Chapter Text
Tommy was born prematurely – 'her little miracle,' they would call him. Only he stole much more than her miracle.
At five years old, Tommy considered himself a genius. The lilting praise of his mother as he finally finished the hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle. His father's full-bodied laugh when he found one of Tommy's exquisite pictures – covered in all the different hues of red – instead of the important work document that was supposed to be submitted that day. Phil certainly didn't care when the picture found its home in the middle of the fridge the next morning. But what little Tommy was most proud of had nothing to do with his mental prowess or the Picasso-level drawings. It was the humble title of the 'cool younger brother' – one that Wilbur easily gave out with a smug twist of his lips as Techno manhandled – boyhandled – a particularly mean child on the playground who had the guts to go up in Tommy's face about this or that. Tommy might have thought himself invincible with the twins on his side.
At six years old, doubts crept in. The plastic stethoscope that hung around his neck no longer brought the immediate cure his family led him to believe. It did nothing to ease the now permanently tout expression that marred his mom's face. The drawings once proudly presented around the house were now piled in a drawer – many littered with browned circles of coffee cups left on for too long. There will be a point when even the best of artists realize their work has lost its meaning and will forever put the brush down. The thing was, Tommy could survive without the wafting smell of pancakes or eggs in the morning. He could ask for a piece of tape and hang the drawings above his bed as posters.
What he couldn't replace was the title of the 'cool younger brother.' Instead, he had to learn to accept a new title – annoying, brat, gremlin, go away. The last one wasn't a new name he'd been given, more so the only thing that greeted Tommy upon siding up with the younger of the twins. Techno's cold shoulder hurt, but nothing left more invisible scars than Wilbur's passing looks. The two were always much closer, so it was that much more of a surprise when the gentle caress turned into sharp nails in his arm.
Tommy could do this if only because of Tubbo.
At six years and two months old, all doors in his life shut for the last time, an echoing tremor that just might have shattered a soul.
No matter what anyone said, Tommy was a genius.
⁂
Disinfectant lingered in the air, and the white of the walls sucked all the remaining life from the room. Or it usually would, saved by the presence of a fresh bouquet at the bedside table that offered a vibrant burst of color against the clinical backdrop. Phil has kept to the tradition of bringing fresh flowers for their every visit, both because of the smile that bloomed on Kristin's face, as well as the irrational fear of wilted petunias at his wife's bedside.
Over the past few months, the hospital has become a sort of sanctuary for the Craft family. Phil would smile the smile he used to wear before their life turned upside down. The twins briefly shrugged off the seemingly perpetual hostility, and Wilbur's guitar occasionally filled the air with soft music.
Tommy was young – too young to understand the severity of his situation. Everyone's return to their old selves sparked a flicker of hope within his chest, tranquility he could no longer find at home.
Tommy nestled himself comfortably under Kristin's arm, blue eyes sparkling with the soft tune of the guitar. "Could you play the Able Sisters tune?" The growing flicker of hope was snuffed with a startled spasm of Wilbur's hand on his guitar. His sheepish smile to Kristin flickered with the icy brown of a frozen land.
"Where is your DS, Tommy?" Mom's hand momentarily tightened around Tommy's shoulders. "You used to blast its music all the time." The mirth in her voice pulled a chuckle from everyone around the bed, a bitter reminder of how they used to be.
Wilbur's hand stilled on the strings, silence momentarily blanketing the room. It didn't last long, as soft, tentative strums tested the new chords. The Able Sisters' tune began to hum softly from the guitar, but the joy of recognition faded from Tommy's eyes.
"I–"
"It's okay, Toms." Kristin's whispers tickled the halo of his hair. "Wilbur is hurting, and there is this big anger swelling inside his chest." Oblivious to the private conversation between his mom and his younger brother, Wilbur continued playing the guitar.
"Why is he angry at me?" Tommy's voice carefully edged on a whine, but the sound was swallowed by Kristin's soft sweater. "He's not angry at you, Toms." She seemed to consider how to continue. "He is angry at the whole world."
Tommy's heart fluttered with recognition, as he, too, was often angry at the whole world for taking away his family. It didn't ease the pain twisting in his chest, but rarely anything did these days. "Will I also be angry when I am older?"
Kristin laughed, the rise and fall of her chest jostling Tommy to sit up. "I hope not." He clung to the soft uplift of his mother's smile – it dipped for a scary moment – which morphed into a quiet chuckle at her next train of thought. "Phil wouldn't know how to handle you."
The arm around Tommy's shoulders snaked upwards, hand gently squeezing his supple cheeks. "You'd be a menace."
"I'd be a menace." He parroted with distorted speech and received a kiss on the crown of his head. Warmth melted from the spot her lips touched his skin, and he enjoyed the carefree atmosphere of their private, two-person bubble.
Wilbur's hand stilled on the guitar – he still refused to play in front of anyone other than his family – as a knock infiltrated the privacy of their closed doors. A nurse made her way over to the bed, a distinct smile stretching her lips. A smile that meant she was going to politely ask them to leave the room for the day. They'd done this dance many times before, so to her relief, no words had to be spoken to the visiting family.
While Phil and the twins were collecting their jackets and empty food containers – as if it didn't strip the already bare hospital room of its last flickering illusion of a home – Tommy soaked in his mom's attention for the final moments.
"Don't be too sad, my baby," Tommy swore to himself that he would try. "Until they come around–" She gave a longing look at the turned backs of her husband and two older sons. "Just remember that Tubbo will always be there for you."
Tommy's fist closed around the small bee plush hiding in the pocket of his hoodie until now, suddenly bitter at his apparent disregard for his friend.
As the door clicked shut behind the departing nurse – last chance for privacy – Tommy slid down the side of the bed without a railing, allowing the rest of the Craft family to say their goodbyes to their mother and wife.
"I love you, my boys," Kristin called out through a settling haze, one last goodbye to the retreating backs of her family.
Tommy's only wish is that he had said it back.
⁂
When people announce the passing of someone, it is usually when one is cozy at home, ready to break down and embrace their family. Others whisper sweet nothings as a hand grows progressively colder in their grasp. The Craft family had none of that.
Instead, it was an ill-received phone call on a highway ramp. It took all of Phil's self-control not to veer the car into the railings, an ill-borne impulse to follow the love of his life. Wilbur wept openly, a hand scrubbing uselessly at the falling tears. Technoblade naively faced the darkened window, but its reflection betrayed the streams of silver tears down his cheeks.
And their youngest was left unaware, soundly asleep in the lingering warmth of his mother's embrace. Nothing could stir him from the sweet reprieve of his dreams.
The car lurched to a stop in their paved driveway, Phil barking orders to get in the house and take care of their brother. He tossed the car keys to Techno, who was frozen in the passenger seat. At the same time, Phil pulled another set to unlock the smaller, black – more appropriately colored – car that he usually took to work instead of the family SUV.
Without as much as a cursory glance behind, the twins stumbled out of the car, Wilbur's arm draped over his brother's shoulders being the only thing holding him up. The car lock clicked into place behind them, unaware of the sleeping bundle in the back seat.
Nothing happened for the next two hours except the soft weeping barely audible from behind the shut curtains. The only other sign of life from within the house was the small living room lamp bathing the evening in soft orange hues.
Icy needles slowly brought Tommy back to consciousness, the biting cold seeping into his small fingers and toes. An experimental stretch left him feeling stiff and almost numb, except for the shooting flashes of burning white agony. "D–dad?"
Tommy called for his brothers when his pleas remained unanswered for a long time. They didn't like him as much as they used to, but they would never go as far as to forget about him, right?
Right?
With no one coming to open the door – at this point, Tommy was expecting Wilbur to jump in the car and explain this situation as an excessive prank – panic began to well up. What was first a flicker of unease caved into a hungry black ravine that swallowed any remaining rationale. It's no longer just a feeling but a physical sensation, gripping his chest like a vise.
Tommy's breath became shallow and rapid; each inhale feeling insufficient, almost suffocating. The surroundings seem to blur, focus narrowing down to the urgency of finding a way out – getting out of the ever-tightening buckles of his child seat straps. The tremor in his frost-stiffened fingers made it difficult to grasp the buckle, each attempt to push it down shooting pain up his aching arms.
"DAD!" The scream barely made it past the cage of their family car. "Wilby! Techno! Please!" His sobs turned ugly, staining the cuffs of his sleeves, which only helped to spread the cold from his hands up his arms. "Please, it hurts!" He didn't dare knock on the windows, small hands safely tucked away in the only remaining pocket of warmth.
When no one answered his desperate calls, his frantic calls met with deafening silence, and his desperate wails gradually turned into subdued sniffles as he struggled to preserve any remaining energy.
"I– I promise I won't b–b–bother you anymore." Tommy whimpered between sobs, his voice quivering with both despair and resignation.
"Tubbo–" A flicker of his friend's chocolate brown hair passed just by the edge of the car window. He would tell his family that they had forgotten Tommy in the car.
The next thing that broke the veil of his awareness was his dad's warm – why was it burning – hand, the straw blond of his shoulder-length hair tickling the side of Tommy's face as he lay numbly on his shoulder.
"Fuck!" Phil said eloquently, and the boy would have laughed if he wasn't so tired. Instead, he passively watched Tubbo trailing behind them, a grim set to his face. "I'm okay." Tommy smiled through his chattering teeth, but the brunette didn't deem a response.
"Oh, Toms…" Phil's hand trembled slightly as he patted his son's back. The show of comfort was left without a response, a true testament to the severity of their situation. He stripped Tommy of the thin sweater – why was it the only thing he wore – and hung it over a nearby chair.
"Technoblade, warm up a glass of milk." Nothing else had to be said; the younger of the twins was happy for something to do. Meanwhile, Wilbur's eyes were wide and glassy as he hovered at the edge of the sofa.
"Give me the blanket." Wilbur reached out with the spare that was sitting right next to him, but his father shook his head. "The one you have." He looked down in confusion at the piece of fabric, so Phil clarified. "It's warmer, and I need to warm up your brother as fast as possible."
Phil also removed his much more temperature-appropriate jacket. He placed Tommy tight against his chest, using the warm blanket to cover them both. He eased himself onto the couch, breathing a steadying breath.
The forced exhale ghosted Tommy's exposed cheek, his eyes fluttering awake. "Tommy – Toms! Can you hear me?" The boy could hear, but his mind was floating in the thick maple syrup that Mom used to serve for breakfast. In the haze of contentment, Tommy was ready to fall back to the comfortable oblivion of sleep.
"No, no, no… don't fall asleep, baby." Phil's voice quivered with a mixture of fear and urgency, his grip tightening slightly on Tommy's shoulders. He tried to speak, but his parched throat only managed a hoarse whisper. "Dad..." The word barely escaped his lips before a fit of shivers shook his weakened frame. It seemed that the cold finally caught up with him and, with it, the pain.
"Dad!" Tommy's shrill voice lighted Phil's growing panic like gasoline, but all he could do was hold his son closer. "It hurts! It hurts so bad." Wails tore through the silent house, only partially muffled by the blanket and Phil's crooked shirt.
"I know, I know, Toms," Phil murmured, his voice thick with pain and helplessness. A warm tear stained the boy's temple, but it was soon lost among the sea of Tommy's own pain. "I've got you. I'm here."
"Mom! I want Mom!" The once gentle embrace around his shaking shoulders stiffened. "I know, I know. I'm sorry." Phil whispered, his own voice trembling.
Minutes went by with little change. Tommy's exhausted sobs merged with Wilbur's stifled ones, their cries a symphony of grief that twisted the family from within. Slowly, heat seeped back into Tommy's aching fingers, and he no longer shivered uncontrollably. A warm hand pressed to the crown of his head, and when he looked up, Phil was smiling that stifled, awkward smile that didn't seem to leave his face these days, but Tommy clung to it anyway.
"Hi there, Toms." He laughed wetly, and when their eyes met, Phil wiped some of the stray tears away. "Would you like something warm to drink? Techno warmed up some milk for you." Tommy nodded imperceptibly, gently pushing himself up from his dad's embrace. However, he was still comfortably situated in his lap with a warm blanket draped over both of their shoulders.
Technoblade entered their field of vision, an air of concern visible beneath his typically stoic facade. His furrowed brows attempted to mask his emotions, but his trembling hands betrayed his inner feelings. He hesitated at the threshold, expression a mixture of concern and a desire to be of help. His gaze flickered nervously between Phil and Tommy.
"Hey, Techno," Phil greeted, his tone carrying a faint attempt at normalcy. And to also be of some comfort to the twins. Techno nodded, his usually unwavering composure faltering slightly. "Hey," he responded, his voice subdued.
Phil gestured toward the steaming mug in his son's hands. "Thanks for this," he said, a glint of gratitude in his eyes. Techno nodded again, a wordless acknowledgment, before handing Tommy the warm drink. The warmth seeped through his fingers, gradually soothing the ache of the cold that had settled deep within him.
"Where is Tubbo?" Tommy asked between small sips. Phil looked confused momentarily, looking around the room before settling on a chair nearby. "He's right here." Tommy followed his gaze and smiled at the boy awkwardly sitting close by, his hands fidgeting with a loose strand of his green sweater.
"Sorry, big man, I didn't know how to help."
"'s fine." Silence hung between them, but it wasn't tense. It didn't strangle him the same way that his family did whenever he found himself alone with any of them.
"I–I guess I'll go now." Tommy untangled his hand from the mess of the blankets, waving a small goodbye. Tubbo waved back, soon disappearing from his view as he entered the foyer. He never heard the door shut behind his friend.
Amidst the calming atmosphere that settled over the room like a heavy blanket, it was occasionally punctured by Wilbur's silent sobs and rough scratch of fabric against soft skin. No matter how exhausted Tommy felt at that moment, the raw panic in his brother's eyes was unmistakable. When their eyes met, Wilbur's body shuddered, and his gaze immediately flickered to the side as if unable to bear the weight of the moment.
"I didn't mean to." Wilbur's voice trembled, barely audible amid the hushed atmosphere that enveloped the room.
"I didn't leave Tommy on purpose," he stammered, his voice cracking with emotion. Each word seemed to carry the weight of an unbearable guilt that weighed heavily upon him.
"I know, Wilbur." Something fractured deep within Wilbur's eyes, and he curled tighter into himself. Tommy felt more than seeing his dad reach out across the chasm of an empty sofa seat and pull his oldest son to his side. Wilbur clung to his father without any more prompting, crumpling the already disheveled shirt even more.
In the haze of descending sleep, there was one last crucial part missing from this moment – one very awkward Technoblade. Usually reserved and distant, the boy's fingers twitched imperceptibly, fraying the edges of his worn mask.
Another weight lifted off of Tommy's back, letting the cold seep back even through the thick layer of his blanket. A moment later, another weight joined them on the small couch, and the heat of his older brother's side enveloped him as well.
Tommy let himself get lost in the comfort of their closeness, eased by the stuttering heartbeat against his cheek and the soft exhale that fluttered his blond hair. Edging the line between sleep and consciousness, dampness clung to his hair, gently pressing it against his forehead.
Tommy has cried himself to sleep enough times in the past few months to recognize the pain that slowly carved valleys on his dad's face. As a distant thought, the boy was consoled that his dad wasn't alone in his misery.
⁂
Tommy stirred from a restless sleep on the sofa, arm momentarily numb from an awkward position supporting his head. Phil was gone, which wasn't really a surprise, but the twins were a tangled mess of limbs just inches away from Tommy's own spot on the couch. There was something intimate about their closeness, the comfort they instilled in each other – it made the boy slightly jealous.
Because of the overwhelming nature of yesterday's evening, Tommy has woken up hungry, starved ever since the small slice of toast that they shared at the hospital. Unwilling to disturb the rare peace between the twins, he carefully slid down the couch and made his way to the kitchen.
The lack of any indicative smell should have alarmed him to the lack of food in the kitchen. Even though mom had left for the hospital some weeks ago, Phil always made sure that there would be a warm breakfast for them to share every morning. The gaping emptiness of the kitchen spurred him to seek his dad in his room.
Artfully avoiding the creaky floorboards of the wooden staircase, Tommy cracked a sliver in his parents' bedroom door. Gentle rays of the late afternoon sun cut through the small crack in the thick curtains, illuminating the dancing dust. With Phil's blond hair, he could play the next sleeping beauty – if he was a girl, that is. Tommy snickered.
He came right in front of Phil's face, gently brushing the golden strands of hair away from his face just as his dad had done for him many times before. The man grumbled, eyes barely cracking open. "Dad, I'm hungry," he whispered, nudging Phil gently.
Phil grumbled sleepily, swatting Tommy's hand away. "Go ask your brothers, Tommy," he mumbled, shifting in bed and pulling the covers over his head; whether to hide from the gentle light or from Tommy would remain forever a mystery.
As Tommy stood by Phil's bedside, a flicker of hurt crossed his face, shadowing his features momentarily. He hesitated, disturbed by the jarring shift of their morning routine. But his stomach churned with hunger, which he could no longer ignore.
With a heavy sigh, Tommy padded back to the living room to wake up at least one of his brothers. Techno was the better cook out of the twins. Still, unsurprisingly, he was already gone from the living room – probably his bedroom. Wilbur wasn't a bad cook per se; he just preferred to stick to the easy recipes.
"Wilby, I'm hungry," Tommy called in a hushed tone, nudging Wilbur's shoulder gently. His brother stirred, eyelids fluttering as he gradually surfaced from sleep.
"Mmm, Tommy?" Wilbur mumbled, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at his younger brother. "I'm hungry," Tommy repeated louder.
Wilbur's expression shifted from groggy confusion to concern. "Oh, uh, Phil usually..." His voice trailed off as if he realized something, and then a flicker of hurt flashed across his face before determination settled in. "I'll take care of it. Give me a moment."
It was an incomplete mask, hardly concealing the stolen glances towards Tommy as he waited patiently in his designated chair at the kitchen table. After a while, Wilbur shuffled over to where his brother was waiting, a plate balanced precariously in his hand. A meager serving of toast adorned the plate, looking barely enough to quell the gnawing hunger in Tommy's belly.
"Here you go," Wilbur said softly, offering the plate with a hesitant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks, Wilby," Tommy murmured appreciatively, and something softened in his older brother at the use of his nickname. He then disappeared back to the kitchen, reappearing with a second serving for himself. Although the contents of the plate were far from what he was used to, Tommy dug in with the appetite of a starved man.
They shared the space in silence, only disturbed by the crunch of their plain breakfast. Despite starting later, Wilbur, being the larger of the two, finished his portion first, his restless fingers idly picking at his nails as he waited. An air of discomfort lingered around him, an unspoken tension that seemed to tie his movements in knots. When Tommy finished his meager breakfast – which did not satisfy his hunger in any way – he looked to his older brother with hope in his eyes. "Can we go watch Up?"
It was the Craft family's favorite movie. They used to watch it every other weekend, all five of them spread across the two adjacent couches, enjoying each other's company. Rightfully so, Tommy assumed that this was exactly what his family needed: to spend some quality time together.
Yet, instead of immediate agreement, Wilbur's response was unexpected. His reaction was almost visceral, a sudden recoil as if startled. Panic flickered in his eyes, arms jolting out to steady himself against the table's edge. "I'm so sorry, Tommy," he uttered, a note of distress lacing his apology. Abruptly, he gathered their now-empty plates, the clatter breaking the uncomfortable silence. Without another word, he hastily dumped the dishes in the sink, retreating upstairs, leaving Tommy alone with a tangle of confusion and disappointment.
With a flicker of naive hope, Tommy lingered in the kitchen for a while, perhaps expecting him to return, put on the movie, and spend the afternoon in a close embrace. But time stretched on – minutes feeling like hours – but Wilbur never returned.
Unable to grasp the concept of reading time, Tommy was left in the stifling silence. The changing shadows danced across the kitchen floor, a testament to the passing hours, while the hard wooden chair slowly dug into his back, a constant reminder of his discomfort.
The sound of footsteps drew Tommy's attention, and it was like gunshots against the serenity of the house. Technoblade rounded the corner to the kitchen, having grown hungry enough to chance the interaction with his family. Still, he was startled by Tommy's presence, and his normally stoic expression momentarily faltered upon seeing his younger brother.
Left confused by the strained interaction with Wilbur over breakfast, Tommy suddenly felt uncertain about his relationship with Techno. Hoping to bridge the gap, he ventured to ask a general question, attempting to break the ice. "When are we going to visit Mom in the hospital?" he inquired, hoping for a simple, comforting answer.
However, Techno's response was also unexpected, mirroring Wilbur's earlier reaction – they're twins, after all. His eyes widened, and he stumbled backward, catching himself against the kitchen counter.
"Tommy, Mom died yesterday," he blurted out, the words heavy with shock and confusion.
"What?"