#so funny story: this was supposed to be a saturday morning ficlet

[painless-innit-colourful]

Invisible

Potions of invisibility grant the user the ability to disappear, functionally: the concealment of one’s self through magic, distilled into a draught easy to swallow. For better and worse, Tommy’s familiar with the taste.

It tastes sour, primarily. 

Looking at the ingredient list, no wonder. Nether wart and fermented spider eye. Gross. There are some things a golden carrot just can't balance out. 

It's such a disgusting taste he doesn't notice the shimmering feeling, instead focusing his attention on scraping a thin layer of translucent brown sugar-mushroom-spider ick off his tongue. Not until: 

"Tommy?" "Y- Bleh- Yeah?" "Oh!" Tubbo waves his arms in a wild arc, smile growing, before his hand collides with Tommy's arm, and he picks up Tommy's wrist. "It worked!" "What do you- Ohhh..." 

If he blurs his vision, Tubbo's fingers circle around nothing. If he looks properly, he can just about see the edges of his wrist, the lines of his shirt sleeve. "Dude, how does that work?" "Which bit?" "Clothes. My clothes didn't drink it too." "Dude, I dunno... My turn!" 

They learn to spot the tiny signs of an invisible person. They learn to disguise them. Tommy tries to tackle Tubbo and misses completely, and both of them fall about laughing. 

Call that a drug van success story. 

--- 

He sprints past it, hoping they aren’t following, panic filling his bloodstream. He chugs the potion as he runs, drops spilling down his front, staining his navy coat with off-white shadows as he shimmers and disappears into thin air. 

Please don’t see me, please don’t see me.

He stumbles into the shallow waters of the lake, wading - disturbing the water, too many signs, you're gonna be seen - towards Tubbo's tunnel. He takes three steps and slips under the surface, landing on his hands and knees on the tunnel floor, waiting, waiting- Where are they? 

There's the sound of an arrow seeking its mark and hitting true, and for a split second Tommy sees an arm with deft fingers and a dark blue sleeve fall over the side of the entrance, and then the body is gone and shit shit shit- 

Tommy sticks his head back out- Who was that? Wilbur? Tubbo? He feels the shimmering feeling again - "a quick escape", where are the others - and slowly drops back to the tunnel floor. 

Make a decision, what if they find you, Little Laddy One Life? He walks away, opting to live to fight another day, hoping that his friends will join him soon. 

--- 

Funnily though, while clothes disappear with the potion, armour doesn't. He doesn't know why; he's not smart enough to. And right now, as he yanks the shoulder straps of his chestplate tight, he doesn't really care. 

"Stop!" They don't stop, voices mostly drowned out by the overwhelming sound of rushing water. Dream, his face also hidden, but by his signature mask as opposed to the magic of an invisibility potion, holds his hand towards Tubbo and tells him "I need the disc." Tommy crests the wreckage of the Community House, no longer attempting to stay hidden as the water thunders down around his ankles, pulling him towards the platform in the centre. It's a bizarre version of the Pit. It’s an arena. It's a stage. 

"No!" He screams, as Tubbo takes half a step back towards the ender chest. Heads snap to his position, looking at the empty suit of armour that's just appeared beside and above them. Tubbo stutters something in quiet disbelief, and between that and the sudden attention, Tommy falters. If he took off his armour now, could he get out of there? Or would the same fate that once befell Wilbur catch him? The blame for this building is on him, after all. 

He jumps in, landing on his feet between Dream and the cabinet of L'Manberg. He is caught in the crossfire of their questions: "Tommy?" "Is that Tommy?" 

He shouts, and he screams, and he revolves like a merry-go-round, trying to keep his eyes on everyone, not trusting that his armour'll be enough to protect him from the sheer amount of enemies about. So many people hate him, he realises, it's 30 v 2. Technoblade would like those odds. Technoblade, who's standing beside him, not invisible because he went to get milk. He likes the protection; he thinks. 

They don't listen. Tubbo keeps insisting he betrayed them all by teaming with Techno, that he betrayed L'Manberg, but they don't understand, he didn't have a choice, "You don't know what he did to me in exile." Tubbo has the disc in his hands, and without having an inkling of where Dream's eyes are, he watches him consider simply snatching it from Tubbo's hands. 

"You're not gonna give him the disc." Tubbo looks at him like it's a dare, and why can't he see? Tommy's practically crying with the effort and exertion of watching his best friend betray him in slow motion, of being this close to his abuser, of being blamed for something he didn't do, of being beaten down every time he gets on his damn feet. 

"I don’t need to prove myself to you. This wasn’t me. Trust me. Jesus— for once in your life, Tubbo, trust me." Tubbo's eyes are cold, his mind made up. What happened to us against the world?  "I did trust you. Once. The first time all of this happened. And I won’t make the same mistake twice." 

There's a little moment where time stops, and everyone draws nearer like a crowd at the coliseum, and Tommy feels his invisibility ripple slightly, warning him it's about to wear off. Who the fuck cares. 

Tubbo takes a step towards Dream, and Tommy lunges to put himself between them. "Don't you dare." Tubbo's hand goes to his axe. "You betrayed me, Tubbo, you- Did you just-" Both of their eyes are on Tubbo’s weapon, when he puts the disc away, staring Tommy down plainly with his one hand returning to the axe at his waist, and the other taking out his shield. "I didn't betray you." His voice is level, all business. Okay then, Mr President.

"You betrayed everything that you'd built with presidents prior." Tommy's anger, and hurt, and frustration, and pain finally boils over, so much so that it's visible in the way he shakes as he brings out his axe. "You know what?" He bites into a golden apple, feeling its effects drown out the rushing water and the shimmering sensation of his invis. "You've got your axe up." Technoblade’s tone is surprised but light as he tells Tommy to make this decision wisely, but he’s already gone, his safety and conscience be damned. He throws himself at Tubbo, brandishing his axe as the pigman taught him, like he once practised with the brown-haired boy he’s swinging at, thinking You say I betrayed you? I'll show you a traitor. 

Poetically, perhaps, it's less like a fight, and more like a dance. They are a whirlwind - a hurricane - clashing and blocking and pushing and shoving across the otherwise empty floor. Somewhere in the gushing water, Technoblade's bloodlust has seized him, and he's gone for the L'Manbergians and the festival-goers and the unrelated parties that came when they saw the destruction, and he's scattering them this way and that, but who cares about that? 

They are not equally matched. Tommy shakes too much: there is too much of him vulnerable here, not just his mortality, something that neither invisibility nor armour can keep from being scratched and damaged. He's losing. He's quite badly losing, despite Tubbo's inferior armour and weapons and allies, and he leaps into the nearest watery wall, letting the Respiration helmet Techno made for him protect him as the water drags him under and away from his attacker. His best friend. He bites into another golden apple, his pleas swallowed by the torrent. He still hears Tubbo's shout though, permeating the water and being relayed through his communicator from wherever Techno is. 

"Where are you?" 

He pops back up, shaking and soaking wet and sees a familiar sight: an old friend, a brother - once - staring him down with death in his eyes from behind brown hair. He was wrong, oh so wrong, all those weeks ago: at once he is Schlatt, alone at the end of his days, and there's Wilbur, old pals who'll be the death of each other. No. 

No. 

"I didn’t betray you, you teamed up with the very person that destroyed us the first time!" He feels his invis shimmer one more time, and the timing is immaculate, really. Cinematic, one might say. 

"I went for the discs— Tubbo, the discs— The discs were worth more than you ever were!" "No... Wh- Th-" The world stands still, and it feels so good, it's so good to finally say it, to watch Tubbo's face fall, his shield slipping from his hand, listen to the reactions around their little arena, watch as Tubbo shuts his mouth and yanks on the strap of his chestplate and lets it drop to the floor, leaving him defenceless and open to attack and wait- no- wait- 

Mutely, Tommy’s gaze drifts skyward, and it should feel good because they know now, they know how he feels, but it's not, it's not good because that- that wasn't true. That wasn't right. 

And he looks back at Tubbo, and finally, finally, his invis runs out, and he hopes it shows on his face, that he knows he's fucked up because Tubbo looks destroyed, and a shiver goes through him because he no longer looks angry he just- He just looks sad. 

He takes off his helmet, breathing heavily from the ache and exertion, heart burning in regret. 

‘The discs were worth more than you ever were.’

How do you fix that? For one crazy moment, he considers the invis again. Turning translucent and running, back to Techno- back to Technoblade who'd congratulate him on 'moving on' and tell Phil like he was proud and probably write that line on the fucking wall, how could he be such a monumental ass- 

"Tubbo?" Their eyes meet. Tubbo says nothing. 

"Give him the disc." 

He looks bewildered, "You want me to give Dream the disc?" He says, the tiniest sliver of something they used to have peeking through, the bearest hint of kindness, and bless him, it's more than Tommy deserves. It makes him want to go invisible again. 

He smiles softly, and it can't reach his eyes, but he pours every ounce of good left in him into it and desperately hopes it's enough.

"Yeah." And because he's fucked up, because he knows they can never go back from this: "I'm sorry Tubbo." 

--- 

He's done it again, he keeps fucking up. Sam's hand is holding him down by the shoulder, firm fingers digging into him, keeping him from reaching Ghostbur. 

He tried so hard. His throat is sore from not coughing. His muscles hurt from the pure tension and adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, from his stubborn heart to the ends of his fingers and toes. He thought he'd gotten caught when he drank the potion in the waivers room, and his heart had been beating so loud that he'd thought Sam could hear it. 

Yet, they made it. But it doesn't matter, because he pulled out the axe too early, and now he's busted, and Sam's gonna kill him or Wilbur's going to come back or both, and it's all his fault. 

Every time he tries. Every time he tries to fix things, or do what's right, or have something for himself, it's taken away, destroyed and he's kicked to the ground. Every time. 

It's enough to make anyone want to be invisible.

[thestanfoubrew]

When Someone Clings to My Apron Strings

This is a late Valentine’s Day gift for @ginnyweatherby who is the absolute light of my life, inspiring me with he sweet stories and her great headcanons. All of these fics are based on her stories, so I highly recommend checking them. The way she details love in her story - not just the love between Stanley and Lefou but between father and children - is amazing and obviously is the source for each of these little ficlets. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovelies~

‘Older’

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.

The foolish days of youth were melting past Lefou faster than he expected them to ever. But these were the days to stumble through life, unsure, and to take a few missteps because, for the most part, you’d catch yourself and carry-on.

He wasn’t exactly irresponsible. He wasn’t exactly responsible, either.

With the crowd he hung around, the loud-mouth, rowdy group of theater majors married with the reckless antics of Gaston, he wasn’t quite on the straight and narrow.

His grades were decent enough. He went home to see his family every other weekend.

But he drank.

And partied.

And fell into strange beds.

But he used protection. Always used protection.

Except he didn't. Not when it mattered.

Twenty-two.

And so on the night when he’s supposed to be commemorating his youth, celebrating another hedonistic and carefree year, he is sitting across from the girl he fooled around with on her extra-long twin bed, a white stick between them.

Her face that night had been so lovely.

(He had been so drunk.)

She laughed at everything he said.

(Everyone was always raving about how good it was.)

She invited her back to the girls' floor.

(He gave it a shot.)

But tonight, on his twenty-second birthday, she’s not laughing at what he’s said at all. Her face is red and blotchy and not glowing like everyone said it would. She was freaking out on the phone when she called him about this.

Twenty-two years old and in the little pink plus sign, his life as he knew it is gone.

And something new is starting.

One.

***

‘Reaching’

It was alien like, this little box for babies. Cold, hard plastic surrounded her, tubes and wires connected to oxygen tanks and heart monitors escaped through the little holes. These holes, two on each side, were a child’s only window to the outside, human world. These holes were only large enough for a hand to go inside and touch the baby inside.

Not hold. Not kiss. Touch. Gently.

Lefou’s baby, the unexpected visitor they were, was supposed to be held and kissed. They were unexpected, unplanned for, but by God were they going to be surrounded by a tiny village who loved them more than anything.

They weren’t supposed to be here. In a glass box. With an enormous scar down their tiny front.

Lefou and Madeline had a meeting with the pediatrician outside the NICU to talk about what was the best option for their baby’s life, which only hours before had hung in the balance as surgeons cut through new skin and tried to fix an already broken organ. But she was here. (For now.) And while her Maman and Papa were out, Uncle Gaston was going to keep watch.

“Hey there, buddy,” Gaston said softly. Lefou’s baby was a little girl - surprising at least Lefou who had convinced himself that he’d be having a son - and therefore, wasn’t exactly Gaston’s little buddy. The boy they had dreamed up, the one who would watch sports, the one he’d teach how to wrestle, the one he’d convince Lefou and Madeline to get a big dog for, wasn’t here. But a sick little girl who needed his love was.

And at that moment, little Charlotte balled her tiny hand into a fist, flailing it outside her little portal, offering it to him.

Gaston smiled.

She wanted a fist bump.

His little buddy after all.

***

‘Bright Blue’

“Charlotte! Charlotte Mae, look at Papa!”

His daughter - no more than two - was clearly showing off the dramatic flair she had inherited. She was leaning up against the wooden frame of the beach house, posing in her new blue, off the shoulder, striped romper like she was twenty-two. And Lefou, of course, was taking photographs with the aid of his lovely assistant, Jacqueline.

(Jacqueline had made the romper, too. She had a talent in sewing, but having a model with such miniature proportions definitely increased the volume of clothing she produced. And Lefou could tell that she took great effort to make something sweet

Still, she had her critics. “In my day, toddlers didn’t go around looking like they just stepped out of Vogue,” Madeline’s mother hummed when she saw her granddaughter make her grand entrance in her new ensemble. “They wore overalls and dresses with bunnies on them.”

Although, of course, Charlotte had her own fair share of corduroys and bunny dresses.)

Charlotte didn’t look. Instead, she tossed her thick, dark, curly hair - her hair that had been the reason behind Madeline’s mad case of heartburn when she was pregnant - to the side. Like she knew what she was doing.

Lefou’s genetics hard at work.

He laughed to himself and instead snapped one of her looking off into the distance.

These are the photos that, in twenty years, she’d actually be proud to show off.

***

‘Reflection’

A small town meant a larger number of people who heard the latest news - be it legitimate fact or whispered gossip. But Stanley Bernard becoming a single father at twenty-five was entirely true. And sure enough, when he ventured outside to the town’s early-summer festival with a baby wrap slung around himself and a wide-eyed infant peering at all the hustle and bustle, everyone began to talk even more.

That just how small towns were.

So young.

Couldn’t he have waited?

A baby needs two parents.

The funny thing about fatherhood was how much like his mother he had become. With her four kids, Fleur was always like a mama bird, keeping a close eye on them and shielding them with her wings. Stanley’s own wings were still fresh and downy - barely out of his adolescent phase himself - but they were there to wrap around Emilien.

They were a team, the two of them. Though the nights were sleepless and the days were long, there was no better joy than those moments he catches on film of Emilien laughing, smiling that toothless smile as he takes a picture of them together, his son on his shoulders, sporting a grin that’s not quite so toothless.

Never happier.

***

‘Companion’

It had been six years since Lefou had a baby at his hip. He had never anticipated another one. It was unlikely he’d ever fall into a situation that would grant him another child very soon, but it was clear that the ways of the universe were mysterious to him.

And of course, he never planned on a baby that was so different from his first. Charlotte Mae was just as wild and spontaneous as her dark curls but Bartholomew Elijah was calm, always pink-cheeked and staring around at the world with bleary blue eyes.

He hardly cried. He just let things happen. As long as he was close to his Papa, he could do anything.

And that was why, when he was introduced to Madeline’s dog, a Saint-Bernard that had a much different approach to the world, he didn’t freak out at this enormous creature dead-set on sniffing him. He just let her be. And with his peaceful nature, the new dog seemed to calm down as well.

Lefou smiled as he adjusted his grip on his son.

It was nice, after this disruption of his life, to know that this little boy could ground him even more.

***

‘Morning Light’

Once the boys had transitioned from waking up at the crack of dawn, eagerly awaiting what brand new things Saturday morning would bring, to finally realizing there was nothing glamorous or thrilling about six am, Lefou and Stanley thought they’d get back to normal human sleeping patterns. Then, of course, came along two little girls who were the unconventional last two pieces they needed in their family jigsaw puzzle.

Michelle, their sweet little surprise, couldn’t go through life without a companion. Barney and Emilien - though not siblings from birth - had become brothers in the three years time since their lives became one. Therefore, when the stork came knocking at their front door with Camille in tow,  (and for a couple who could not conceive on their own, that damn bird presented with them with so many offers away) they couldn’t turn her away.

And sure. It was hard sleeping in a room with two cribs, two babies, two constant alarms that could never synchronize their feedings and changing. But as Lefou lays in bed with a Camille swaddled up beside him, dozing off after a long night with an upset tummy, and Michelle, somehow alert after struggling to sleep through the crying, sitting and watching her sister in fascination. She had no ill will that this baby kept her up. She was just happy to see her.

Enough to - bless her heart - lean down and kiss the baby’s forehead when Stanley, from the other side of this Lefou/Camille/Michelle/Stanley sandwich - coaxed her.

Yep. This was worth it.

***