matters.

This time he chooses Foolish and Purpled, the two who care about and accept him without question, whether he needs them or not.

Purpled, who respects that he doesn’t want salmon to be eaten even when he isn’t here. Purpled, who knows how it feels to be forgotten, who knows how it feels to have nothing to his name.

Foolish, who understands his need for symmetry. Foolish, who knows how it feels to want to leave the past behind, who knows how hard it is to feel worthy of forgiveness and redemption.

No, Fundy still loves his legal-and-blood family very much, but he supposes Foolish and Purpled have become the family he had always wanted to have.

Laughing and talking with them never feels forced, or awkward, or like walking on eggshells. He never feels like he is one misstep from being banished.

It’s nice.

“There’s no place for art in war,” Fundy finally says, filling the space growing between the trio they’ve formed.

They fall into silence, none of them trying to protest- none of them saying what they are in now is not a war. Maybe in another life this beautiful city that they’ve poured themselves into building up in order to build trust with the president could have been home, but in this life it was one thing alone-

The way to end the war, to stop Quackity in his tracks.

“After the war is over, will you play for us?” Purpled asks now.

And he will, though Fundy doesn’t know it yet. Once the war is over and the nuke has been dismantled, torn to pieces by its own creator’s hands, and Quackity and Fundy have both been reduced to one last life each, Fundy will sit at a piano at Foolish’s Summer Home, with the friends and family he has left- with Foolish and Purpled, Tubbo and Tommy and even Wilbur, with Techno and Phil and Niki and Ranboo, with Slime and Yogurt, every person he has ever loved and cared about and will one day save- and he will play a melody Tubbo taught him when he was a kit, still playing on a clumsy piano thrown together from scrapwood and busted strings in the living room of a house long since rotted and burned away.

For now, though, not knowing what the future has in store, Fundy only smiles and says, “There will always be another war.”

[willddheartt]

24 Days | Wilbur Soot

30 days to fall in love with someone? Sounds easy right? It would be if that person wasn’t so unbelievably annoying in almost every sense.

You’re not sure how you found yourself in this situation, but you were positive there was no backing out now…

Series Warnings: Mostly fluff and angst, and a very poorly constructed enemies to lovers plot.

Word Count: 1685

Masterlist Series Masterlist

24 Days

It was Friday, you were in the middle of doing your two-hour-long stream that you did every Friday. Since you took weekends off from your own streams you did a long one every week. It worked out, you seemed to get a lot more views on Friday anyways.  All the donos seemed to ask about you and Wilbur, you forced a smile to tell everyone you guys were well and that you’re very happy together. The viewers seemed to be happy with your responses and didn't catch you falter.  You were on the DreamSMP cleaning up things and repairing things from any creeper explosions, as having holes in the walkways annoyed you to no end because it didn't look pleasing to the eye. Many ties you were passed by Fundy, Tubbo, and even Tommy.  The in-game chat stated to be spammed by Tommy, VC 2 VC 2 VC 2 over and over again. 

“Well chat, let’s see what Tommy wants,” You giggled and switched to discord.  “Hello Tommy,” You smiled, wondering what type of shenanigans he was up to today, you noticed he was also streaming so you knew it was something that was going to be very entertaining to the stream.  “Y/N!” He yelled  “Tommy!” You yelled back, matching his energy.  “How do you do?” His sudden calm tone almost made you burst into a fit of laughter.  “I do well, Thomas. What are you up to tonight?” You asked, smiling to yourself when using his full name.  “Well, you see, Y/N. See here’s the thing. I am out of supplies, I don’t even have iron to my name Y/N-” “Do you want me to help you get some?” You offered, cutting him off  “Well, actually I was hoping you could just give me some.”  “Tommy,” You laughed, “That’s- unfortunately, that not how it works my friend.” You paused, taking a sip of your water, “I am more than willing to help you go mining, I know a pretty good spot actually, but I’m not going to just give you stuff for nothing.”  “C’mon Y/N you could write it off your taxes as a charity donation,”  You had to give it to him, although Tommy could be annoying at times he was so effortlessly funny, you were almost certain that he didn't even have to try. 

“Ah yes, hang on let me see what I have to give to Tommy’s charity fund,” You laughed, looking through your inventory, pondering for a few moments, making it look like you were going to give him half your stack of iron only our stream before clicking to the three seeds you’d picked up some time ago and throwing them at his feet. His character's head went from looking at you to the seeds, then back to you and back to the seeds again, you pulled up his stream on your other monitor so you could see his face, trying so hard to not burst out into laughter when you saw his unamused look. 

Feeling bad you pulled up a donation, giving Tommy Five bucks so the text-to-speech would work, “Tommy Charity Fund.” You sent and waited for it to go through.  He paused, hearing the dono tts voice, before looking back up at you in the game.  “Fuck you,” He said running away. You couldn't suppress your laughter any longer and it all fell out at once, chat exploded into laughter and emotes, everyone found it hilarious.

A few seconds after you were still in the voice chat with Tommy, he had ventured off to go mining, I guess stealing from people wasn't going well. Since the last war, nobody has really been gathering supplies, taking a break from the lore to just get things done around the server. Tommy still bringing up the ‘charity fund’ you found it hilarious. 

“You’re a bitch you know that,” He mumbled, you knew he was only joking, with Tommy you never took anything to heart, if he had a true problem with you, you know he would message you privately.  “Tommy,” Wilbur's voice came over discord, making you jump slightly.  “Hi Wilbur,” He said, sounding like a little kid when their mom gets them in trouble.  “Apologize to Y/N.'' Wilbur's voice was playful, yet stern, sounding exactly like the older brother who was put in charge of his younger siblings. 

After a second, you could see Tommy bow his head on his stream that was still pulled up on your other monitor.  “Sorry, Y/N. You’re not a bitch.” He said  “It’s okay Tommy,” You chuckled  “Thank you.” Spoke Wilbur before leaving the voice chat. 

You and Tommy stayed on call until his stream ended. You were left alone, talking to your chat. Without anyone else there to keep a consistent conversation you started to daze off, forgetting you were on stream, yawning and leaning forward onto your desk. Your back hurt from how long you’d been sat in front of the monitor. 

Your discord made a noise again, but this time you didn’t bother tabbing out to see who had joined.  “Hey, Y/N,” Wilburs soft voice came across your headphones  “Will,” You smiled, sitting up  “You look tired, how long have you been up?” He asked 

You looked at the clock, it was only 11 PM but you could have sworn it was later.  “Since one,”  “AM or PM?” Will asked  You looked down, “AM,” You mumbled. “You should go to bed,” He said You sighed, knowing he could break you eventually, as your eyelids were drooping shut and your eyes were burning. “Its not even that long, Wil, I’m fine.” You argued 

“How long have you been streaming?” Wilbur asked  “I’m almost at my five hour mark, I’m like forty-five minutes away,”  “End your stream early and get ready for bed than we can chat,” His voice was soft and warm speaking over your stream, your chat exploded, loving Wilbur and you together.  “But I’m so close, just a few more minutes,” You sighed, tabbing out of your game and switching the stream to a full face cam. “I’m sure they wont mind if you end a little early, you've been streaming for a while, love.” He continued, slowly wearing you down. “I can even entertain your chat for a bit while you go get ready for bed, or even make yourself a cup of tea, then when you come back, it will be close enough that you can end the stream, how does that sound?”  You sighed, knowing he had won. You looked at chat and back to the timer of how long you've been on stream, “Okay.” You nodded. 

“Alright Chat, I’m sorry for ending early but you heard the man. Next week will be extra long to make up for this, I promise.” You said, looking at the chat, everyone was spamming ‘goodnight’ and ‘goodbye’  “It was nice spending this fine evening with you all, but I must go now, I will see everyone Monday. Bye!” You ended stream 

“Hi, Wilbur,” You smiled to yourself after ending stream  “I’m going to call your number now, and you can go get ready for bed, okay?” He said  “Alright, Wil,” you nodded, closing all the windows you had open on your pc. 

After shutting everything off you grabbed what you needed and went to the bathroom. Wilbur called you halfway through taking your makeup off, you had eyeliner smudged all around your eyes when you answered his facetime.  When his face popped up on your screen, he was wearing his glasses and a big smile, his hair was a mess and he was already in bed. 

“Getting ready for bed?” He asked, as if he didn't already know.  “Of course,” You shook your head, leaning closer to the mirror making sure you had all the bits of makeup taken off before washing your face with warm water  Picking up your phone you held up a peace sign, making Wil laugh and attempt to take a sneaky screenshot.  “Hey, no, delete that, I look terrible.” You quickly argued after hearing the noise.  “You do not.” He was fast to respond. “You look refreshed, you're glowing.” you shook your head at him as you walked back to your room through the dark house. 

Your roommate had already gone to bed, close to an hour ago. You were always the last person up, being an internet person with many American friends who are in a different time zone and a night owl at heart. You flopped down into your soft pillows, pulling your duvet over yourself and propping your phone up on your laptop so you could still see Wilbur and he could see you. You pulled the corner of the blanket up to hide your face. 

“Don't do that, I want to see your face,” Wilbur frowned.  “No you don’t,” You shook your head  “Yes,” He spoke, “I do.” You moved the blanket so it wasn't all the way covering your face but it was still pulled up enough that your shoulders were covered.  “You realize next week you’ll be here for your stream?” Wilbur said.  “I do now,” You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m sorry, I didn't think of that,”  “Its okay, you can stream from my computer,” He smiled. “It will surprise chat,”  “Oh my god, can you imagine, they're going to go crazy,” You chuckled  “They will,”

Wilbur continued to tell you about how he was truly getting excited to have you meet him in person, but his soft voice had been lulling you to sleep, your eyelids struggling to stay open and your warm bed weighing you down. Eventually you were out. Wilbur didn't notice until he asked you a question and did not respond. Your laptop screen was still shining light on you, and he saw you were asleep against the black screen, smiling at you. He snuck another screenshot, making sure the sound was off this time. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He said sweetly before getting comfortable in bed himself and slowly drifting off. 

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 4,369

Chapter Warnings: swearing, references to past child abuse (regarding c!Tommy)

Chapter Summary: In which Schlatt is his own brand of irritating, Wilbur and Tommy talk a bit but not about everything, and they make their way to Dream’s prison cell.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Five: hide your soul out of his reach (i)

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m what?”

His response is automatic, comes spilling out before he truly registers that someone has spoken to him, much less who it is. So when he looks up and locks gazes with Schlatt, the annoyance bubbles up quickly. He’d been sitting quietly, in a relatively secluded area near Tommy’s house, thinking about nothing in particular and everything all at once, and he’d felt settled. Peaceful. His mind quiet.

So much for that.

“I thought you’d fucked off somewhere,” he says.

“And deprive you of my company?” Schlatt shoots back. “You wound me.”

“I wish I could,” he mutters. He glances away, staring off into middle space, hoping that maybe, Schlatt will go away if he pretends very hard that he doesn’t see him. No such luck, and he sighs. “What am I stalling about?”

“Dream,” Schlatt supplies. He strides closer, then kicks off into the air, drifting aimlessly in a seated position. The sweater still looks odd. Too soft, when the man in front of him is anything but. “You said you were gonna go see him.”

“And I am. Just not yet.”

Schlatt snorts. “What’s keeping you?”

He frowns. Meets Schlatt’s eyes again, and finds no sympathy there. A bit of hard amusement, at best. Not that he was expecting anything else.

“Tommy’s going to want to come with me, when I go,” he says. “But I don’t want him near Dream.”

Schlatt makes a sound that’s more mocking than understanding. “Right, Tommy,” he says. “Where is the kid? I’m surprised he left you alone in the first place.”

“Tubbo went back to his town. Snowchester, I think they said it was called.” There is an undefinable melancholy that fills him at the thought. Even now, after everything, they are still trying to make a home. Still trying to carve some corner out of the world and make it theirs. Or Tubbo is, at least. He’s no longer quite sure what Tommy wants. “Tommy went with him.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shakes his head. Tubbo said that there were other people who lived in Snowchester, when he asked. Jack Manifold, for one. Maybe a couple of others. Captain Puffy, maybe? Either way, to go with them would have been to invite the possibility of meeting people, and every cell in his body cringes away from that idea. He’s not ready for that just yet. If ever.

(you’ll have to face them eventually, will have to stand your ground against the hatred in their eyes, burning and so well-deserved, shattered fractals of a people you used to belong to and did your best to destroy)

(you’ll have to face them eventually, and yet you hide)

“Tommy said he’d be back later,” he says. “He doesn’t live there. In Snowchester.”

“So here you are, waiting for him.”

“I suppose.” He frowns, shifting in place where he’s sitting on the ground. He brushes his fingers against the grass, absently pulling up a flower or two. “It’s not as if there’s not time. We can wait until Tommy’s not quite so—” He trails off here, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Not quite so what? Not quite so traumatized? Trauma doesn’t work like that, doesn’t go away within the span of a few days or weeks. He knows as much, though he used to be content enough to ignore it

(when he was the one causing it)

back in the old days, when there was no choice otherwise, when there was no chance of rest.

“Well, aren’t you considerate,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur looks at him sharply, because that was definitely snide. Schlatt stares right back, brows lifted, smirking. “Waiting for your little brother to be a little less broken. How kind of you.”

He bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’ll talk about him however I want,” Schlatt says. “What are you gonna do, shout at me? Play some shitty music? Please. But all I’m saying is that a few days isn’t gonna make a difference, and you know it. You’re stalling to make yourself feel better, to try and convince yourself that you’re better now, that you’re not gonna hurt him anymore.”

His mouth goes dry. “I’m not—” He shakes his head again, as if trying to dislodge the idea. “It doesn’t matter right now, anyway,” he says. “He’s in Snowchester. He’s not here. There’s nothing to do until he gets back.”

“Oh my god, just comm him,” Schlatt says. “Tell him you’re going over to the prison. Do it now, and you can leave before he decides to go with. Win win.”

“I don’t—” He furrows his brow. He doesn’t have his comm. He’s not sure where his comm is. Except—

For the first time, he thinks to check the pockets of his coat. The first couple turn up nothing, but then, in the third, his fingers wrap around a sheet of thin, hard plastic. He freezes for a moment, and then draws the communicator out, holding it loosely in his hand. A tap on the screen, and it lights up, just the way he’s used to.

It doesn’t make sense for him to have this.

Schlatt leans over his shoulder and whistles.

“Daddy’s worried about you,” he says, and Wilbur blinks, pulling up his unread messages. There shouldn’t be any, shouldn’t be any at all, because he can count the number of people who knows that he’s back on one hand. And yet, there is one, and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at the identity of the sender, but he is.

Philza whispers to you: don’t mean to be pushy but could you let me know you made it to smp lands safe?

He has to read the message several times before its meaning sinks in, and once it does, he’s not sure how to feel about it. It doesn’t particularly read like Phil wrote it; it’s too hesitant, too apologetic. But Wilbur remembers what Phil looked like, standing in that kitchen, wingless and so very cautious, flinching away from his words as if they were physical blows. And in the end, letting him go, even though it was plain as day that he would have liked nothing more than to keep him there.

He’s angry with Phil. For a lot of reasons. But then, he’s angry at the world, too. Angry at himself, most of all.

(and there is so much of him that just wants someone else to swoop in and fix things, just wants his dad to make everything better in a way that he hasn’t since he was a kid and the first fracture formed, splitting their family apart, and as much as he is angry there is a large part of him that just wants to go back to that house and sink into his father’s arms and learn how to call a place home again)

“You gonna answer?” Schlatt asks.

He ignores him, checking the timestamp. It was sent a few hours after he left the tundra. So, a couple of days ago, now, and there have been no messages since. Perhaps it’s no longer relevant.

He hesitates, eyes tracing over don’t mean to be pushy.

It feels so strange, for Phil to qualify a sentence like that. Like he’s unsure of his welcome. And perhaps he’s right to be.

You whisper to Philza: I’m safe.

“Touching,” Schlatt says dryly. He scowls, trying to bat him on the arm or push him away or do something, but his hand goes through, and Schlatt just smirks some more for his efforts. “Now do Tommy.”

He puts the comm down on his lap, turning to face Schlatt fully. “Why are you being so fucking insistent?” he demands. “You’re a ghost, you can go by yourself. Through the walls and shit, since apparently you get actual ghost powers.” Ghostbur didn’t get ghost powers. He recalls that very clearly, because Ghostbur was immensely disappointed by this. For once, he agrees with the shade.

“And do what, look at him? Like it’s a fucking zoo? Watch him twiddle his thumbs and chuckle evilly to himself? Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Schlatt says. “I don’t know if you forgot, but nobody can see me. Hell, for all you know, I’m not even real. You could be making me up.”

He tries to brush the comment off. It hits just a bit too close to home

(whispers in shadows and enemies around every corner, people watching and staring and plotting against him, and no one else can see, Tommy can’t see, but that’s alright, he sees enough for both of them, and he will have his victory, and if he cannot have that, then nobody can and there is laughter, laughter, laughter)

for his comfort.

“If I were making you up,” he says, “I would simply stop.”

“Cute,” Schlatt says. “Do you wanna know what your problem is? Your problem is that you’re scared of people seeing you for what you really are.”

His hands clench.

“You say you don’t want to hurt Tommy? Fine. I even believe you,” Schlatt continues. “But don’t act like you’ve come back to life and suddenly you’re some saint. You’re fooling yourself, Wilbur. People like us don’t change. You can put on as much of a shine on the outside as you want, but scratch that paint off, and you’re still the power-hungry asshole who blew up a city as a hissy fit.”

His mouth works for a second, wordless.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and scoops up his comm again.

You whisper to TommyInnit: I’d like to visit the prison today

“Was that so hard?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he says again. “And fuck off. Or I swear to god I’ll figure out a way to exorcise you.”

“Please do,” Schlatt says. “I’d thank you for it. But sure, have it your way.” He shrugs, looking completely unconcerned. “I’m never too far.” Then, he disappears, and there is a shimmer of blue in the air, and even that fades away, and Wilbur is left alone and feeling no better for it.

“It wasn’t a fucking hissy fit,” he says to the empty space. There’s no one left to hear him, no one left to justify himself to, but

(it wasn’t a hissy fit it was desperation and fear and wild abandon and a surging, terrible victory and a fire in his chest driving him onward and he relished in it, relished in the freedom and the power and the control and he was the villain, he was the villain and he was good at it, he was the villain and he loved it, he was the villain and everyone else paid the price and he didn’t pay at all so what happens now, what happens to the villain back from the grave what happens)

he’s not wrong. Not about this.

TommyInnit whispers to you: ok

TommyInnit whispers to you: i’ll be back soon

TommyInnit whispers to you: dont leave without me or your a bitch

He doesn’t leave without him.

He should. Should venture on to the prison by himself, to spare his brother the effort. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t bring himself to go it alone. Perhaps it really is pathetic, but he wants to have someone by his side when he starts revealing himself to the rest of the server.

It’s certainly selfish. But he’s never claimed not to be.

They don’t meet anyone on the way. Wilbur doesn’t understand why, not when the sun is shining brightly and they’re walking the established path, matching each other stride for stride,

(there was a time when he would have walked behind you, would have trailed on your coattails, would have looked to you for direction and guidance and look at him now, look at who he has been made into, a child who should not have to be as grown as he is but there is no changing it now and he really is someone to be proud of, isn’t he?)

but they run into nobody, and those vines are fucking everywhere.

“Why hasn’t anyone cleared these?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re a fucking eyesore.”

Tommy snorts. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says. “They’re ugly as hell. But there’s this Egg thing, see, that BadBoyHalo and a couple of others are all constantly going on about, and those vines come from it, I think. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally. I mean, it’s just an Egg. Can’t be all that great. But BadBoyHalo swears by it.” He pauses. “Well, he doesn’t swear. He says muffin by it, I suppose. Still can’t get him to swear.”

“An egg,” he says, and then frowns. “An Egg,” he repeats, and there’s a difference in the way he’s saying it, in the strange emphasis that implies the capital letter. “That’s—vines don’t come out of eggs. They’re not—vines don’t hatch, and eggs aren’t fucking plants.” And then, he remembers— “Techno told me about an egg. Said he thought it was some kind of cult. He didn’t know much else.”

Too late, he realizes what he’s said, and catches the way that Tommy stiffens.

“You’ve been to see Technoblade, then,” he says, and his voice is far too casual to actually be casual. He winces.

“When I—woke up,” he says, “I was really near the tundra. And I remembered where he lived, from when Ghostbur would visit. And I thought that maybe—”

“I mean, you don’t need to explain it,” Tommy interrupts, but his tone of voice tells Wilbur that actually, he really does need to explain it, because there is undoubtedly a note of hurt there, and that won’t do.

“No, no, I do,” he says. “I know you’re not exactly good with each other right now. I’m not really good with him either. But I woke up and it was raining and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and I made a list, see? And number one on that list was to get to you. But I was cold and wet and I had no idea what was happening in the SMP because Ghostbur’s memories are patchy as hell, so I thought that Techno could tell me some things so I wouldn’t go in blind and walk into—I don’t know, a nuclear war or something.”

Tommy makes an odd sound at that, like a cross between a cat having a hairball and someone choking on water gone down the wrong pipe. “Nuclear war,” he repeats, in a voice that’s a bit strangled, and his words seem to trip over each other in his rush to get them out. “Right. Yeah, no, none of that here. Nope. No way that could ever happen. Uh, yeah, no, that makes perfect sense.” He stops, and Wilbur is about to ask what the actual hell that was about, when he speaks up again. “Is he—I mean, how is he? Still a fucking crazy arsehole?”

Wilbur looks at him. Tommy does not look back. In fact, he seems to be making a point of looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Still an arsehole. Same old Techno, you know him. Phil, too.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Tommy’s shoulders relax at that, just fractionally.

“Right, yeah,” he says. “Good to hear.”

“Tommy—” he starts, and is saved from having to figure out what he’s going to say, because suddenly, he sees it. The prison. There’s no way that it could be anything else. And he has to stop and stare for a long moment, because he’s never seen a build like that before. Not on any server he’s ever lived on. He’s seen some impressive buildings in his life, and he’d like to think that he’s made a few himself,

(walls to keep them safe to protect them and hold them dear and he hasn’t seen Fundy yet, has he?)

but nothing compares to this.

“Who built this?” he breathes. He feels claustrophobic just looking at it, dark walls towering over them, looming, intimidating.

“Sam did,” Tommy says. “He’s the warden, too. But Dream commissioned him, which is what makes it so fucking funny.”

He feels a grin spread across his face.

“Wait,” he says, “Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison?”

“Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison!” Tommy whoops, and just like that, he’s laughing, and they both are, and maybe he can do this after all. He follows Tommy’s footsteps as he leads him to the doorway, to an empty room with a portal frame, and he’s sizing it up, trying to figure out how they’re supposed to get through, when Tommy steps forward.

“Sam?” he calls out. “You here?” And then, to Wilbur: “Sam’s kind of a dick when he’s got the whole warden thing going on, but he’s pretty nice when he’s not working. He’s been a good friend, you’ll like him. Later, I mean. When he’s not being a dick.” And then again: “Sam? Sam, we want to visit Dream!”

“You don’t need to yell, Tommy. I’m right here,” someone says, and there is another person in the room, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tense because he didn’t see him come in. “I wasn’t expecting—” And then the man stops, staring right at Wilbur, and Wilbur is left to size him up and rack his brain as to whether or not he’s formally met Awesamdude before. He’s been on the server for a while, he knows. Was around for L’Manberg, was a part of the Badlands, was neutral. He’s met him before. He’s almost certain he’s met him before. But there’s no spark of recognition in him, looking at this man, with his full netherite armor and the mask covering the lower half of his face and the green patches that dot his skin.

“Wilbur Soot,” Sam eventually says. “I would assume? Not Ghostbur?”

He regains himself. Inclines his head. “You’d be right,” he says, and then he steps forward, taking his place at Tommy’s side, and he extends a hand. “Sorry, I’m not sure that we ever really got the chance to meet.”

Sam takes his hand, showing only a bit of hesitance. His grip is firm.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” Sam says. “I’m not sure if it is or not.”

“You know what?” Wilbur says. “That’s fair.”

“Hm,” Sam says, and it’s hardly approval. But Wilbur is very aware of the fact that they’re standing in the entrance of a prison, a prison that is supposedly inescapable, and that he has definitely, by the standards of the server, committed at least one crime. And what’s more than that, he doesn’t particularly regret it. Not the act itself. The effects it had, maybe. The pain it brought. But in his heart of hearts, he is glad that L’Manberg is gone.

So really, the fact that he isn’t being arrested is a win.

(he thinks, he wonders, what would he do if he was, if he was locked away in the dark and the walls loomed all around him and the sun was a distant memory and ah, he thinks, no, I would rather die, and then the imagined prison becomes Pogtopia, shadowy and dank and every sound echoing off the stone, melancholy and abandoned, and he wonders what it looks like now, now that there is no life in it at all, and he wonders if it is haunted with the ghost of who he used to be, if he left some important part of him behind to shrivel into dust)

“So, I assume this is a recent development?” Sam asks. He’s being very calm about this, which Wilbur appreciates. But then, they were never close. Were never connected personally. The real tests still lie ahead.

“Couple of days,” Tommy says cheerily. “We’re taking it slow.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” Sam says, and Wilbur blinks, because it’s a joke. Someone feels familiar enough with Tommy to make the comment, and likes him well enough to make it playful.

That’s—good? He thinks it’s good? Probably? Yes. Good. Tommy has friends. Good.

(he doesn’t need you. not really. he wants you, for some godforsaken reason. but he doesn’t need you)

“Oi, I can be slow,” Tommy says. “I can be the very slowest. I am excellent at being slow, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Wilbur says, and Tommy gapes at him, looking back and forth between them with a dawning expression of betrayal.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, stabbing a finger at both of them. “I didn’t introduce you so that you could go ganging up on me. That’s just not right. I changed my mind, Wilbur, you’re not allowed to like Sam. None of this bullshit.”

Wilbur laughs, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed at all. He’s ribbing his little brother, and there’s even someone else here for support, and it’s not Techno, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. The motions are familiar, the words an old pattern.

“You’re here to see Dream, right?” Sam says, and just like that, the illusion shatters. And the smile is gone from Tommy’s face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.” He hesitates. “We can both go in together, right? Because I’ll tell you right now, nothing else is going to work. We’re a package deal, me and Wil are.”

Sam tilts his head. “No one’s ever tried to visit with someone else,” he says. “I don’t see an issue with it, as long as you both pass security.”

This is relieving. But Wilbur’s a bit more concerned with the way that Tommy’s hands have begun to shake. Just slightly, barely enough to see.

“Good,” Tommy says. “Wilbur, there’s so much security, it’s honestly ridiculous. There’s a bunch of checkpoints and lava and you have to put all your stuff in a locker and get splashed with potions, and oh! There’s wavers, too, you’re going to have to sign a bunch of shit.”

“Great,” he says. It’s not great. It sounds nerve-wracking, in fact. But if Tommy can do it, so can he; he’s just a bit worried that Tommy can’t do it. Or rather, not that he can’t do it, since he’s done it before, apparently. Just that maybe, he really, really doesn’t want to do it. That maybe, it will not be very good for him to do it. That maybe, he’s putting himself through this for Wilbur’s sake, and hasn’t Wilbur just established that he doesn’t want to hurt Tommy anymore?

(but the past echoes forward into the future and there’s no way around it now)

But they’re here, and he’s not going to be able to get Tommy to turn back, and he’s not sure that he would even if he could, because his nerves are all shot and he doesn’t want to be in this dark prison without an ally. So Sam guides them through the checkpoints, and there are indeed a lot of wavers, and a lot of splash potions, and Tommy has to put all of his things in a locker. Wilbur pulls up his inventory, certain that he doesn’t have anything on him, still, but he’s not entirely right about that; he must have kept the flowers he was pulling up earlier, because he’s got about five cornflowers in one of the slots.

He puts them in a chest, and ignores the startled look that Tommy shoots him when he sees. He’s not sure what that’s about. They’re just flowers.

The walls are too close. The shadows too dark. The crackle of lava too near. Tommy is putting on a front, chatting at Sam more than he is with him, and to his credit, Sam puts up with it with easy acceptance. But Wilbur knows that a front is all it is, because his smiles don’t reach his eyes, and he knows how Tommy sounds when he’s talking for the sake of hearing his own voice.

This may, perhaps, be a mistake.

(you can’t let him near Tommy don’t let him near Tommy not after what he did to Tommy don’t you know can’t you remember how can you be letting this happen after what he did Tommy shouldn’t be anywhere near here but now he is and you brought him and what kind of a brother are you)

But he has questions he needs to ask. And he hasn’t forgotten his list. His goals.

If there is anything he can do on this server to make it better, after everything he’s done, let it be this.

“Alright,” Sam says, “call for me when you want to leave. Make sure to walk with the bridge.”

And then the curtain of lava falls, and there is a moving platform, and Tommy is deathly still by his side, and there is the cell, and there, in the cell—

Dream.

He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. A prisoner’s outfit. But he’s kept his mask, stark-white and smiling and laced with spiderweb-thin cracks. His mouth is visible, canting upward into a slight smile, one that mimics the black paint. He stands at their approach, and then they’re stepping into the cell, and Wilbur lets his hand land on Tommy’s shoulder, to steady him and to steady himself.

“Oh, fuck,” someone says, and it’s not him, and it’s not Tommy, and it’s not Dream, and it sounds faint and far away. The living aren’t the only ones in this cell, then. He hopes that Schlatt has the good sense not to be too distracting.

Dream takes a step forward. Under his hand, Tommy stiffens.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you.” It’s directed at Tommy and Tommy alone, like Wilbur’s not even there at all, Dream’s mask tilted toward toward him, toward the kid that he manipulated and abused, and Tommy is trembling and Dream has no fucking right to address him like that, so soft and friendly, and Wilbur—

—sees red.

[whyiask]

more bitter than sweet (Ch. 1)

Masterpost Ao3 Link TWs: there is a gun and non-graphic violence during the flashback (in italics) so mind that part Note: okay so. so. for people who have seen TUA, you might be saying "Joy, why on earth would you have Tommy as Vanya instead of Tommy as Five?" and the answer to that is: I just realllly wanted Tommy as Vanya, so Niki is Five, because badass Niki. also, the plot will have some changes, obviously, as it's driven by the characters and the role of Five's character is filled by a quite different person in this au. SO, on with the show. Other than that, it'll follow the original plot fairly well, probably. (also Schlatt is probably ooc, he got dealt the unfortunate hand of Luther and I don't really like Luther and don't really know how to write him, so F in the chat for schlatt lmao)

---

The sky was overcast and dreary. Fitting for the occasion. The manor house, which had been near silent for just over a year, was dusty and creaking. Normally Philza wouldn’t let the house get to such a state. The vines stretched high up the walls and Tommy craned his neck to view the once majestic mansion he had lived in. It was a far cry from the rigid upkeep of the grounds Reginald Hargreeves had insisted upon.

Tommy wasn’t looking forward to seeing his siblings again. Although he missed them dearly, he was afraid, not that he’d ever tell anyone, of how they would shun him. It had been years since any of them spoke to him. Wilbur had moved away from the house as soon as he could, forgetting about Tommy and never bothering to check in. Techno’s abrupt lack of communication was purposeful. He really did only have himself to blame.

Heaving a great sigh, Tommy mounted the steps. At least he would get to see Wilbur again.

His key fit into the door and as it swung open, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The burning of the fireplace, the musty scent of the old, worn down rugs and furniture. The blood that had stained the floors time and time again. Pushing down his nausea, Tommy stepped forward into the open space.

“Big Man Tommyinnit has arrived,” he announced, but it fell flat, even to his own ears. It didn’t echo, trailing off in the lonely entryway. The whole house was a void, a black hole that had sucked his childhood away. He supposed he had never really gotten to be a child in the first place.

He didn’t hear the footsteps coming. He only looked up the grand staircase at the sound of a wall being punched.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Technoblade ground out. His eyebrows were drawn tight and his fists were curled. Tommy bit back a wince. He deserved this. After all, it was his brilliant idea to write a book exposing all of their family secrets. He had seen it as a way to try and cope with his trauma at the time, but it quickly became clear the rest of the family did not share his views.

A mess of curly brown hair poked out around the doorway that Techno was leaning against. A yellow sweater and a maroon beanie. A guitar strapped to his back. Tommy was hit with another wave of memories and it took all of his willpower not to run into his brother’s arms.

“Is that Tommy I hear?” Wilbur asked, and Techno moved aside reluctantly. Wilbur’s entire face lit up and he rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. Tommy moved forward at a slower speed, and they met at the base of the stairs.

“Awww,” Wilbur whispered. “You’ve grown so much.” He raised a hand hesitantly, almost as if to pat Tommy’s head, and Tommy swatted him away.

“Oh bug off, you’d know that if you had actually stuck around.”

Wilbur’s smile faltered. He put his hand back at his side and a brief look of regret passed his face. “I’m sorry, Tommy, but I couldn’t stay here.”

“You could’ve taken me with you.” Tommy took a deep breath. He was getting too sentimental for his own good. Wilbur lifted his arms and wrapped them around Tommy’s lanky body. Tommy hesitated for a second, before returning the hug. It was awkward, nowhere near as smooth as it had been in their childhood.

“I missed you, Tommy. It’s good to see you again, you little gremlin,” Wilbur muttered into Tommy’s hair.

From up on the second floor, Tommy heard Techno scoff. He pulled away from Wilbur to look up at their brother. Techno was sharpening a knife, leaning back against the doorframe. His red cloak was settled comfortably on his shoulders and his face held a large scowl.

Wilbur frowned up at him. “Got a problem, Techno?”

Technoblade scoffed again, straightening up and coming to lean over the railing. He sneered down at Wilbur. “‘You missed him? You missed him?’” Techno’s eyes drifted over to Tommy with a glare. “Do you even know what he’s done?”

Wilbur stepped protectively in front of Tommy, and he had to resist rolling his eyes.

“He’s still our brother.”

“He’s still in the room,” Tommy interjected dryly. Wilbur shushed him and this time he actually did roll his eyes.

“Tommy was never part of our family to begin with. What gives him the right to talk about our family as if he belongs to it now?”

Tommy stiffened. Wilbur tensed beside him as well. “Techno,” he said, voice dark. “You know that’s not true.”

“Congratulations, we all have our own fucking trauma. Thank you Tommy, truly, for sharing it with the world!” He turned and his cape swished behind him dramatically. He spared one last look over his shoulder before walking back into the living room. Tommy barely caught his parting statement. “You’ve never been my brother and never will be. Stop acting like you are."

Tommy reeled back like he’d been hit, but when he noticed Wilbur looking at him worriedly, he plastered on a smile.

“Are you-” he started.

“Don’t worry about me, big man,” Tommy said, louder than necessary. “It’s Techno you should be concerned about, he’s clearly got some major problems.”

Wilbur looked at him doubtfully but nodded along anyways. He patted Tommy’s shoulder once.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back, despite the awful circumstances. I did miss you.”

“I missed you too, Wil,” Tommy muttered, watching Wilbur’s back retreating up the stairs.

---

The living room was tense. You could cut through the thickness of the air with a butter knife. Techno leaned on one of the support pillars behind the couch, as far away from everyone else as possible. Schlatt was sitting in one of the large armchairs, and Ranboo had swung his feet up onto the couch, taking up the whole thing.

Wilbur immediately plopped himself onto the other chair, leaving Tommy to try and fit on the couch. Ranboo curled his legs in and Tommy nodded to him with a smile. Ranboo smiled back, before looking over his shoulder at the air and grinning wider.

Schlatt cleared his throat, calling everyone to attention. He stood up.

“I think you all know why we are here,” he said lazily, moving his gaze across everyone in the room. There were several murmurs of agreement.

“Our father is dead, and we have to pay respects to him,” Schlatt continued.

Techno snorted slightly and Schlatt ignored him.

“However,” he stressed, and Tommy rolled his eyes, recognizing the tone in his oldest brother’s voice. “I believe there was foul play involved.”

“Foul play?” Techno asked, disbelieving. “You think someone murdered dad?”

Schlatt bristled at Techno’s words. “Yes, as a matter of fact. When his body was found, he didn’t have his monocle on him, and it was nowhere in the room.”

Even Wilbur had to raise an eyebrow at that. “And…?” he said.

Schlatt groaned. “C’mon guys, you have to use your brains. When have you ever, ever seen dad without his monocle?” At the silence, Schlatt grinned triumphantly as if he had won. “See? My point is that someone took his monocle, right before or after his death. It must’ve been personal.”

He turned to Techno. “Philza was the one who found him, no?”

Techno’s mouth pressed together into a thin line. “You can’t seriously be accusing Phil,” he said, a threat clear in his voice.

“Well, who knows,” Schlatt threw up his hands. “Maybe he finally got tired of being the perfect little housekeeper. Who else could’ve done it, you?”

Techno’s eyes widened a fraction, before narrowing again. Tommy would’ve missed it if he had not grown up with him.

Schlatt must’ve noticed it too, because his jaw opened so fast that Tommy was worried it would come off.

“I mean,” Techno said, interrupting whatever yelling storm Schlatt had planned. “As much as I would’ve enjoyed the honors, it wasn’t me.”

Schlatt’s eyes narrowed down to slits. “I don’t trust him,” he announced.

Wilbur gave a single bark of laughter. “What else is new?”

“I don’t trust you either, and yet here I am. What’re you accusing me of?” Techno butted in.

Schlatt sputtered. “You know damn well what.”

As Techno reared up to argue back, Tommy tuned out their mindless bickering. Somehow, he thought they could’ve changed. Maybe he thought they could’ve grown up. He clearly expected too much. Techno was still a vigilante, still hot-headed. And Schlatt? Well, four years without any human interaction had really screwed up his subtlety. To be fair, Tommy wasn’t sure if he had had any to begin with.

Tommy sighed and stood up, grabbing Ranboo’s arm and pulling him up as well. The arguing brothers didn’t pay them any heed. Wilbur stood up too, trying to break up the argument that threatened to turn violent. Ranboo got Tommy’s drift and they exited the room.

There was no point in staying.

--

They are ten years old. The robbers are holding hostages, and Schlatt starts to tell the others his plan, when Niki jumps into the building. Schlatt curses and runs into the room after her. Techno, never one to miss out on the action, follows closely behind.

Ranboo, Tubbo, and Wilbur are slightly slower and stick closer to the wall.

They arrive in time to see Niki teleporting around, distracting the robbers, as Techno hurls a knife with deadly accuracy into one of the men’s shoulders. He falls with a cry. Schlatt lifts another and tosses him into a wall like a ragdoll.

A voice cries out over the chaos and all three freeze. One of the others has pulled a gun on the civilians. Without wasting a moment, Niki blinks right in between the gun and the civilians, sitting on the bank check-in desk. The man swings the gun down towards her but she’s already gone.

Niki is behind him now, calling out, “Hey, loser.” As he spins around to face her, she quickly blinks his gun out of his hands in exchange for a stapler. “Nice stapler.”

She grabs his hand and twists it upwards. He hits himself in the head with the stapler in his hand. Niki tosses the gun to Schlatt, who catches it easily.

The three boys in the corner smile. Ranboo hated feeling useless in fights, but his power wasn’t cut out for combat. Tubbo was glad he didn’t have to use his. And Wilbur was just happy for his siblings to do the fighting instead of him.

Outside, Reginald Hargreeves stands, monocle and top hat, leaning on a stylish cane. A young boy stands next to him, fidgeting with his uniform.

“Why can’t I be with them?” Tommy asks his father.

“We’ve gone over this, Tommy,” Reginald says, irritated. “Because you are not special.”

When the police arrive, and the news is scrambling over themselves to take pictures of the young superheroes who saved the bank and the hostages, Schlatt, Techno, Wilbur, Niki, Tubbo, and Ranboo all line up to have their picture taken. They stand with good posture and smiles, having it ingrained into them.

Reginald walks out with a dramatic flair onto the steps of the bank, setting his hand on Schlatt’s shoulder. Schlatt huffs out his chest in pride.

“These,” Reginald announces to the gathered press. “Are your new superheroes. Meet the SBI.” The people clap.

“I adopted 6 children with superpowers, and I have been training them to fight against the evil in this city.”

Reginald’s speech continues. Tommy continues to stand out of sight, as Reginald introduces his siblings to the press. Reginald doesn’t even look in his direction as he states he had only adopted six kids.

They are ten. This is their first mission as a team. The SBI is born. And Tommy isn’t allowed to be a part of it.

--

Tommy’s old room was exactly how he remembered it. The plain bedspread on the plain bed. The posters on the wall, one of the few things he was allowed to customize. A neatly organized bookshelf and a cabinet full of music books. A keyboard by the window, coated in a thick layer of dust.

He had been just as surprised as everyone else when their father had allowed him to take up piano like he wanted to. There was a grand piano downstairs, he knew. It was probably out of tune.

Still better than sitting around. Ranboo had wandered off a while ago, so he didn’t have anyone to talk to, and everyone else was either busy or likely to ignore him. Tommy made his way to the spacious room. He sat down at the piano bench, blowing the dust from the keys and tentatively played a chord. It wasn’t horribly out of tune, though it definitely wasn’t in perfect upkeep.

Letting his doubts free, he let himself fold into the music, allowing his fingers to move across the keys. The song wasn’t particularly hard, though it wasn’t one he had played in a while. It was a song he remembered playing often when he still lived here.

.

Unknown to him, around the house, everyone perked up at the distant echoing of his playing, unconsciously swaying to the once-familiar tune.