Archive of Our Own

There’s three things in life that no matter who you are or what you’ve been through, you cannot deny: one - soulmates are real and two, so is magic. Three is that you will always, always find them. Always.

Tommy… doesn’t really like this fact.

Neither do his parents.

They didn’t exactly have the best experiences involving their own soulmates—it made them incredibly bitter. His mother’s died a week after they found each other, slipping from her hands before she even knew what she was holding. His father’s was a cruel woman already married to an equally cruel man and he was forced to let her go, to step away back when he still believed in happy endings, in love.

He didn’t really say that word anymore—love, that is.

Tommy’s never heard it from the man’s mouth anywhere but in old videos and from secondhand stories passed down by family friends or coworkers. Or, well, when his father had gotten drunk one night, pulled him close with an iron grip over his shoulder and asked, “you know you can’t be loved, son? It doesn’t exist. Love doesn’t exist for people like us.”

His mother, scowling as she swatted away beer-stained hands, had to drag his frozen figure back to his room. She didn’t comment on the tears in his eyes or the hurt lining his face.

She agreed, after all.

He doesn’t think his parents have ever loved each other. Marriage was just convenient for them, it got his grandparents to leave them alone and gave them a better status.

They never loved him, either—just loved the idea that they could prove soulmates weren’t important, that they could make something in their lives, of their lives without them.

And, well, they weren’t wrong.

They’re just not right, either.

Tommy loved endlessly, he had a good life(ish). He had Tubbo and Ranboo and they cared for him just as much as he did them. They never ignored or belittled him, never thought of him as being less or incomplete just because he was alone or because they were already bonded together by a mental link and phantom-emotions, they understood him without any of that.

He could love. He could be loved.

It was just… hard to accept that sometimes, to remember.

Because he never grew up with it, never believed it. It’s been conditioned into him, the belief that he had no right, no innate worth, that made him capable of having someone care for him without conditions, without service, without blood.

Tommy never used to pay much attention to soulmates.

He didn’t really care about how or why certain people got paired together or why his parents held their heads in their hands sometimes—fingers pressing into their temples as hard as they could, feeling an invisible string and a silent plea stretching out into nothing, a one-sided call never to be answered, a chill of a cold soul running through their veins.

He didn’t learn about soulmates or their importance to a person’s health until his father fell ill, forced to meet after years of absence with his bonded until he got better again.

(He ignores the ache in his heart from how it was only supposed to be until his father got better. How his father got better but stayed away, stayed with his other half.

Is it selfish that it hurts?

Is it selfish to wish that he didn’t look like his father, just so maybe his mother will stop avoiding him? That she’ll look him in the eyes, that she’ll act like he exists again? That he wants to pretend he’s anything but a burden?)

He never learned about mental links or shared emotions or anything, really. Tommy didn’t really know how different he grew up until it was too late.

He remembers that, at six years old, he saw the other kids’ parents dropping them off at school with encouragement and warmth and hugs and an ‘I love you, have a good day, sweetie!’

Other kids thought it was normal.

He thought it was weirder than anything else he’d ever seen.

His parents never hugged him, his parents never said I love you, his parents never told him how brave he is or how proud of him they are. They didn’t have any family dinners that the children in his class would boast about, they didn’t have game nights or anything of the sort. His parents just… weren’t all that interested in anything family related.

Which was okay, honestly, Tommy didn’t mind or care—until it changed.

Until the disinterest turned into neglect, until the kids at school started to find their soulmates and he suddenly couldn’t hang out with them anymore, until his parents started going away for weeks at a time, until he went to bed hungry for days in a row because he just couldn’t bring himself to eat at an empty house, an empty table, a silent room.

Until there was no one to notice him waking up shaking from a nightmare that wasn’t his own, to notice the dark circles under dull eyes or the sluggish way he moved in the morning, until there was no one to remind him to take care of himself or to pick up his dirty laundry off the floor.

Until he learned to cook for himself, to fix the silence with music blasting from every corner of the living room, and piling blankets so high on himself he could pretend the warmth was from someone else instead of being built by desperation.

Until there was no one there at all.

Once, when his parents went away for a month, he ‘forgot’ to check in with them one day. He didn’t the next day or the day after that. A week went by, two. No calls or texts, no nothing. He forgot them, so they forgot him.

And he got bitter towards them, angry.

Because they were home once a month but not to stay. There’s always a bag packed by the door waiting to go, a rental car in the driveway. There’s take out and leftovers and they only talk about leaving or to comment on Tommy's behavior, how he should ‘do better’.

His father never stays because he has redefined his priorities in his life and Tommy isn’t high enough on the list. His mother never stays, he thinks, because she no longer knows how to exist in a place that never changes with a kid whom she never loved.

There is nothing for them in this house and they no longer pretend that he is enough for them to stay in it for.

They do not ask him how he is doing. They do not ask if he is eating enough. They don’t ask about his friends, his happiness, his hopes for the future. It goes like this: they’ll ask him if he’s met his soulmates and if so, how bad were they—as if he didn’t deserve something (someone) good.

As if he didn’t deserve a good soulmate, because they didn’t have one.

As if he didn’t deserve a good soulmate, as if he would be a bad soulmate himself.

And, slowly, he believed them.

He believed them until his no, I haven’t yet turned into an I hope I never meet them.

His parents never seemed to care about him; he didn’t deserve to be cared about. They got annoyed if they had to spend too much time around him; he was annoying. They couldn’t handle him most days; he was too much.

Too much but never enough.

They didn’t—as he slowly but painfully realized, as he grew up knowing something was different from the other parents he saw until it just clicked—love him.

Simple as that.

So Tommy didn’t deserve to be loved, but—he still could be. Ranboo and Tubbo, they loved him. It wasn’t as if he doubted their ability to love, it’s not as if he doubted that it’s something they are capable of.

It’s just, well, the doubt is that he himself is not capable of being loved.

That reason, among others, is why it is so utterly terrifying when he woke up at fourteen years old and looked at his soulmark—a burning phoenix—for the first time in years and it seemed to glow with some unearthly light.

It burned like the fire dancing over his skin was real.

But it wasn’t, it’s magic but that’s not how this magic works. Soulmarks were never ‘real’, they weren’t tangible or moveable like a table or plastic bag.

It felt real, though.

It made him dizzy, like he could just roll over and puke his guts out.

He refrained from doing so only because his foggy brain seemed to catch up with what was going on—then he felt sick for a whole new and rather intimidating reason. His soulmates had found one another, two of the three, maybe all three, had found each other. All three, one for each of the suns surrounding the bird, one pink, one yellow, one green.

They were glowing, a warm haunting light.

Tommy swallowed down the gasps that wanted to fall from his mouth and wiped the tears from his eyes. They’d be so disappointed when they found him

When they realize who their fourth is—

They couldn’t—they won’t want him—

They won't ever want him, he doesn't even want himself—

But it has to be okay, it has to be, he's fine—

This is fine.

This is fine. It’s going to be okay. Because… he doesn’t need them.

He has lived without his parents’ love, he can live without his soulmates'.

(A nasty part in the back of his head cackled at how much of a lie that is. At how pathetic it is he pretends this is living. Pretending that he is playing at anything more than survival. Than necessity.)

The first time it had happened, he was seven and the pink one had started to burn, the green soon following, the yellow pulsing but not as vibrant as the little tugs in his mind weaved and pulled. They were talking to each other, their presence in the back of his mind like a forgotten song he could never figure out the words to but knows each hum and note as if it were his own name.

They were loud, sometimes, hard to keep his walls up and sturdy around. Hard to keep out, hard to stay away from. They felt safe, warm.

And so many things in his life are cold.

But he can’t—he can’t follow those strings, can’t listen to the soft words in his head or the brush of emotions against his heart, has to ignore the flames forever etched into his skin, sometimes the only part of him that didn’t feel like ice—because if he did, his parents would hate him all the more.

Tommy can’t risk it, he can’t risk them leaving more, can’t risk them going away.

And what about Tubbo and Ranboo? His parents always said they just pitied him, what if that’s true? What if they leave when they know his soulmates are getting closer, that they will meet him soon?

Would they just leave?

Will his soulmates, when they learn what type of person he is?

He’s unlovable, he knows, but he so desperately wants to be loved.

It’s a sick sort of desire.

So he pretends it’s not glowing, pretends he can’t hear indiscernible whispers in the corner of his mind, that someone else’s amusement and fear and everything in between don’t curl around his lungs and make it hard to breathe sometimes.

He pretends, and he ignores it, and two years go by and he grows to hate it.

He hates the mark on his skin, the voices in his head, how kind they seem, how he wants to know them but he can’t—can’t because he’s a stupid sixteen year old who no one wants and no one will love, who his parents made sure can’t be loved.

He works as much as he can between school and chores, just a little gig down at Niki’s café; Tubbo’s sister was the best baker in the town of L’Manburg, maybe the whole country.

So when the offer came he thought, why not earn some money? Why not get out of that empty house, why not?

What can go wrong, after all, serving a bunch of strangers their muffins and drinks?

What can be so bad about working with Tubbo and Niki?

Tommy thought there could be nothing wrong with that. The bags under his eyes were designer at this point, so was the chill that seemed to have seeped into his bones and the shake to his hands he thought more permanent than fixable at this point. His sleeping schedule was doing the best it could, he was getting good grades, he and the bee boy picked on Ranboo (affectionately) the same as they always have.

Not a lot of bad things happen in cafes.

But a lot of bad things happen to him, so he’s not surprised.

It’s a Saturday night and it’s raining, meaning there used to be a lot of people coming in to grab a warm drink or some pastries for the road or the long week ahead but not so much anymore. He’s the only one working at the moment, Niki and Puffy having gone to bed early and his best friends ditched him for date night or something.

It’s fine though, because the café is warm but empty and he can just dick around scrolling through stuff on his phone to pass the boredom—which he does.

It’s fine until the bell rings and some lanky, tall fucker steps through the doors, the small bell chiming at the entrance is barely heard over the downpour and over Tommy’s inner “I’m too tired for this shit” monologue.

Behind the lanky fucker is some weirdo in a bucket hat with a much too energetic smile and an honestly intimidating man with very long, very pink hair. A rather strange group of individuals, but he’s worked in customer service for a year now and it is by far not the strangest thing that he’s ever seen, let alone in this week or on a Saturday night.

And he’s tired from not getting to sleep for the past two nights straight, so he can’t really bring himself to care, even if he wanted to.

“Welcome to Nemesis’ Café ,” Tommy mumbled, sighing as he forced himself to sit up from where he had been leaning against the counter. “What can I get for you?”

He’s a bit too tired to put on a customer smile but he honestly doesn’t give one even when he’s not dead on his feet, so he’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter. Niki’s never really complained about it before. His dull blue eyes blink uselessly at the lanky man who seemed to just gap at him a bit.

(If Tommy was as less exhausted, if his mental guard had been down even the tiniest bit, he would have noticed the burning on his wrist or how the link in the back of his head throbbed at the flare of here, here, here .

But he isn’t and he’s in enough pain that it covers up any comfort that the finally, finally we’re together part of his soul gives him.)

Tommy frowns, glancing between the three men, wondering why they’re not saying anything. The pink haired one looked impassive but honestly, he doesn’t know how, he just gave off anxious vibes. The bucket hat one seemed unsure, but he was also the one to snap out of whatever the fuck the three had going on first.

“Hey mate,” Bucket Hat edged closer, giving what seems to be a half-concerned but genuine smile—strange but not unpleasant. It warms some part of Tommy’s heart and he frowns at the feeling; the foreignness brings nothing but unease. “We’ve never really been here before, do you have any favorites to recommend?”

Well, that certainly spikes his anxiety.

Niki is, well, Niki—she’s amazing. She makes great choices. Tommy? Not so much.

“I uh,” he looks away, not trusting his eyes to not give him away (Tubbo says they get a kicked puppy dog look to them). “If you want coffee, the caramel cappuccino or mint mocha is always a customer favorite, sir. Cloudy-mellow hot chocolates or raspberry zingers are others that many people seem to enjoy for less-caffeinated beverages.”

“Boys?” Bucket Hat turned to Lanky Fucker and Pink Hair, the latter shrugging while the tall bastard wrinkled his nose, eyes finally moving off of Tommy and to the menu. “Ah, he’ll need a moment to decide but we’ll have two mellow hot chocolates and a pack of cherry tarts.”

They must be soulmates, Tommy realizes. They knew without even talking.

Or they’re just like him and Tubbo—they just somehow know.

“That’s alright, take as long as you need.” He replies.

He also kind of just wants to bang his head into the wall.

The amount of sheer effort it took not to break into a scowl, start crying, or put a sailor to shame with the amount of colorful words he wanted to say (or all three choices) should be illegal.

It’s fifteen minutes until his shift ends.

Tommy just wants to go home and sleep but he has so much he needs to do.

Laundry, homework, write that essay that’s due next week because he otherwise won’t have time for it, finish chores, write a grocery list, feed Walter and take him for a walk too.

That last one wasn’t too bad, he loves his dog.

“I’ll take a white Frappuccino with extra whip cream and two expresso shots, no caramel syrup but two dollops of chocolate.” Lanky Fucker finally spoke up, ripping Tommy from his ‘I’m so tired’ inner monologue for the second time. Worse than that, though, the bastard didn’t even look ashamed of his order.

And Tommy was, as he has been, so tired.

He can’t stop his nose from wrinkling, barely thinking about the words before he’s looking at the older man in his unfairly warm brown eyes and asking “why?” with as much judgement as his sixteen-year-old body could produce.

Lanky Fucker’s mouth dropped open, “what do you mean why? It’s my order!”

“Yeah, and?" Scowling but turning around to start on the drinks after swiping Bucket Hat’s card when it’s handed over, Tommy says this. "It’s stupid. Who gets a drink with not one but two espresso shots this late into the night? On a Saturday? Isn’t this the day people usually try to catch up on sleep instead of losing it?”

“What—I just, this is horrible customer service!” He exclaims but the amusement leaking into his voice isn't lost on the teen. “Where’s Niki? I want to complain about you.”

“Just go cry to your drama club or something, fuckin’ theater kid.” He shoots back, ignoring the spiking anxiety that squeezes around his lungs at the mere thought of someone talking to his boss and potentially getting him fired. He needed this job, it’s not something he can afford to lose, both for the escape and the money. “You lot know Niki?”

“Feral child,” Lanky Fucker grumbles but Tommy knows he’s smiling without even looking at him which is—odd. “Yeah, we went to University together.”

“Hm,” Tommy nods, popping the lid onto both of the hot chocolates before starting on the monstrosity of a coffee that had been ordered. “Drop out?”

“That easy to tell?” He jokes and Tommy hates to admit that he huffs out a small laugh; it feels nice though, he hasn’t really laughed in awhile. “I’m Wilbur, by the way.”

Tommy’s eyes slide back to the group, seeing the horribly fond way Bucket Hat was looking at him (he’s completely sure the look had probably been directed at one of the two beside him and not the teen himself, it would be impossible for the man to care about him, to think him arguing is entertaining). Pink Hair still looked awkward but more relaxed, the tension having left his shoulders.

“Tommy,” he offers, looking at the other two.

“I’m Phil,” Bucket Hat tells him. Somehow, the name fits. “These are my sons, Wil’s already introduced himself but this is Technoblade,” he gestures to Pink Hair.

“...” Tommy pauses, squinting at the more intimidating of the two brothers. “I’m so sorry.”

Wilbur cackles and it’s like fireworks are dancing across his skin, heating up his cold body enough for it to feel lighter. It felt like magic, it felt like something he's never experienced before and it leaves him breathless.

His eyes are locked onto Wilbur, the man still laughing.

Tommy feels dazed, like this moment is just for him, just for the four of them, but he’s somehow intruding all the same.

His heart is pounding in his chest, both ecstatic and terrified. Because these people, they're safe. They're not anything but safe.

But that's not true, it's really not true. Tommy just met these people, how could they be safe? How could they make him feel like this, feel warm?

He's been chilled, been cold, for as long as he's remembered.

He shouldn't feel like this.

And this—this—is when Tommy registers the burn in his arm, how incredibly thin the walls that keep his and his soulmates’ thoughts apart. He reels back, eyes wide as his breath stutters.

The panic that encases his chest now is nothing like the anxiety before. This isn't gentle, this has no hope of him calming it down.

They're his—these are his soulmates.

He can feel it, he can—they're right there, they're right there and he knows they know, he can feel it.

Tommy turns to the side, hands clenched into fists on either side of his head, begging his lungs to work, for this to be a dream, begging and apologizing because they're here and he's—

All he's doing is being useless and panicking, isn’t he supposed to talk to them?

Isn't he supposed to—they’re going to know that he's a mess, that he's not worth it—he’s supposed to do something, anything—

They're his soulmates but they won't want him—his wrist burns, it burns and he doesn't deserve the warm—his parents—he can't be wanted.

His arms are locked against his head but someone is trying to move them—it hurts—he can't breathe—his arm—

His whole chest feels like someone is stomping on it but he deserves it he deserves it he deserves it—his fingers ache—his parents know and now his soulmates will know—

He's worthless—

There's hands over his wrists—they hurt they hurt they hurt—more hovering, someone's next to him—

No one's supposed to stay—

“Shh, sh, hey, Tommy, you need to breathe,” the voice sounded like, like— “C'mon, breathe, alright?”

He can feel them; Wilbur's panicked, Phil's trying to make sense of it all, and Technoblade is just as anxious as him but they're trying to stay calm and they're so concerned and it doesn't make sense—it doesn't make sense—

“That's it, in and out.” Wilbur, it's Wilbur, he's talking and Tommy has to listen, he has to. “You have to breathe, Tommy.”

But he can't breathe, he wants to but he can't, he doesn't know how—

He's disappointing them so much.

He's already messing up.

He just wanted to be good, wanted to listen, but his parents were right—

He can't be good for his soulmates.

“It's okay, it's okay.” His soulmate soothes and Tommy can't help the startled sob that leaves his lips when he feels the other try to push calmness through their bond towards him. Wilbur tugs him closer, Tommy lost within himself, within the feeling of the extra emotions bubbling in his chest—

His clenched fists are smoothed out, his hand placed over another's chest, sturdy and warm. The chest moved up, breathing, and Tommy breathed too, air stuttering in his chest, desperate to get to his lungs.

He can't help it—his fingers clench into the fabric, pulling himself tighter around him, arms appear around him, a quiet hum, a hand rubbing circles into his back.

And Tommy feels warm.

It's more comfort, more touch than he's been given in a very, very long time.

It feels selfish but he can't just… he can't bring himself to let go. He knows it's wrong, that he doesn't deserve it, that this person (these people, his soulmates) are strangers and he shouldn't trust them—

But they've been in the back of his head for as long as he’s been alive, pushing and begging for him to answer and even when he didn’t, they've been kind. Never judging, never angry, just as concerned about having no reply to the call as they are for him now.

He knows they're safe even if he is not a safe person to be cared about, even if he will hurt them.

Because he will, because he is not someone meant to be loved.

"You doin’ better, kid?" A new voice—Technoblade. The deeper soft emotions, those are Technoblade's. His so often mirrored Tommy's own; Wilbur too steadily intense in his emotions, Phil too analytical and gentle.

The parallel between their anxieties is enough to jolt him into reality, enough for him to try and stuff down everything back behind his guarded walls, back where it's safe.

Tommy stiffens in Wilbur's hold as the man makes a wounded noise and he pushes harder; instincts not wanting to listen to him, wanting to just burst past all his trepidation, wanting him to no longer hide.

Whispering, what's the point anymore?

And it's not logical, but Tommy knows the less they know him the less likely they are to leave. And it's selfish that he wants them to stay but he can't help it.

They're sparks in his mind, words forming as they talk to each other; he could know what they're saying, he just has to open the link but—

It no longer feels like something that is his.

He's here, so are his soulmates, but they're together and they have been for years. He's with them too but he's not in their group.

An outsider to himself, an alien to them.

Tommy pulls away, shame burning at the back of his throat. The tear tracks on his cheeks feel like a sin.

Wilbur's arms fall limp, letting go.

It feels like he lost something important, the cold creeping back in.

It's awkward, incredibly so. They're right in front of him and there should be more but there's not. They're just a sliver in the back of his head but they could be so much more .

“I'm okay. I'm,” Tommy took a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms around himself, “okay. I'm, I'm fine. I’m—really sorry. I didn't, I had no clue, I'm… I-I didn't, uh, mean to, to freak out, I'm sorry. I didn't—I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize, mate, you did nothing wrong,” Phil’s quick to reassure. “You don't have to worry about us right now, just focus on your breathing, yeah?”

“Y-yeah.” He nods back, struggling in a breath.

They stand there for a couple more minutes, Wilbur humming softly, Technoblade fiddling with some twisty thing, and Phil just softly talking about nothing.

It's nice.

It's wrong that it's nice.

Once the panic has ebbed enough—and he's sure that his soulmates know even though he's blocking his side of things—Phil asks, “you okay, Tommy?”

“I'm…” He wanted to lie but he’s not going to, so he just jumps to a different truth. “You're my soulmates.”

The other two share a look as Wilbur tilts his head down at Tommy, a frown on the man's face. The thought that Tommy was what caused his frown twists something ugly into his chest.

“Is that okay?” Wilbur asks, voice calm but thoughts stormy—they're loud. He can almost make them out even through the walls. “Do you not want soulmates?”

This is too much, it’s too much.

It’s overwhelming.

He wasn’t supposed to meet them, not like this. Not ever.

“I—that's not—” Tommy sucks in a deep breath, shoulders raising higher as his nails dig in. Seeing Phil's slight wince makes him instantly let go, regret filling him when he realizes how these people already seem to care about him. “I want… I want you guys, I uh, I want—I… you're my soulmates. You're my soulmates. I want you. In my life, i-in my—”

“You don't have to tell us,” Technoblade cuts in, monotone voice anything but empty. “Just give yourself some time, kid. Don't push when you shouldn't.”

“I'm not a kid,” Tommy says. And it's true, he's not, he hasn't been a kid for a while.

Hasn't had the opportunity to be one.

“Yeah?” Wilbur raises an eyebrow and the teen understands why he's yellow when his soulmate smiles and all he can think about is sunshine. “What are you, twelve?”

“I'm, I’m sixteen, asshole,” Tommy sneers back, raising to the bait. Bickering is better than a panic attack for one, and for two, it's fun.

It’s easy to slip into, to do while playing pretend at being okay.

He’s used to hiding his panic attacks, so really, this isn’t quite hard to achieve.

“Wow,” Wilbur blinks at him. “You’re a literal child.”

Fuckin’ theater kid.

“You're just salty because you're some bitch who never grew out of the emo phase in high school.” Tommy scowls. The laughter his insults are rewarded with have no right to make him feel that proud.

Stupid emotions.

“Oh, oh, I’ve been hurt!” Wilbur places a hand over his chest, like the idiot that he is. “This is horrible. How could you do this to me, Tommy?”

“Easily,” the younger replies, rubbing his neck with a grimace when he registers the ache it now possesses. The others are quiet and he jumps on the chase to bring the whole soulmates thing up while he’s not too anxious. “I—don’t really know what to say. I just, um… it’s nice to meet you all, panicking aside.”

“It’s nice to meet you too," Phil reaches over and takes the hand he offered, palms pressing warmth into his, squeezing once as the older man smiles. "It’s not everyday you meet your last soulmate.”

“Most people don’t have to meet more than one,” Tommy shyly smiles back, hesitating before he raises his other hand and squeezes back.

“True,” Phil laughs, gently letting go. “God, this has been a weird day.

“Tell me about it,” he huffs, shoulders sagging at the loss. “The last place I thought I’d meet you is Niki’s café but I also shouldn’t have underestimated her power like that.”

“Niki is your friend?” Technoblade asks, raising an eyebrow.

Tommy wants to laugh at how awkward it all is but it also feels like such a soft, unique moment that he doesn’t dare to. They’re far from being no one to each other yet they barely know anything about one another.

It’s ironic, somehow.

“She’s my boss,” he easily replies. “Also my best friend’s older sister, so kinda also a friend too. She’s yours?”

“Mm,” he nods, pink strands falling in front of his face. “We fence together.”

“You fence?” Tommy tilts his head. He… already knew that. Brief flashes—memories, snippets—of lashing blades, swinging hits, a mask over his face decorated like a boar’s skull. Calluses on his hands, muscle earned from hard work, measles and trophies on the sides of shelves covered with books. “Oh, yeah, I guess you do.” A green smiley face, a scoreboard flashing. A cheering crowd, seen from Tommy’s own eyes. “Oh, you’re The Blade! You beat the little bitch boy last year!”

All three of the men go silent, Techno hesitates, “uh… who?”

“Dream,” Tommy waves his hands to mock out a smiley face. “That bastard. I was at your tournament!”

“You’re into fencing?” The pinkette gives him a look he can only describe as confused.

“Nope!” He offers a small grin. “Ranboo, one of my friends, is though. He was too anxious alone, so I went with him. He showed me a bunch of your competitions, you’re really good. Niki’s still the best though.”

Technoblade looks like he really doesn’t know where to go with the conversation and neither does Tommy but, thankfully, Wilbur steps in, “well, besides discussing how big of a nerd Tech is, I think we kinda need to talk about this further.”

“Good idea, mate,” Phil nods, pointing to a booth in the back corner, gesturing. “Shall we?”

Unfortunately for his anxiety, they shall. All four soulmates move to the booth, Tommy hesitating before sitting down next to Wilbur. It was weird to do so while still in his uniform and with anyone other than his best friends, but it wasn't bad.

Maybe mildly uncomfortable and awkward but not bad.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Phil suggested—and the conversation went from there.

It really was mostly basic stuff that Tommy learned about them, favorite colors and foods and such, but there were also little pieces of information that popped up through simply just talking.

Technoblade was really good at chess, had an affinity for Greek Mythology, and Phil was great with a bow and arrow and somehow convinced a murder of crows to be friends and that he typically carries around seeds with him to give them.

Wilbur hated anteaters and had very strong opinions about society.

He learned why Techno dyed his hair, that Wilbur was in a band and that their music was really cool. Phil has a wife, said wife is amazing, and the man got dubbed the best man ever after revealing this fact.

There were things he already knew, deeper thoughts, painful memories, little flashes of the other’s lives that slipped through the cracks in his walls. It was weird, knowing so much about strangers—but they’re not really strangers, are they?

He’s known them his whole life, he’s always had them in the back of his mind, whispering and reassuring and there.

Phil tells him about how he, as the oldest, watched their soulmark form over his skin. Said that—for whatever reason—Tommy’s was first and that he innately knew that the boy would be the last one found. Next came Wilbur’s sun, then Techno’s, then his own.

None of them glowed back then, none of them had color.

He explains how he grew up in a large family, how none of them really understood him even if they loved him. He found Techno first, he had just began college and the boy was in high school and they had met when he interned as a fencing coach.

Tommy laughed hard enough to cry for the first time in many, many months as the older man explained how, at thirteen, Technoblade had beat his ass in three moves.

It was brilliant to imagine and even funnier when Wilbur chimed in about how, when he met the both of them, he had somehow managed to knock Techno onto his ass and run Phil into a wall within the same hour.

It was nice, imagining a life where someone could meet their soulmates and not feel fear grip their heart tight.

Further than that, it was nice to just know more about soulbonds, too. They’re all soulmates, that he knows—but he didn’t know that even within the bond of four, there’s pairs.

Wilbur explained it like they’re all kind of like socks. Tommy’s his own sock, he can do whatever he wants, match with whatever type of sock he’d like to, that his friends are their own socks that match well with him. They’re independent and they choose to be socks together.

Soulmates, however, are the perfect match to his sock. Phil, Techno, and Wil, they are all built from the same fabric and thread, the same design as him. They fit together.

However, Wil is the sock whose colors match his own. Techno and Phil are each other’s halves (Tommy jokes that they’re both pink thigh highs and it makes Wilbur laugh until the man can’t breathe).

It’s nice, learning about so much.

About them.

They learned about him too, how he wanted to go into art but probably wouldn’t. That his best friend caught him on fire five times and another broke his arm twice by accident. How Ranboo and Tubbo were bonded, that they were his only close friends but he didn’t really need many more to be happy.

They learned that he swears quite a bit, that he hates the cold, that he loves his dog (and that his dog is the best boy ever) and that he thinks spiders are really cool.

Deeper topics are poked at here and there but he doesn’t tell them about how he spends most nights in an empty house, aching and lonely. He does not tell them he hasn’t seen his father’s face in six months and that he’s forgetting what it looks like unless he’s facing a mirror, he does not whisper that his mother buys a new perfume bottle every time she is away and that she has gone away enough now that there is no extra space on the shelves in the bathroom for more.

He does not tell them he feels like he shouldn’t be allowed soulmates; allowed them.

Wilbur dares to ask about the walls, about why he keeps them so far away, and he dares to answer. He says “I’m scared” and leaves it at that. They do not ask again so he does not bring it up.

They’re so content just sitting together that it takes someone slamming a car door across the street to jolt them back into reality.

Tommy startles slightly as he sees how dark it is outside, how the street lights are the only reasons he can see outside of the cafe’s window. The stars are hidden behind clouds. It looks like it’s been raining.

He looks away and to the clock against the wall.

It’s been three hours since the end of his shift; Niki had taken his place at some point. The chairs were stacked up around them, the sign flipped to closed on the door, the pastries were taken care of and the floor swept.

He had been far too lost in the excitement his soulmates brought.

“Ah,” Phil says, glancing outside as well. “It’s getting late, I didn’t even notice.”

“Me either,” Tommy replies softly.

Tommy  doesn’t mind staying late though, more time here meant less time at his house.

He looks up, cerulean eyes clashing with sky blue ones—Phil looks like his dad more than his real father does, it's all in the eyes, the hiar. Blinking, he shakes the thought away.

“You have school tomorrow?” Techno asks, frowning at him when he gets a nod.

Wilbur grimaces and glances at the time, “we’re keeping you out pretty late for a school day, lovely.”

Tommy stares, brain short circuited.

Lovely. Wilbur had called him lovely. He’s—no one has ever called him something like that before. Sure, Tubbo and Ranboo joke around, calling him different things, but none of it was this.

None of it was sweet, none it was a pet named that showed they cared.

His parents never bothered with anything, just Tommy.

It’s new and Tommy both hates and loves it; hates how his face heats up and he dunks his head down, hates how he’s absolutely floored at a single word but loves how warm it makes him feel.

“Tommy, mate?” Phil’s hand hovers over his. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, m’okay,” he nods—because what else is he supposed to do? “Just thought of something, sorry. It’s a bit late but not too bad, I'll be—okay. I’ll be okay at, at school tomorrow. You don’t have to worry.”

The walls are thinner than usual, shaky.

It’s easier to identify what feelings are working their way over, who they’re from.

Tommy frowns, looking up at Phil again, “I can feel you worrying, Philza Minecraft.”

“Oh, full name,” Wilbur snickers.

“Got ya there, old man.” Technoblade joins in.

“Little shits,” Phil laughs, rolling his eyes. “Can’t help but worry, Toms. We shouldn’t have kept you out so late, it’s irresponsible of us and you probably still have things you need to do. Haven’t even gotten out of your work uniform and it’s almost ten.”

“Eh, that’s alright.” Tommy slips from the booth, careful not to knock any chairs down as he stretches. “I live close by and anything I had planned I can just do tomorrow, besides,” he waves a hand, “it’s worth it.”

Phil gives him a disgustingly soft smile and Wil just looks at him with this fond thing in his eyes—it’s too much and when he looks at Technoblade for help, the small smile on the man’s face is somehow worse because awe, he made Techno smile.

It’s a great feeling in his chest, all gooey and it desperately wants him to be all sappy but he has to save some dignity.

“Stop it, you all look gross,” Tommy huffs, flushing because he knows the smile on his lips isn’t any better, and looks away.

“Phil, Phil,” Wilbur whispers, hunching in his seat like the fucker thinks Tommy can’t see him. Techno meets his eye and he’s positive that even without the link they’d get the shared message: Wil’s an idiot. “Phil, Phil, Phil—”

“What,” the man sighs, looking at his son with very, very fake annoyance plastered over his face.

“Phil,” Wil repeats, whispering and grinning like the lunatic he is. “We have a gremlin, Phil. We have a gremlin, look, look, he’s so tiny. We have a feral child as a soulmate, Phil.”

“Oi!” Tommy exclaims, shoving his half’s shoulder. “I am not a child!”

“You’re an infant, a little baby man, a tiny feral boy, an itty bitty—”

“Fuck off!” Tommy laughs, flipping him off. “I’m sixteen!”

“See, a child!” Wilbur laughs too, jostling his shoulder.

Tommy lightly kicks his shin and the man hooks his leg around the teen’s ankle. He shrieks, tripping into the seat and instantly going to elbow Wil, the bastard reaching up to tousle his hair—

“Boys,” Phil sighs.

Both of them freeze, exclaim that they ‘did nothing wrong’ and ‘sorry, Phil’ falling from their lips as they situate themselves again. Wilbur helps straighten his shirt and in return, he fixes the other’s messed up pant leg.

The rest of the night feels like a bizarre dream.

Phil offers him a ride home and, of course, he takes it. He knows they’re safe. It was funny to have both Techno and Wil squish themselves into the back seat, their long legs (and one with a naturally bulky body) just does not go well with the room that the van has, and all because he managed to call Shotgun and it was respected.

On the way, he’s told about how they all live “together”.

It’s really just two big houses connected together by a large walkway about fifteen minutes from the café, Phil’s work even closer and Techno’s gym around the corner.

Apparently, neither Technoblade or Wil had a very good homelife when they were younger. None of them went into any specifics but he was told that Phil had, at some point, got custody of the two boys and they’ve lived with the man ever since.

Tommy’s house is about a five minute walk from theirs, on opposite ends of a good neighborhood.

It’s weird to think that they’ve been this close all his life, just right there, and none of them knew. It’s good too, something inside of him that likes to pull unease into his heart soothed at the fact that his soulmates aren’t going far.

And he’s told that, too, that they’re not too far and that they’ll always come to him if he needs them, they tell him if he needs anything, they're there—they exchange numbers, they point out the long driveway that leads to their house as they pass it.

He gets high fives as he leaves the van. He’s grateful he’s not expected to give them hugs, not because he doesn’t want hugs but because he’s already had way too much contact today and he thinks he’ll implode if he has any more.

Wilbur exists with him, walks him up the steps to the empty house, a frown on his face as Tommy opens the door and there’s no lights on, no movement inside, no noise beside his dog’s excited barking.

He eyes the driveway, empty besides Phil’s van, and asks, “no one’s home?”

“Oh,” Tommy does his best to hide his heartache, unlocking the door as he forces himself to shrug. “My parents are away for work right now.”

His soulmate’s frown deepens, “will you be okay by yourself?”

He wants to say: I’m more alone than I am not.

If Wilbur knew that though, if the other two did, they’d worry too much. If they knew that he practically lives alone, that it is strange and jarring to hear footfalls in his home that aren't his, they wouldn’t be okay with it.

Because of this, he wants to cry and admit: I’m okay by myself until the moment I’m not, the solitude hurts but it’s easy to ignore when I play music in every room I can, it hurts more than I know how to express.

Wants to beg, I’ll be okay but please don’t leave me for long, please don’t leave.

But he doesn’t, because saying that is too much.

He’d be too much.

“I’ll be okay, Wil, I keep all the doors locked and Walter’s good company.” Tommy smiles, hopes he's convinced, and tucks his key back into his backpack. “Tell Phil that it’s very stereotypical of him that he has a van but that it’s okay, because he’s the biggest man ever.”

“Of course,” Wilbur rolls his eyes, worrying hiding behind the humor. “Anything for Technoblade?”

Tommy hesitates and looks away, “just that he’s cool.”

“C’mon, no, I saw that.” His shoulder gets nudged. “What is it?”

“I like his poetry,” he blurts, half-embarrassed and not sure if he’s meant to know this. “It’s nice to listen to—or remember, whatever, when I can’t sleep. He’s clever and his use of anaphoras are nice.”

Wilbur blinks, looks like he really didn’t expect that, squints.

Then he’s grinning again. “That’s sweet, Toms. You’re a good kid.”

“You’re a bitch,” Tommy replies, heart stuttering in his chest at the compliment. “And um, thanks Wil, for tonight I mean. I’m glad I met you.”

“Of course,” Wil softens, nods. “And Tommy?”

He looks up, “yeah?”

“We don’t know why your walls are there but here’s the thing: we care about you regardless. We know you’re scared, we know you need time to catch up, to ease into things, and that’s alright. You can take all the time you need, we’ll be here. Anything you want to share, we will be overjoyed with and anything you want to keep to yourself, we’ll respect.”

And he’s being sincere—Wilbur is being brutally honest here, in this moment.

The truth is a good thing, but it hurts.

“Wil…” Tommy’s eyes burn, blurring with tears.

“I know, Toms.” The other’s voice is soft but no less genuine. “I know. You don’t have to explain anything but we’re here for you. We care. I know we just met but we’ve known each other for awhile, yeah? I remember your first words, I’m pretty sure we all watched you take your first steps. We care. Just don’t forget that through the fear, okay, bubs?”

Tommy nods, jaw clenching as he tries not to cry.

He doesn’t trust his voice right now.

Wilbur offers his hand and he doesn’t hesitate to raise his own, pressing them palm to palm, his other wrapping around scarred knuckles and smooth fingers. He holds on, takes a breath, two.

He gives himself the moment to feel this.

Then Tommy sucks in a mouthful of air, squeezing once more before letting go. He doesn’t meet the other’s eye but knows his small nod is caught.

“Goodnight, Tommy,” Wil hums, pulling back.

Tommy feels his hesitance, looks at him just once. His other half’s eyes are warm and worried and he gives his best smile, “G’night Wil, remember—”

“I got it, gremlin,” Wilbur rolls his eyes and looks like he has to force his stiff body down the steps. “Phil’s a cliche and Tech’s a good poet. Go to bed, you have school.”

“You’re such a dickhead,” Tommy huffs and moves towards his door. “You’re going into my phone as Baldbur.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re going to be FeralInnit,” Wilbur laughs, opening his car door.

Tommy flips him off before waving to his other two soulmates. The door closes so he opens his. They don’t drive away until he’s inside.

He doesn’t remember going to his room or changing but he knows that when he rests, he dreams of a phoenix soaring above a thunderstorm, fire dancing over feathers and determination in its eyes.

A single feather falls from it’s wings and he catches it in his hands.

Tommy wakes up the next morning with his soulmark warming his skin and smiles.

It’s the next week that Tommy tells his best friends he found his soulmates.

Ranboo is happy for him, a quiet sort of excitement that makes the blond feel all soft. He’s given a warm smile and an even warmer hug—one that gets them both bowled over and crashed into the ground when Tubbo tackles them to join in, feet tangled together and all three of them laughing.

They don’t ask anything but his soulmates’ names but he tells them more regardless, both scared and overjoyed about being able to share something like this.

Something so wholeheartedly his.

Ranboo goes a little brain dead when he puts the pieces together that Tommy’s Techno is his idol, The Blade, and the other two laugh until their sides ache at his expression.

His soulmates meet him everyday after school like clockwork.

They come into Niki’s café during the week with stories and questions and jokes that start to make it Tommy’s usual to feel all smiley, to laugh. On the weekend, they meet at the park a minute away, he brings hot drinks to battle against the cooling weather and they bring sweets to battle the teen almost constant hunger.

It’s nice, seeing them so often, building the bond up.

He’s not so cold anymore, doesn’t keep the walls so high.

It’s been a month and today he sees one of his soulmates outside of their usual routine. It’s at Technoblade’s gym (he really should have expected to see the man there) and it’s about eight at night.

Tommy’s dropping off the fencing equipment that Ranboo borrowed from his and Tubbo’s mentor, Sam, because his best friends were a bit too busy to do so.

Only, he had foolishly challenged Sam to a duel in the middle of the front lobby.

He’s sure they both looked absolutely ridiculous swinging pens at each other, one making lightsaber noises and the other cursing.

He did not lose—Tommy Innit is not capable of such a thing—but he does concede to save the man the embarrassment of having a sixteen year old beat him. Very kind of him, he knows.

This meant, however, that Ponk—Sam’s fencing partner, boyfriend, soulmate, whatever—found Tommy’s defeat very amusing. And when he got challenged too, decided to just grab Tommy’s ankles like the idiot does to his own little brother’s and hang Tommy upside down.

Now, Tommy is brave. He’s a big man.

But big men are still allowed to not like heights or feel like they’re going to fall.

A twist of fear bounded it’s way into Tommy’s heart, a sick feeling into his stomach and the boy clenched his fists tight—grinning and joking through the uncomfortable weight of being scared.

It had only been a minute or two, Pink pretends to drop him, and Tommy shrieks.

He knows they felt that through the bond.

He also knows that this is the moment Technoblade decides to stalk out of his office, bulky body silent as he moves and pink hair pulled into a tight bun. A frown marred his usually blank face, worry in the crease between his eyes.

“Techno!” Tommy shouted, grinning as he twisted in Ponk’s hold to wave as his soulmates’ head snapped up. 

His vision shifted, the fear coming back, he was going down, down down—

Ponk’s fingers slackened around him and Tommy yelped, scrambling for purchase as Sam swooped in to save his head from crashing into the floor. The amputees’ arm was around his knees, Sam’s around his shoulders and Tommy glared.

“Oi, what the fuck!” Wiggling, the two men are quick to set him on the ground, dizzy from the abrupt movements. “You’re not supposed to actually drop me!”

“Sorry, Tommy,” Ponk winces, going all wide-eyed when Technoblade—the man, the myth, the legend—is the one to steady the blond when he sways on his feet, blood rush wanting to send him spiraling. “Uh…”

“Hello, Mr. The Blade!”

“Hi. What’re you doin’ here, Theseus?” Techno rumbles, raising an eyebrow as the boy beams up at him. Even if he fought against the nickname at first, he really likes it when his soulmate calls him that—something he’s sure is known but he likes to pretend isn’t.

It’s just as warm a feeling as he gets from Wilbur calling him lovely, darling, sweetheart and even one of Phil’s fondly exasperated you little shit.

“Dropping stuff off to Sam,” Tommy informs, moving to hug the pinkette’s arm to his chest. “Then Ponk was being a little bitch, so I decided to fight him.”

“Right, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened,” the other deadpans as Ponk himself protests. “You okay?”

“Oh, I’m great, the best.” His grin grows wider. “I’m the biggest man, after all.”

“I’m ignorin’ that.” Technoblade wisely decides.

“I feel like I just stepped into a parallel universe,” Ponk whispers.

"Same." Sam frowns at his soulmate before turning to them, asking, “how do you know each other?”

Tommy freezes and squeezes himself closer to Techno’s side.

He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know if the others want people to know, doesn’t know what he’d even say if Sam didn’t believe him, doesn’t—

“Soulmates.” Technoblade’s tone leaves no room for doubt. “He’s our fourth.”

“Oh,” both men’s eyes widen and Sam’s lips break into a smile first.

“I’m happy for you both. You’re a good kid, Tommy, I’m glad you found them.”

“Thank you, sir,” his face flushes.

Techno just hums and drags them both back to his office. Tommy spends the rest of the night here—well, the rest meaning about two hours until his soulmate walks him home. On the way, he’s being recited a Greek Myth to and he adores the way the pinkette’s voice rises and falls along with the story, how he emphasizes things.

It’s unique and surely something Tommy will remember for a while.

On the blond’s doorstep, right before he leaves, Techno presses a small envelope into his hands with the word Poems scrawled on the front. His fingers wrap around it as he can’t help but to smile.

If, later that day, Tommy dares to push love, love, love, appreciation through the bond for the first time on purpose, it’s no one’s business but his and his soulmates'.

And if he closes the link immediately after, scared—well, they don’t mention it and he’s both comforted and relieved enough at the fact that they don’t push enough to keep the walls a little thinner than he normally would.

A week after Techno's and his impromptu hang out, Tommy decides to make a drawing for his soulmates.

He works hard on it, ecstatic in the idea that he's found a way to share what he's feeling with them without the fear that the bond brings.

He's half broken hearted, half angry at himself when he managed to loose it a week or two after finishing it.

It’s two months after they met that Wilbur first brings his guitar to the park.

Phil and Techno couldn’t make it, both busy with either work or training for an oncoming tournament, but he could hear them humming along with Wil in their heads when the brunet started singing.

Tommy falls in love with the song right then and there and requests that his soulmate play him ‘soft boy’ until he memorized it.

He’s taught a bit of guitar, finds out he prefers playing piano, and it's a good day.

He learns a lot about Wil and Wil learns a lot about him.

Tommy dares to let his guard slip a little further, wanting desperately to trust them.

On the way home, Wilbur trips face-first into a puddle and Tommy cackles as he snaps a picture for their other soulmates before helping him up—Technoblade sending back a ‘massive L’ to their group chat, Phil sending a delighted amusement through the link (only after asking if his on was okay).

He gets brave when he’s sleep deprived—which Tommy is—so that’s what the blond blames for the courage that had run through him enough for him to get to this point.

Phil is by his side, humming.

They’re both in the man’s kitchen and baking cookies. Tommy’s not really sure what kind of cookies but they’re going to be sweet and they have chocolate in them so he doesn’t think it matters.

He showed up about an hour ago and no one had been home except Phil’s wife.

Kristin was a lovely woman and had a great sense of humor. Tommy thinks that she’s the only one who could ever be good enough for Philza Minecraft and he also thinks, somewhere underneath all the guilt for daring to, that if he could choose a mother, he’d choose her.

She’s a sweetheart but also a bit of a badass.

Her laughter reminds him of his childhood.

He’d like to think that it’s okay to be a little jealous of Wil and Techno—a little jealous that they got to grow up (at least a little bit) with Phil and her.

Kristin helps him make fun of her husband while they bake, the three of them are laughing and giddy and it’s nice. There’s no empty house, no quiet rooms left to sit in dust because no ones been in there for months. It smells half like Niki’s bakery and half like the cologne bottle Wilbur apparently broke in the living room.

The house is more home than Tommy’s used to and he feels silly for wanting to cry when the cookies are done and Kristin insists he tries it first.

This is what he wishes his parents were like.

Happy and actually there, actually interested in doing anything with their son.

But… he’s starting to wish that a little less nowadays. His soulmates want him, his best friends do too. It feels like more than enough.

Three months into knowing his soulmates, Wilbur asks him over for a movie night and he's asleep before the beginning credits can even start—safe and more than content to be wrapped into his other half's arms, Technoblade on one side and Phil on the other as he rests against Wil's chest.

He spends the night and spends the whole morning laughing while his soulmates try to save the kitchen from burning down.

Kristin, the absolute Goddess, kicked Wilbur out into the living room for burning the eggs so horribly and saved them from their own foolish attempts at breakfast.

Tommy's never really felt so at home before and he only protests a little bit when Phil insists that he stay a little longer.

One night turns into two, two into three, three into a week—a month goes by, two, and Tommy's spending more time there than he ever does at his own house (besides when he goes and visits Walter). His parents don't notice and they don't care so he stays with his soulmates.

Slowly but surely, he begins to keep their link just a little bit more open.

It’s Thursday night, meaning that Tommy is both tired, grumpy, but too excited to stay still while going about his shift at the café. His soulmates are already here, idly chatting among themselves and enjoying the pastries that Niki had brought to them earlier.

He had joined them on his break, grabbing fresh hot chocolate for all of them (making sure to remember to put mint into Techno’s), and overall it was a really nice day at work.

The most complicated order had been, of course, Wilbur’s—the prick.

He’s both relaxed and content—buzzing with joy at the fact that today is the day that his best friends are going to meet his soulmates.

He can’t wait to have them all in one place, to know each other.

He’s not even worried that they won’t get along or anything.

His people are amazing, his soulmates and best friends are great people who are smart and kind and there’s just no way that they’re not going to get along.

Even if Tubbo can be a little shit, even if both Techno and Ranboo are awkward, even if Wilbur is whatever the hell he is—Phil is the best man to ever exist and, with the best human to ever grace this earth by his side, Tommy is confident that nothing too bad can go wrong.

Unless it does, which then he’ll try to fix it, but it’ll be okay!

It’s been six months since he’s met his soulmates, it’s been long overdue that they meet the bee boy and the bee boy’s partner.

He knows that his soulmates are concerned about him (apparently he’s not hiding his emotions as well as he used to lately and the thin layer of fear that he always carries with him is worrying but that’s whatever) and Tommy does his best to give them reassuring smiles.

Well, besides to Wil, he gives his other half a very polite shove to the shoulder and a kick to the shin that’s returned with a “little gremlin” and a flick to the forehead.

Amusement had flooded through the link and, even if he’s always found it odd that he can feel what they are even with some of his guards up but not always the other way around, it’s nice to know he’s not being annoying while purposefully being annoying.

Phil had snickered to himself while his other half had let out a small snort, muttering in his usual baritone voice, “they’re brothers, your honor.”

And Tommy’s heart soared.

Because Wilbur was truly like a brother to him. So was Techno, Phil felt like the father he never dared to compare his real one to, but Wil was just… so much more. Despite how he closes his side of the link, the other understands him perfectly.

It’s nice. It’s nice to feel not so alone.

And he’s not alone, not with them—never with them.

Techno’s emotions echo Tommy’s own, a stream of love, love, love that floats through the link, and it’s warm, it's protective. He doesn’t shut his side down as quickly as he normally would, basking in the soft smiles of his soulmates for as long as he dares.

The three of them always make him feel better, lighter.

They don’t even have to try most of the time.

Tommy wishes he could blame the bond but that wouldn’t be the truth.

He just… likes being around them. He thinks (hopes) they’d be friends even if their connection didn’t exist.

He likes to think that, in another world, in any other world and in any other time, they’d still be together. That the four of them would find each other and they’d be happy. For as long as they could, they’d be happy together.

It’s a sappy thought and Tommy feels silly believing it, but he does.

It feels soft—the whole day has felt soft—but that softness is very, very quickly destroyed when the café’s door is thrown open just as he’s walked up to their usual booth and a shouted “Tommy!” accompanies the bell’s ringing.

The teen jumps, whirling from where he had been facing Phil, and almost trips over himself as a shorter body almost instantly collides with him.

Swearing as he gets his feet steady under him, Tommy can’t help but to smile as he wraps his arms around his best friend. Tubbo’s mumbling something into his jacket that he can’t quite make out so he ignores it in favor of burying his face into brown hair and squeezing the other boy tighter.

After a moment, the bee boy pulls back up and grins at him, “hi!”

“Hey, Tubs,” Tommy rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Why’d you fuckin' come in like that?”

“Like what?” The brunet’s grin pulls wider. “There’s nothing off about how I came in.”

“Sure, and I’m short,” Ranboo—that tall bastard—snorts from behind his soulmate.

Tubbo gasps and turns to his other half, pointing an accusing finger up at him, “I knew your height was fake!”

“I can’t believe you lied to us like that, boob boy,” Tommy fake sniffles, placing a hand over his ‘wounded’ heart. God, Wilbur's influencing him too much. “That’s just a horrible thing to do to your best friends.”

“Honestly,” Tubbo sighs, shaking his head, “how could you do this to us? After everything we’ve gone through?”

“The betrayal,” he continues.

“The heartbreak,” his best friend adds.

Ranboo just stares at them, probably thinking about how amazing the two of them are (not really), and swiftly raises his hand to flick his soulmate in the forehead.

Tommy laughs, dunking back from receiving the same fate.

“Ow, fuck!” Tubbo whines, shoving himself away from both of them. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” the tall boy replies back all too smugly.

“Well, I do,” Tommy wrinkles his nose at him. “And no offense, but you’re stupid and a horrible human being.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” Ranboo dryly replies. “I know I can always count on you to boost my ego.”

“Of course you can, man, I’ll always have your back.”

“Unless there’s a zombie apocalypse.” Tubbo cuts in, smoothly sitting down at the table right next to his soulmate’s booth. Tommy really just wants to introduce them all but he doesn’t want to cut into the mood and make things awkward. “Then we’d both probably sacrifice you to survive.”

“Oh, we should make a cult,” he grins, clapping his hands together.

“We’re not starting a cult, Tommy,” Ranboo sighs heavily before sitting next to his other half, rubbing a hand over the mask covering his face. “And you’d probably need me to survive in an apocalypse, ‘Bo.”

The bee boy raises his eyebrows. “Who said I was surviving?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, hoping the others don’t pick up on the anxiety steadily crawling up his throat. “What if that’s not his goal, huh?”

“You’re both crazy and I resent you.”

“Oh, big talk from a pussy.”

“On another note, I’m ending this conversation,” Ranboo says. “We have something we need to talk to you about.”

Oh, god, is it about his soulmates?

Did they change their mind about meeting them?

Or is it about Tommy? Did he make them upset and not realize it? Did he do something wrong, did—

“Stop overthinking,” Tubbo jabs a finger into his side, hand getting slapped away with a huff. “We did something bad but it turned out good, nothing too worrying.”

Ranboo turns to him, “that’s probably one of the least reassuring ways to bring it up.”

The tall boy’s soulmate flips him off. Tommy shuffles in place, trying to guess what it is.

Not a physical thing, his friends don’t look any different and he could tell if one of them is hurt. No hair cuts, no new clothes. Something bad?

“What is it?” He asks. “Did you officially decide to replace me with a cow?”

“Stop bringing Henry into this,” Tubbo scowls.

“Basically,” Ranboo jumps to explain, “we did something slightly… er, wrong and without your permission. Even though it turned out okay, really good actually, better than I thought it would in all honesty, we thought you uh… that you, um, you might—well. That you will probably still get upset with us? And I’m sorry, I kinda didn’t want to but ‘Bo talked me into it and I figured it wouldn’t hurt, so—”

“Hey!” Tubbo frowned, crossing his arms as he gave his soulmate the stink eye. “You very well could’ve said no! I didn’t make you do shit, Boo.”

“Guys.” Tommy edges back slightly before steering forward, listless. “What’d you do?”

He didn’t like the tightness in his chest, didn’t like that his hands were growing colder despite how warm it was in the café. He wanted to move away, to ease into one of his soulmate’s sides until the feelings disappeared.

But he’s making a big deal out of nothing.

He doesn’t deserve or need comfort, the anxiety is a lie.

Silence. Then Tubbo’s giving him his classic sheepish smile.

It does not help but the reassurance Phil pushes through their link does.

“You know uh, you know how you did that—that, the drawing? Your whole soulmate master drawing last semester?” Ranboo asks. His thumbs nervously ran above each other, hands twisting together.

Tubbo reaches over and grabs his partner’s hands, squeezing them both gently. The purple bee on the back of their ring finger faintly glows.

“Yeah.” Tommy distinctly remembered that art piece.

He made it a while after meeting his soulmates, wanting to have something to give them that showed how much he cared—the only way he could really express the need to say, hey, I want you guys and I care without having to fight past his fear to say it out loud.

It was supposed to be a present, something to show how much he appreciated them in his life even if they haven't been in it for very long.

He’s known them for as long as existence itself, though, he’s always had them with him.

He knew them and drew a homage to that for the piece—the three suns of theirs, spread out over a darker ink landscape, a single red feather floating to the ground, alone.

Wilbur’s sunshine yellow is at the bottom of a river, tendrils of gold softly floating up, holding a dark figure above the water. Techno’s burning pink as soft as the man himself is, arms reaching out with gentle hands to hold onto a lone heart, the skull of a boar almost swallowed by the rose-tinted flames. He’s safe, he’s always been safe. Phil’s green was dark around a glossy black crow’s wing, the bird holding a shining necklace in its beak, equal weight on either side, calm and steady as it rests on a branch towards the center of his viridian sun.

They’re together; they’re his.

He thought he lost the piece, disappearing from his art folder before the end of school. It was thought to have been gone. A lot of people at school would’ve seen the Tommy Innit at the bottom of the piece and thrown it away, mocking him for the things on the paper.

Only, no one teased him. No one judged the thing they had found.

And now here he is, his best friends having done something ‘bad’ with it.

“Why?” Tommy narrows his eyes, shifting his gaze between the two of them. “Tell me.”

“We might have,” Ranboo winces, looks away, “taken it?”

Tommy’s mouth opens, ready to ask questions, to voice his confusion, but pauses.

There’s a tug against his walls, his soulmates are paying attention to the conversation. They know how he’s feeling, the shallow wall is not enough to prevent some emotions from leaking over. They’re all curious, concerned—Wilbur distinctly and vividly annoyed.

He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t want to interrupt and ask.

So he does his best to slide off the anxiety from his shoulders and focus. He has to get through the conversation to be able to introduce them all to each other.

“I, you stole it?” Tommy blinks, then asks: “Did you… did you destroy it or something?”

Better them than his parents, he supposes.

Better than his father finding it and tearing it up as he yells, better than his mothers grabbing the paper, crinkling it, as she tosses it into the fireplace—as she had done so with so many of his drawings as a kid.

It hurts to think that his best friends took something from him and did something bad, but it stings less because he knows it’s not as vicious as others would be.

They’re not malicious; they wouldn’t hurt him on purpose.

“What?” Ranboo gasps, leg jerking out in surprise. “Of course not!”

“Why would we—ow!” Tubbo hisses, bending to rub his just kicked shin. “We didn’t mess with it, it’s safe, I promise! I just, we put it into a—stop fucking kicking me—contest!”

“Contest?” The pounding of his heart slows.

This doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re not allowed to do anything like that, ‘cause of your parents or whatever,” Tubbo waves a hand, eyes pinned onto Tommy’s face. “They get all upset about soulmates and stuff, so they’d never agree to it, but Tommy, it’s such a good piece!”

“Ms. Puffy thought so too!” Ranboo exclaims, reaching down to the bag (how did Tommy not notice that before?) that was next to him. “And there was this contest coming up—”

“So I thought, why can’t your piece go into that?” Tubbo’s eyes are sparking, the glint of mischief and anger a dangerous mix. “You’re easily the most talented artist in her class and you deserve to have your work recognized—”

“And ‘Bo dragged me into it and we looked at the rules! You don’t need parent’s permission—”

“—you can just enter it as long as you have the artists’ and the teacher’s approval,” Tubbo continues, both of them joining the conversation as one. Idiots. “Which we got! Boo wrote the statement for the art piece while I talked to Ms. Puffy.”

“We might’ve lied and said you were too shy to ask to be placed into the competition yourself,” Ranboo smiles with an awkward little laugh. “She believed us and I distracted you—”

“While I stole the piece,” Tubbo finishes proudly.

“I—okay, yeah, but—”

His head is reeling as he cuts himself off, hands shaking as he reaches out to the long and flat cardboard box Ranboo begins to hold out towards him.

It’s the perfect size for the art piece he made.

“So we did do something bad,” Tubbo admits, voice softer than Tommy’s used to hearing it. “But I was so tired of you not being able to do the things you want, the things that make you happy, just because your parents are pricks. It went to regionals about two weeks after it entered the competition, got first place.”

“The certificate is in there,” Ranboo gestures towards the box, moving to squeeze his soulmate’s hands again.

The bee boy nods, “so is the second place ribbon and reward paper for the second regional one it was a part of.”

“And after that, it’s going to a state competition.” Ranboo smiles at him, tilting his head up as he nods at Tommy’s ‘what even’ look. “Yeah, I know, it’s a lot. We just… you kind of need to be there for the state competition. It’s a ways away but they got all views of the artwork in an online format Really good photos of your piece were taken and they’re going to display it—with your permission—in an art gallery in the Badlands. So, you can give it to your soulmates now. Oh and, apparently, you have really impressive cross hatching and color amalgamation that shows the depth of the work incredibly.”

“I have no idea what the fuck that means,” Tubbo wiggles in his chair, elbow bumping into his side. “But I know the art teacher said you mixed realism and fantasy really well and that it’s clear to see the emotions of the piece. She’s proud of you and so are we.”

“I… what the fuck,” Tommy giggles wetly, feeling an overwhelming amount of just… love for his best friends. “You guys are horrible, I hate you so much. Shit, look at what you’ve done, made me go soft. Fuck you.”

They laugh and Tubbo bumps his arm into his side again. He scrubs at his eyes, taking in the conversation that just happened and really processing it.

His best friends knew that he wanted to go into art.

That he always wanted to do competitions—and he could, he’s won plenty, but none of the ones he wanted to do, none if they were involved with his (or the theme of) soulmates.

And they went around that. They didn’t let fear stand in the way like he does, they got a piece that matters a lot to him into not only a local competition but managed to put it into one that goes statewide.

And it won. It won twice so far.

He did good. He succeeded in something he’s always wanted to, they’ve allowed him to succeed. They’ve helped him with this when he didn’t even ask.

Tubbo and Ranboo—they’ve let him grab this little bit of freedom and keep it.

And he knows his parents are going to be angry but he doesn’t care. It’s worth it. It’s worth it, his best friends, this gift—it’s thoughtful, it’s sweet.

He’s probably going to start crying like a little bitch soon.

Tommy sucks in a sharp breath, chuckling again as he shuffles back, thankful that his people are the only ones in the café (even Niki who’s in the back). He clutches the box tightly, moving it under a single arm.

His soulmates’ eyes are on him—three different pairs both glowing in worry and something else, something softer, fond—and he glances away from them and to his friends.

“I hate you both,” Tommy repeats, eyes slightly blurring as his emotions rush through him again. They know what he really means, I love you and thank you, so they smile again, relief evident on their faces.

Then Tubbo’s eyes are shifting to Wilbur’s face, narrowing as he tilts his head. Wilbur raises a perfect eyebrow, leaning back into his seat.

A silent challenge.

“Guys,” he really hopes he can get through this without crying. All attention is back on him and he swallows, gesturing between the two pairs. “These are my soulmates. And these are my best friends.”

Ranboo’s mouth drops open and Tommy can see the red that begins to crawl up his friend’s ears. He’s positive the other boy’s face is red underneath the mask.

Which is, honestly, funny as hell.

Tubbo stays silent, eyeing them.

He’s always been a cautious bastard.

“Hey, mates,” Phil—that glorious man—takes the lead, waving as he gives the boys a sincere smile. “It’s nice to meet you lot, Toms has told us a lot about you.”

“Clingy,” Tubbo mutters. Tommy flips him off, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand again. “But right back at you. Phil, right? You’re the dad?”

“Yep, these little shits are mine,” Phil snickers, amusement filling his eyes as warmth spreads over the link. Love, love, love. His heart is full of it and sometimes he’s afraid that the man’s chest will just burst, unable to hold it all, but the love he feels from his soulmates never wavers. It’s expanding, everlasting. It’s not a finite source.

“I’m Ranboo Beloved,” the tall boy holds his hand out for them to shake and his arm is long enough that it doesn’t even look awkward. Prick.

“Phil Watson,” the man reiterates, smiling wider. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well,” Boob boy looked so far out of his depth, voice wavering. “Tommy talks about you guys all the time, it’s good to finally put a face to the stories.”

“Aw, you told them about us, lovely?” Wilbur asks, teasing. “That’s sweet.”

“No, I don’t, I’d never talk about a dickhead like you,” Tommy splutters, shaking his head. “You’re a wrongen.”

“Yeah, yeah, gremlin, sure you wouldn’t,” his big brother smirks and holds an arm out for him if he wishes to join him in the booth. He turns back to introduce himself. “I’m Wilbur Soot. Tubbo, right, the one who likes bees?”

“Do you like bees?” Tubbo asks.

“Not as much as ants.” Wil shrugs. “Techno likes them though.”

The brunet turns to Technoblade, eyes light, “favorite bee fact, go.”

Techno stares.

He looks blank at best, bored at worst.

Everything’s silent for three horribly awkward seconds.

Then his baritone voice is saying, “it takes one ounce of honey to fuel a bee’s flight around the world.”

“He’s a nerd!” Tubbo exclaims happily, turning to Tommy. “Oh, we have to have them over for anarchy night, we have to!”

“Oh, god.” Ranboo groans, putting his head into his hands, probably imagining the sheer chaos that will occur if this entire groups plays their really funny, not concerning at all, game.

“Okay, but I get Wil,” Tommy grins back, easily sliding under his brother’s offered arm, box gently placed on the table in front of him.

The conversation flows around him, both sides easily meshing together. Technoblade, once he got officially introduced and pushed past his social anxiety, quickly got along with Ranboo. They had almost the same kind of humor, both sarcastic and a little sassy.

Tommy thinks they’re practically the same person—just a different font.

Plus the boob boy being such a fan and knowing so much about fencing probably helped.

Phil is easy to talk to and he’s far from boring, so it’s easy to see why he starts to bond with the other two easily. Wilbur jumps in here and there but he seems distracted, fiddling with the end of their big brother’s red and gold sleeve where Techno’s hand lay on the table.

Tubbo and Ranboo, no matter how much they tease him, know that Wil is his favorite.

They’ll get along, even if the older isn’t pushing to become friends too much.

Hesitantly, Tommy twists the box around to face him. His hands shake as he opens it, the cafe’s dim light instantly catching onto the award papers in there, the ribbon.

It feels weird to grab them, to hold them between his fingers and see his name on it.

He earned this. It might’ve been his best friends who put it into the contest for him, who did the leg work, but he’s the one who did the heavy lifting. He made it, he took the time to get everything just right.

Tommy earned this.

He breathes deeply, putting the papers on the top of the box, happy and a weird sort of bittersweet emotion in his chest. He’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to succeed, to do good. He’s allowed to make things he’s proud of.

He’s allowed to accept help.

Allowed to want people to like his work, allowed to like it too.

Sliding the piece out of the box is hard with trembling fingers but Tommy manages. It’s been delicately attached to a thicker back, the Illustration board safe within it’s frame. He twists it around, slightly surprised that the little “thanks for making the stormy days a little warmer ” note he left his soulmates readable. A plastic hardcover encases the back so it’s safe but easily accessible.

It’s nice, he’s holding something he worked hard on—something he thought was gone—and it’s nice.

He’s proud of himself.

“Hey, Wilby,” Tommy turns to his big brother, smile on his lips.

“Yeah, love?” Brown eyes meet his and the other practically beams at him, body leaning closer. The expression shifts into something softer as he bumps their shoulders together.

“Here,” Tommy twists the piece back face up, pushing it towards Wilbur, “it’s yours, all three of yours.”

Wilbur practically melts against him, eyes widening as he looks down at the piece. His hands come up, calluses on his fingers not taking away from how gentle he is when he holds it, hovering over the yellow sun for a second before he pulls them back and just looks.

It should be nerve wracking, watching someone whose opinion he cares so deeply for look at his work, but it’s not.

It’s Wil; he trusts him.

He knows his big brother, he knows his other half.

“Tommy, darling, this is…” the man breathes out, turning to him with shiny eyes. “This is beautiful. I can’t even—this is amazing, sweetheart. This is everything, you’re everything, love. Thank you, thank you for making this for me, for us.”

Tommy’s cheeks burn and he dunks his head, it’s too much. Wilbur’s never been shy about his affection but this is a burning kind of warmth.

He feels it through their link, through his words.

If Phil’s love is infinite—and if Technoblade’s is like his own, a mirror—then Wilbur’s is unforgettable. It’s not something that Tommy’s ever going to forget.

Their other soulmates turn to them, joining in the praise when Wil passes over the artwork. It feels right, it feels like this moment was always supposed to happen. Phil laughs at something Tubbo says, Techno’s hand hovers over his sun just like his brother’s had, expression so fond it aches.

Ranboo and Wilbur talk over his head, both joking as they gesture about something with their hands. His piece moves into Phil’s hands again and he’s getting another compliment.

Like all others, it’s genuine.

Tommy smiles, relaxes.

He’s warm and he’s happy—his soulmates are a hum in the back of his head, gentle and reassuring and so, so loved. They love him back just as much, just as fiercely. His guard is down and the fear isn’t even an afterthought, his parents' influence can’t reach him here.

It’s as much of a start as it is an end.

He can understand why he's a phoenix now, understand how he's come from nothing but ash and coldness and recreated himself into something alive, something burning. Something happy.

Tommy’s wrapped up in Wil’s arms, the people he cares for around him. Phil’s voice fills the air like a crow’s call, Tubbo’s answers like a bee’s buzz and Ranboo grins and leans back. The tall boy could be anywhere but he’s here. Tommy’s glad he is.

Technoblade catches his eye, mouths ‘thank you’ and he grins, promises—Tommy promises—himself that he’ll try to heal.

He’ll open up more, he’ll try.

He has people who’ll be there for him even when the fear comes back.

It’s more than he imagined he would’ve had in a long, long time.

Tommy shouldn’t be surprised though.

Afterall, there’s three things in life that no matter who you are or what you’ve been through, you cannot deny: one - soulmates are real and two, so is magic. Three is that you will always, always find them. Always.

Tommy can’t be more happy about these facts.