Chapter Text
Tommy startles awake- scared by a loud banging sound right outside his window. He sits up so fast he gets a head rush, and has to blink until his vision clears. When he's steady and not seeing stars, he carefully untangles his legs from his blankets and stumbles over to the window.
He's got all types of plants on his sill- prickly aloe veras and potted snake plants that reach up to his chin. And of course, hanging on the outside is a hooked garden bed of petunias and geraniums all growing over each other. Tommy leans over them, careful not to touch, to peer down below.
His father is on the grass, pulling something heavy from the shed. Something clearly unused, judging by the copious amounts of dust clouding up everywhere. Tommy yanks up his window and yells out, "you alright dad?"
His father looks up, startled, then he sees Tommy and looks vaguely guilty. "Hey Tom, morning. Good sleep?"
"Till you woke me up," Tommy complains. "What're you doing in the shed?"
His dad doesn't answer verbally, instead just wincing and turning back to keep tugging whatever heavy metal thing out from their rickety never before used shed. They stopped using it when Tommy started practicing magic around the house- he remembers being in primary school and sitting in the little garden growing mushrooms and carrots by shoving his palms in the damp soil. He would always wrinkle his nose at the idea of trowels or shovels when he had the option of feeling the earth under his fingers.
Tommy's father gave a huge tug and-
Oh, fuck no.
He spins, not bothering to shut the window, just sprinting out his room and down the stairs. He runs past his mother, in the kitchen and out the front door, down the porch stairs and over to the shed.
"Dad, what the hell are you doing with that?"
His father sighs, and looks at Tommy regretfully. "We gotta trim it Toms. We're having company tonight."
Tommy glares at the lawn mower, sinking his bare toes pointedly into the long grass. "We don't have to trim it, the lawn looks fine."
"Maybe to you," his father acquiesces, "and maybe to our neighbours, but you have to admit it's a little unruly."
Tommy frowns, looking around at the twisted weeds and dandelions and poppies sprinkled across the green. It looks good. It looks alive. Tommy doesn't understand what they don't see- the earth is here and breathes easy in their lawn. She's flourishing, shining with life with the help of Tommy's magic.
To cut her down would be like carving a knife through him.
"Who is even coming over that would care about the lawn?" He argues. "The queen? The pope?"
His father kicks at the old lawnmower and gives Tommy a weary look. "My mother and father."
Ah. Fuck. Well yeah, close enough.
…
"You're torturing yourself sweetheart," Tommy's mother says gently, coming out to the porch and handing Tommy a glass of water.
Tommy takes it and watches as she sits herself beside him on the stairs. "She's hurting," he says softly, "I'm not gonna leave her."
His mother sighs but doesn't argue. She also doesn't change her mind and say that they can leave the magic, leave the growth, because Tommy shouldn't have to stifle himself for people who'll never love him.
He curls his shaking hands around the cold glass and hunches as the lawnmower starts up.
…
"Oh Tom dear," his grandmother says when she sees him, "you've gotten so tall."
Tommy forces a grin and when his grandfather's eyes pass over him, he stands up even taller.
The look is appraising, but it quickly turns into accepting- a silent test that Tommy’s passed. “Good man,” His grandfather hums, reaching out to clap a heavy hand against Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy almost flinches.
Tommy’s mother is in full hostess mode- smiling and fluttering about nervously, offering tea and biscuits and sweets. She leads them to the living room where all the extra plants that Tommy’s grown and tended to have been cleared away. It leaves the house feeling a bit empty, lacking, not like home, but this isn’t about Tommy, so he keeps quiet and sits himself in a chair to the side, small in the way he’s supposed to be- in the way that they want him to be.
(1:35 pm) wilbur soot: hey mr magic innit
(1:35 pm) wilbur soot: call later?
Tommy allows himself a small grin.
(1:37 pm) tommyinnit: if ur still up at one
(1:37 pm) tommyinnit : grandparents visiting , i should actually talk to them
(1:37 pm) wilbur soot: booo don’t they know who i am
(1:38 pm) tommyinnit: professional minecrafter ?
(1:38 pm) wilbur soot: exactly
(1:39 pm) wilbur soot: but yea, call at one, and text me if u need anything
(1:39 pm) tommyinnit: i will
(1:40 pm) wilbur soot: anything tommy, i mean it. I know your grandparents are iffy. So if you need an out …
(1:41 pm) tommyinnit: thanks wil
The afternoon goes well enough- with Tommy making polite conversation when being asked about his schooling and his streaming and his friends. He mentions Tubbo and Ranboo with a smile, and briefly mentions how he recently hung out with Wilbur.
“Oh?” His grandmother questions. “Where did you guys go?”
Tommy falters, gaze flickering to his father, who subtly shakes his head. And normally, Tommy would duck down, tumble backwards on his own words, wave it all away, be normal, but- recently he’s been talking to Ranboo about constellations, sitting on Tubbo’s couch listening to music from the breeze, laughing with Jack while window-shopping with cameras out. He’s been going outside and throwing his arms out, letting the wind tilt him, not caring who’s watching or what they think. And that day with Wilbur, talking freely about magic, hesitantly showing the little parts of himself he’s kept away, only to receive admiration and proclamations of love, was one of the best he’s ever had. He's not going to lie about that- about himself.
“We- uh- we went to a magic museum,” Tommy answers.
His grandmother’s expression sours. She turns away, her nose going up. His grandfather’s expression darkens over, brows pinching and eyes going narrow. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his father wince and his mother wilt in her seat.
“Magic,” His grandfather says dangerously. “Rabble. Freakishness.”
Tommy flinches.
“This- Wilbur- cannot be a good influence on you,” He continues, shooting a look at Tommy’s father. “You let him hang around and take your son to these- these monstrous, disgusting displays without any sort of supervision?”
“Wilbur is very good to Tom,” His dad argues, “he helps a lot when we can't and only wants what’s best for him-”
His grandfather scoffs. Tommy’s hands clench in his lap.
“What's best for him? And what is helping? Helping by teaching him devilish rituals? Showing him things that are unnatural? That are wrong?”
Tommy bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He shouldn’t have said anything- what the hell was he thinking-
“Wilbur Soot is just another freak unable to accept the natural creation of the universe- the sooner he’s cut out of your lives, the better.”
Tommy’s father gapes, and for a moment Tommy believes he’ll say something, stand up to his father, defend Wilbur, but he just slowly lets his mouth close and looks away. And Tommy realizes, no one is coming to Wilbur’s defense. Tommy’s Wilbur.
Wilbur, who says that he’s a text away whenever Tommy is doing something that frightens him, who once sat at their dining room table and endeared himself to Tommy’s parents like he really was a brother, who watches him with care during vlogs and praises him for milestones his parents don’t quite understand and asks after him, brags about him, hugs him like he’s precious. Wilbur, who embraces Tommy’s magic with wide open arms and an enthusiasm that Tommy’s never seen, who was the second safest place Tommy’s ever been, who never looks at Tommy sideways when he starts to ramble, or teases him when he’s nervous, or fails to comfort him when he shakes.
It makes a sort of frenzied panic spike in his chest- just as easily as his parents were willing to shave the grass down in the yard, would they feel the same about the few friends Tommy's found who actually make him feel he's worth something? Is all it takes just a few angry, hateful words to make the only things Tommy holds dear disappear?
No, Tommy thinks fiercely, jaw tightening. He’s not going to just sit here and listen to this shit and let this happen. He’ll stand being called a freak, being called devilish, being called unnatural and weird. But he draws the line at anyone suggesting Wilbur isn’t one of the best people in Tommy’s life. He draws the line at someone trying to take his brother in all but blood away from him.
“No,” He says, soft as first, but when his grandfather merely gives him a look, Tommy stands and speaks up. “No, Wilbur is not a freak.”
“Tom-” His mom tries, but Tommy shakes his head.
“I’m not- no, I’m not going to let him just-” Tommy swallows, bares his teeth. “Wilbur Soot is one of my favorite people on Earth, and he loves me for everything that I am- not just what I pretend to be, like you do.”
“Boy, don’t take that tone with me,” his grandfather warns, but Tommy’s already stepped in it, he might as well go all the way.
“And you know what?” He hisses, drawing his courage from long talks with Tubbo under a dimming sky, from the way Niki cheers when he grows her four-leaf clovers, the way that Ash, Joe and Mark text him about animals to ask what their names are as if Tommy would know. “Magic isn’t monstrous. It’s beautiful and lovely and fucking spectacular. I feel bad for you, that you’ll never understand it and you'll never get to experience it because you're too hateful.”
There’s a trembling pause, and honestly, Tommy is hardly shocked by the hand that rushes towards him, by the loud smack that rings out into the quiet.
He stumbles back, cheek red, eyes caught on his grandfather and the twisted look of hate in his flat gaze. Tommy’s father rockets to his feet to get in between the two and his mother makes a loud noise of shock, but Tommy can’t focus on that- his vision blurring with tears, chest tightening in panic. He turns and runs out of the room, through the kitchen and the front door. He runs- down the lane, past the park, turn on a street here, turn on a street there. The wind tries to pull him back, to slow him down, to calm him, but Tommy doesn’t listen, unable to stop.
He keeps running until he’s along the curve of the train station and has to stop.
He’s gasping for breath, legs shaking so badly that he almost collapses right there on the sidewalk. The wind blows hard once, towards the station and he stumbles.
"Fuckin- stop ," he snaps sharply, voice wrecked with tears. "Stop." The wind dies, and Tommy can only make himself feel bad for a moment. He needs to focus. Now not being pulled by the wind, he manages to reroute his trembling steps to a bench, sit down heavily on the wood, just to take a moment.
His brain is scrambled, heart racing in his chest. His cheek hurts and his eyes sting and he aches. He wants- he needs-
Tommy fumbles to pull out his phone.
(1:45 pm) Ranboo: tommy are you okay?
(2:00 pm) Ranboo: tommy??
(2:01 pm) Ranboo: something feels bad , and it’s not tubbo, so -
(2:01 pm) Ranboo: just please text me when you see these. Or even call, calling is better. Please.
(2:00 pm) Tubbo: toms, please call us, ranboo is freaking out.
(2:02 pm) Tubbo: at least contact wil to let us know you’re alright
Emotion magic. Of course. The second that his grandparents walked in the front door Ranboo could probably tell- Tommy had been panicking that whole visit, and it would've only gotten worse once his grandfather started talking about Wilbur.
At least contact Wil, Tubbo had said. Anything Tommy, Wilbur had reiterated. Please, Ranboo had begged.
With shaking hands, he dials Wilbur's number and puts the phone to his ear. It only rings twice before Wil is picking up.
"Tommy out-it," He says cheerily, "we weren't supposed to call until later. What's up? Are you being antisocial again?"
Tommy hesitates, having absolutely zero clue where to even start. In Tommy's silence, Wilbur must realize that something is wrong because he goes, "Tommy? Hey, Toms? Are you there?"
Tommy still can't speak. The words- and there are so many of them- are caught in his throat, making him choke.
"Do you need me?" Wilbur asks, serious now, voice not even wavering even though Tommy knows he's worried out of his mind. "Just answer that one question for me if you can."
"Yes," Tommy forces out, "yes, please."
"Okay Tommy, okay, good job." He immediately says, and over the line Tommy can hear him getting up and moving, probably out the door and to his car. "Good job, now another question- are you hurt?"
Tommy considers. Emotionally, yes- he wants to curl up somewhere hidden and dark and not come out until he knows for sure that he's safe- but that isn't what's most important right now. That can come later. Physically, yes- there's a bright red handprint on his cheek and his legs ache from sprinting- but even that isn't too bad. He's dealt with worse, maybe not from his own family, but still. He'll survive, he always does.
"No," he whispers.
"Okay, that's good," Wilbur sighs, relieved. "That's good. Okay, where are you so I can come get you?"
"I'm- I'm at the train station." Tommy rubs his wet face. He doesn't want to admit that his first thought was to get on a train to Tubbo's. He can't imagine how they'd react to him stumbling up to their house crying and shaking at almost midnight after not answering any of their panicked texts. "I don't know where I was going, I just- I needed to be out."
"Of course Tommy, of course. Just sit tight for me, yeah? I'm on my way."
...
The first thing that Wilbur does after parking and getting out of the car is pull Tommy close.
He's warm and solid and gentle, with none of that flat vacant vitriol in his eyes. It's only worry and sympathy and the sight of it, plus the feel of his arms around Tommy shatters him.
"It's okay clover," Wilbur murmurs when Tommy starts to sob. "I've got you. I'm here."
He doesn't know how long he stands there, soaking up all of Wilbur's love, the world still around them. Wilbur keeps whispering reassurances in Tommy's ear and holds him without any complaint.
"You're safe," he says, "you're loved. I promise."
And Wilbur has never lied to him before, so there's no reason not to believe him.
…
The ride to Wilbur’s house is long and quiet, giving Tommy just enough time to think of what to tell Ranboo and Tubbo.
(2:40 pm) tommyinnit: safe now, with wilbur, sorry
It only took a couple of seconds for the response to roll in-
(2:40 pm) Tubbo: good, stay there
(2:40 pm) Tubbo: we’ll see you tmr morning
Tommy doesn’t know what that means, but his phone dies before he gets the chance to find out. He knows he doesn’t have to worry about it though, as Tubbo has never done anything to make Tommy distrust him and Ranboo has expressed, multiple times, to wanting Tommy safe and happy always- forever. The thought used to seem impossible, but that was before he met them. And before he had Wilbur and Niki and Jack and Fundy.
Wilbur parks and Tommy follows him out and up to his door. He unlocks it and gives it a shove to let them in, and the second Tommy is inside, he already feels better.
It’s beautiful- dark wooden flooring covered with antique mitch-matched rugs, low bookcases against the far wall absolutely stuffed with books, and a long dark brown couch with a moon tapestry hung over it. He steps further in and sees plants in the kitchen, dried citrus hangings over the herbs and spices, old recipe books on a high shelf. There is a tiny, well used piano at the end of the hall right next to the guest room, and on the opposite side is Wilbur’s room, with a guitar rack in the corner, a ukulele hanging on the wall, a rich teal bed, a walk-in closet, and a long dresser piled with gems and rocks and little trinkets. Front and center next to the jagged amethyst and the smooth rose quarts are the fake glow stones Tommy got him when they went to the magic museum.
It’s a wonderful home. Wilbur isn’t even magic and yet his house is somehow full of more magic than Tommy’s.
Wilbur doesn’t protest to Tommy’s peeking around and poking at things. His eyes just follow Tommy as he crosses the threshold from dining room to kitchen so he can run a hand over the well cared for bamboo palm.
“It’s nice here,” Tommy says softly, pulling away before he accidentally shoots the plant up through the ceiling.
“Yeah? You like it?” Wilbur asks.
Tommy turns and steps back into the dining room. Wilbur is leaning against the oak table, watching Tommy with an unreadable expression. "I love it."
He hesitates, and then comes closer so he's right in front of Wilbur. He sways a little and then lets his forehead drop onto Wil's shoulder. Wilbur immediately wraps two arms around him tight.
"You're alright Tommy," He says. Tommy hooks his arms around Wilbur, shuddering. "You're okay. I've got you."
"Sorry," Tommy apologizes, shame crawling up his throat from his gut, all warm and uncomfortable.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Wilbur says, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s temple. “I promise. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. People that are supposed to love you and care for you no matter what, didn’t, and that isn’t to any fault of you. You shouldn’t have to change in order to be cared for, you shouldn’t have to hide yourself in order to be safe. I’m sorry, clover.” He pulls away and places two hands on Tommy’s now wet cheeks. “I’m sorry that I can’t make them see what I see. How beautiful and wonderful and spectacular you are. How deserving of love you are. But you should know that you are. And that my home, my space, anywhere that I am, will always, always be safe for you. Every part of you.”
“Oh,” Tommy whimpers, and then buries himself back into Wilbur’s arms. “Thank you, Wil. Thank you.”
“Don’t you dare thank me for that,” Wilbur chastises lightly. “Now come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
They go into the kitchen, and Wilbur asks Tommy what he wants. Hesitantly, with Wilbur’s earlier words ringing in his ears, he admits to wanting something fresh or crisp, something leafy and green. Wilbur suggests an apple salad with candied pecans and they get to work- washing fruit and peeling lettuce. Tommy is tasked with slicing a gala and he can’t help the way he goes all warm on the inside, Tubbo’s words coming to mind. Imagine the people you’re making it for, imagine the way it feels to have them in your life. Appreciate them for what they bring you. He thinks about Wilbur- his laughs and smiles and the way it feels to be held. The way it feels to be safe. His fingertips tingle and on the exhale, he knows that this salad will be infused with a spell.
When they’re done they sit at the dining table and Wilbur tells Tommy all about the new music he’s making and some of the lyrics he’s written- a few of them vaguely allude to magic, Tommy’s magic to be exact, and they make him red, but Wilbur just beams like he’s proud. Of the lyrics and of Tommy. They toss the salad and use the prongs to put it onto plates. Tommy watches as Wilbur stabs at the lettuce with a fork.
“How is it?” He asks when Wilbur takes a successful bite.
Wilbur stops chewing. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He asks with his mouth full. “If it’s actually fresh like you wanted? 'Cause it could've gone terribly- cooking is one of those things that you're either really good at or just terrible.”
Tommy shrugs. “No, I know that it’s good. And I can tell that it's fresh, I just- I'm curious. How it tastes. To you specifically.”
Wilbur keeps chewing, brows furrowed, squinting at Tommy like he's a particularly difficult maths problem. Then he swallows and the expression clears, turning into surprised astonishment as he blinks down at his salad like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. “Wait a second-”
Tommy leans in a bit, feet wiggling nervously. He wonders if this was how Tubbo felt when Tommy first tasted his soup. All nervous and jittery.
“It’s sweet,” he says slowly. “Weirdly sweet. Citrusy. Zesty. It’s- I feel refreshed. Awake. It’s delicious. Tommy...is this what I think it is? Did you-" Wilbur makes a vague gesture, twirling his wrist, indicating magic.
Tommy flushes, shrugs again. “I may have added a spell by accident. I couldn’t help it, sorry. You made me feel safe, and I- there's no way for me to express how that feels except, uh, the magical equivalent of drugging you I guess. So, my bad."
“Tommy, don’t say sorry- wha- this- I mean, it’s magnificent.” Wilbur laughs. “You have nothing to apologize for! I- I love being magically drugged."
Tommy snorts. "Yeah?"
"Duh," he sobers though, his smile turning gentle around the edges. "But no, I'm glad that I can help you feel safe and that you're here. And don't feel like you owe me anything or that this is something other than common decency from a person that loves you, okay? You deserve to feel safe and to practice your magic and I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. It's also pretty pog that my first ever taste of magic-infused food was from my very own magical little brother. My little clover."
Tommy turns tomato red. "I'm- I'm going to cry at your shitty dining table, you better fucking stop-"
"My little strawberry!"
"Absolutely fucking not!"
"My dandelion, a sweet little flower!"
"This sweet little fucking flower is going to commit murder in a second."
Wilbur laughs, throwing his head back and letting his eyes squint shut. When Tommy's sure he's not looking, Tommy beams, infinitely warmer than before.