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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Cheap muslin curtains flutter in the sea breeze, flapping against the peeling window frames in Wilbur and Technoblade’s room. Clothes and trinkets are strewn messily over Wilbur’s side, belongings neatly stacked and filed away on the other. A buzz of chatter rises through the well-worn floorboard as the inn begins to busy for the night. The mew of gulls melds with shouts and laughter from the street outside.

“Hey, c’mere and help me do up the hooks on this, I can’t reach the back.” 

Wilbur flings his top in the general direction of where his brother is reading peacefully on the bed. It slaps him neatly across the face, bells tinkling madly.

Hopping from foot to foot to pull his shoes on, Wilbur doesn’t see Techno set aside his glasses and get up with top in hand and murder in his gaze.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about getting a new outfit, maybe in blue…Or do you think red would suit m-  Argh! Get off, get off, ow! OW! TECHNO, TECHNO WE CAN TALK ABO- NO, WAIT, WATCH THE CANDLE! THE CANDLE YOU MORON-”

Thirty seconds later, Wilbur is picking half-melted wax off a shirt while Techno scrapes what’s left of their candle taper off the dresser.

“You’re an oaf. There was no need for that. Anyway the oil lamp is meant to go on the dresser, not the candle. What’d you put it there for?”

“Unwarranted provocation will do that, yes. And if I remember right,  you  put that candle on the dresser while you were doing your face up. Hold your arms out so I can put this stupid thing on you.”

Wilbur smiles sweetly, shifting so Techno can loop the cloth around his chest and start doing up the hooks and eyes on the back. 

“It was hardly unwarranted. And I can be  very  provocative…”

There’s a short scuffle as Technoblade drags his brother to the open window and does his best to throw him out.

      ….

“Are you really still sulking?”

Holding a mouthful of cloth pins, Wilbur directs all his attention to wrapping the other cloth around his hips and pinning it securely in place, and then feels around on the windowsill for the jam-jar of cloth-glue. It’s remarkably easy to ignore an evil brother when sticking your clothes to yourself. It’s not strictly necessary, but when your skirt is already dangerously scant, a garment accident is something you only want to go through once. 

Techno, however, is annoyingly persistent and knows how short Wilbur’s attention span is.

“Do you think we’ll see the kid again?”

Midway through choosing earrings, he responds, “I hope so. He’s kinda sweet for a pretentious little brat. We told him where we’d be so he’ll find us if he wants. Do I wear the green ones with the silver setting or the dangly golden ones with amethysts?”

“The amethysts. Green looks weird with the bells. Stop primping, you look fine.”

A huff. Bent over in front of the cracked mirror, Wilbur’s dabbing on rouge, occasionally adjusting his jewellery and fussing with his hair. He pauses for a moment to glare at his twin.

“Fine isn’t good enough, I need to look gorgeous.” He uncorks a little glass bottle and dabs on scent. “Do I still look like you?”

“Exponentially worse.”

“Wonderful. Are you ready? Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Chalk dusts slim fingers white as Wilbur marks out a circle on the cobbles. It’s a lively night, with braziers lit, torches burning and an unruly crowd already gathering. Resin gleams amber under the flickering lights as Techno rosins his bowstrings.  He can feel his limbs tingle, and he taps his feet and snaps his fingers to try and quell the buzz of anticipation. 

They’re on the dockside, out where the dark harbour waters lap against hulls and walls and sea-slicked stone steps.

They’re pulling a good audience this time. The merchant cargo ships are arriving for the Solstice celebrations, drawing in sailors and land-living alike to trade in the summer festivals. 

Wilbur has always loved the Solstice. It’s new faces, festival food, brightly coloured fripperies from far-off lands and endless singing and dancing. What more could you want?  Maybe he should pick yellow for his new outfit. A bright, sunshine yellow, light and sweet as Solstice sun. 

Technoblade settles the violin under his chin and raises an eyebrow at his brother. 

It’s go time.

The opening to a common Kyrrian summer dance rises from Techno’s strings, and it’s all Wilbur needs.

It’s easy, a simple base with fluid, flying steps, and straightforward to add fancy stuff to once you’ve got the idea down.

He breathes in deep, finds his heartbeat, and lets himself go with it.

                       …

Phil and Kristen, Tommy running around their feet, make it just as it begins.

Wilbur’s twirling around the ring, the ribbons he’s trailing a blur of brown and purple, feet flitting across the floor so fast it makes Tommy’s mouth open like a fish. 

Phil didn't get much of a look the first time he saw the twins, but now they’re closer, and there’s a lot more of Wilbur on display. To his surprise, he realises how young they are. Neither of them can be more than ten summers older than Tommy, still barely more than children. Wilbur turns away from them for a moment, arms out gracefully, the bell-strings on his wrists chiming, and there are feathers. Tiny, dead-leaf wren-wings, fanned out and fluttering to follow the movement of his arms.

“Fledgling.”

  Murmurs his instincts in surprise, the itch to protect and care and shelter rising.

He feels pity. Pity for these self-reliant, self-protecting pair of kids who have learnt to look out for themselves, yet are still so young. They shouldn’t be doing this. Especially not so well, so easily capable of everything they shouldn’t know about. Kristen squeezes his hand, looking at him sympathetically. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. She is too.

What if that had been Tommy? What if fate had not been so kind, and this was their son entertaining drunken strangers in a rough sea-town, long past the ninth hour? He doesn’t want to think about Tommy living their life. Alone in a gravel-gritty world, fighting to keep themselves alive in the only ways they could. Never safe, never able to let their guards down because risks can only be calculated and nothing is ever good enough.

There’s a shout from the crowd, and a coin-pouch flies through the air, Wilbur darting lithely to snag it and toss it into the hat at Techno’s feet.

Flinging his arms out with a peal of laughter, he catches the thrower by the wrists and tugs them into the ring.

He’s tall, seaswept, black horns spiking through a tangle of long blonde hair. His cloak is bearskin and his eyes are wave-lit emeralds. 

Salt-stained boots and dancing slippers blur as he pulls Wilbur in, and they wheel off around the circle. Laughter rising, they side-step, swing, spin, dip and side-step again, over and over, round and round, back and forth, hands entwined, bells tinkling madly. 

The music picks up into a flying swing, and the pair hop-skip into a reel, hair whipping back and forth, whirling faster and faster, holding tighter and closer and never missing a step. 

They only stop when Techno snaps a string, stumbling to a halt and gasping for breath. 

“Prime-damn, darling, you dance even better than you did last time I dropped anchor here!”

Wilbur’s flushed rosy with exertion, eyes sparkling. 

“Damn right I’m better. You’ve not got any worse since last time either, Captain.”

“Still got a tongue on you like Soljar fire-leaf! Come find me later, you know where I’ll be lodging.”

Wilbur crows, skipping back to the centre. 

“You’ll have to pay me more if you want me to use it!”

He doesn’t even take a breather, pushing back his hair and opening his arms for a blue-haired harbour girl, strains of music beginning to fill the air again.

Kristen and Phil watch with growing concern as time passes. Neither of the twins falters for a heartbeat, even as fingers begin to bleed on bone-white strings and bruises bloom on baby-soft skin. Techno doesn’t slow down, Wilbur’s smile strains but never fades as he ducks deftly out of a drunken grip and evicts them from the ring with a neat push to the back.

The watchers grow rowdier, the dances grow more careless, too coarse, too clumsy, too close. Wilbur stays in control, stays sweet and sharp and sparkling, pirouetting between partners, tossing saucy retorts whenever the catcalls grow too cruel, perfectly presenting at all times.

It’s not nice to see, knowing what’s really happening. Tommy’s half asleep in Kristen’s arms, drowsily watching with half-lidded eyes. 

At some point, the dancing has stopped making sense, and he catches blinks and flashes, (hands in hair fingers grip hard enough to bruise bells sing out buried flash of panic) Wilbur meeting wings with a dark-haired, scarred man who’s grinning wide enough to see that three of his teeth shine as gold as his feathers, (cloudy eye wicked mouth holding on like I’ll forget you exist if you don’t dig your nails in) , Wilbur dipping a Mer with dusty garnet curls and webbed fingers (salt-crusted scales did you miss me? sea-green jealousy stay close to me) , Wilbur laughing, Wilbur winking at the audience, Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur-

Just as Philza is about to intervene, regardless of minding his own business, there’s a sharp, piercing whistle from behind him. 

He turns to see an Ender-born make its way through the crush of people, milkmaid pails swinging from a yoke on its shoulders. There’s a boy riding on its back, horns curling out of his mop of chestnut hair, skinny ankles crossed to hang on while his hands are occupied. He’s holding a brass dipper, free hand wound into the Enderian’s heterochromatic locks.

 Pewter cups jangle where they hang off his belt.

“Ayup, Will! Sorry we’re late, the first buckets were leaking so we took a little longer than normal.”

He slithers down onto the ground, grabbing a cup off his belt and dipping a ladle of what appears to be honey-mead.

“Oh, thank Prime for Tubbo, I was about ready to drop.” Wilbur knocks it back in one, extending the cup for a refill. “Just in time, too. You’re a lifesaver.”

Tubbo sloshes out one for Technoblade, and the Enderian begins to busily hand out mead to the rabble of people, all of whom seem to know them.

Tommy tries to tug away, making for the twins, who are packing up their stuff.

“Mum, let me go, please, I need to talk to Wilbur!” Kristen opens her mouth to explain that Wilbur is probably tired, and he can find him tomorrow, but Tommy’s eyes water miserably and she shuts it again. “Just for five minutes, please, pleaseplease please -”

Kristen lets go and he shoots off, dashing across the cobblestones and slamming into Wilbur’s side. Taken by surprise, he squawks, slopping half a glass of mead onto the Ender-born, who yelps, sizzling.

“Fuck! Boo, are you okay? Where’d it get you?” Tubbo claps a rag onto where steam is rising from its bare forearms and dabs the moisture off with loving aggression. 

“Tommy!” Wilbur beams, pulling him into a sticky side hug. “You came round after all! I looked out for you, but I didn't see you until now.”

Tommy says nothing. He’s very aware that he has the eyes of everyone on him and just presses himself into Wilbur silently.

The man standing lazily on Wilbur’s other side leans down to examine Tommy, white bandana sliding off his hair. 

“Didn’t know you had another brother, Wil. I kinda see it now, though.”

“He’s not my brother, not by blood at least. He just turned up and stuck to us. Techno, look, Tommy’s here!” 

He’s shunted over to the other brother, Wilbur pocketing his half of the earnings and giving his friend a quick peck. 

“Right, I’m off. I’ll be back before three, I’ll try not to wake you up. Night Sap, G’night Tommy!”

Techno lets Tommy wriggle under the cloak he just pulled on, and watches, deeply unimpressed, as Wilbur disappears.

“Loser-man’s off on a treasure hunt, we won’t see him til tomorrow. Gremlin child, do you have your parents with you, or did you abandon them again?”

He doesn’t blink when Tommy bites his hand.

“...Right. I assume those rich-lookin’ people with expressions of parental discomfort belong to you. C’mere.”

Hoisting a loudly objecting child-baby up, Techno dumps the kid, exchanges pointless pleasantries and ignores the weird pitying looks. He’s too tired for this. Maybe if he gets back fast enough he’ll have time to complete at least one sleep cycle before his brother comes back and inevitably wakes him up to gossip.

He turns to leave and then immediately realises Tommy has attached himself to his leg. He doesn’t look like he’s letting go anytime soon.

He sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Techno is woken by light footfalls in the hall. He knows his brother when he hears him, so he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. The door squeaks, floorboards creaking as Wilbur slips up to the bed and shakes him gently by the shoulder.

“Techno. Technoblade. I know you’re awake. You stopped breathing when I came in the door. Get up, I’ve got shit to tell you.”

“Wilbur, it is four in the morning. Why are you talking to me?”

There’s silence. And then with a jangle of bedsprings, he’s crushed under six feet of gross sweaty man-child.
Casual fratricide seems rather tempting right now.

“Get off.” He digs his shoulder under Wilbur and shoves him off onto the floor. “You stink, please leave.”

Wilbur does not leave. Instead, he flops around on the rug, groaning dramatically.

“How could you do this to me? My bones are broken. I’m dying, you’ve killed me. Why would you wound a fine upstanding citizen in this cruel way? And I even brought you back presents. Cruel, cruel world.”

Techno gives in, rolling over and swiping a match alight on the wall. The candle splutters reluctantly to life with a spark and a smell of hot fat.

His brother is pale in the watery yellow light, shadow spread out on the whitewash behind him.

“I brought back something special.” There's a crackle of fabric as Wilbur reaches into his cloak pockets. “Close your eyes and guess what it is.”

“If I close my eyes I’ll fall asleep. Uh, is it your dignity?”

A snort.

“No, don’t be stupid, I had to abandon that to make bank like 5 years ago.”

There’s a soft scrape as Wilbur digs a nail into whatever it is he’s brought back.

“Smell that and guess. Go on, coward it’s fruit, not whatever grossness I knowyou’re expecting.”

He holds it out, lightly pressing smooth, pebbled rind against Techno’s nose.
It smells like citrus and sunshine, bright and warm as mulled Vjerta. His eyes snap open.

“He gave you oranges?!”

Wilbur beams.
“That’s not all, but I knew you’d like those best, brother mine.”

They sit in bed, eating amber orange segments and passing spiced rum back and forth.
It’s a good end to a dark night.

…

“So. You were gone four hours, did you have a good time or did you just feel bad and stay out of pity?”

Wilbur flicks peel at him. He flicks a pillow back. Violently.

“Don’t tell anyone, but Dream’s like, mid as actual hell. Complete himbo. I couldn’t not stay for cuddles. I’m a bitch, not cruel.”

“Wilbur. That man can outdrink Jebediah, outfight me, probably kicks dogs when he’s in a bad mood and gives wifebeater vibes. You’re tellin’ me he’s a vanilla bitch.

“Pillow princess.”

“That’s it. You’re lying to my face. Disrespect like this will not be tolerated, you slanderer, ruining a dishonest man’s reputation like that.”

It only takes seven or so good hits for the pillow to burst. Wilbur, feigning death by malicious pillow attack, sneezes feathers and looks so pathetic Techno almost feels bad. Then his brother snuffs out the candle and dives at him.

Almost.

Chapter Text

“Get up. The sun’s been up for hours.”

It’s a lovely day. Morning sunlight streams through the windows, bringing with it a sea breeze and the smell of salt and summer.

And Wilbur is still in bed, rolled in all the blankets with a pillow over his head to block out the light. He’s exerting supreme ignorance over all Technoblade’s attempts to get him up. Wilbur seems to be spending all his time in bed these days, one way or another. 

“Wilbur. You will not spend our rest day doing nothing.”

Wilbur raises a frazzled head from his nest and blinks irritably at him. 

“Isn’t that what a rest day is for? Come on, all my bones are crying.”

Techno, who’s up, washed, dressed and ready for the day is unsympathetic. Wilbur is dragged unceremoniously out of bed and dropped on the carpet. 

“You’re so cruel, an evil, heartless side of bacon. Did you even leave me water?”

“It’s in the pitcher by the fire. If it’s cold then you should have got up earlier.”

“Fuck you fuck this fuck today fuck Mondays fuck cold wash-water fuck everything.” Wilbur splutters, splashing water into a bowl and dunking his face in it. “ Eurgh! You’re awful. I need my beauty sleep. How do you expect me to attract handsome rich men if I have dark circles?”

“There’s some bread and dripping on a dish in the smaller cupboard. I didn’t think you’d want tea.”

“Good. I’m starving. Have you seen my trousers with the high waist?” 

“Under that white shirt that you said you’d wash four days ago. And before you ask one of your boots is under the bed and the other is on the middle of the windowsill- Put a shirt on before you go and get it! ”

Wilbur pokes his tongue out at him and starts lacing his boots up to the knee while sitting in the window.

“All we have is a stale chunk of bread and an orange left,” he mumbles through a mouthful of bread. “Did you want me to go out to the morning market?”

“Oh. Yes, please, and I’ll clean while you’re gone. Take the housekeeping money and don’t forget potatoes.”

Swiping a basket off the little table at the other end of their room, Wilbur gives a mock salute and makes for the door before his brother can think of anything else for him to do.

On the other side of town, squatted in a dank alley, Tommy is beginning to think coming to try and find Wilbur and Techno himself was a bad idea. 

The strap of his bag, containing all his valuables; (Henry, watercolour paintbox, book on dogs, key to his room) is digging into his shoulder, and his shoes are rubbing uncomfortably. He’d slipped out of his window before dawn, when it was dark and he’d been too furious to think about where he was actually going.  

Now the sun was high in the sky, and the longer he wandered, it seemed less and less likely he was going to find either the twins or his way home.

Faintly he feels his eyes prickle, and he scrubs a hand over his face. He’s a big man, he’s gonna be okay. The damp alley wall seeps into his back. Everything feels distinctly less okay.

Suddenly footsteps echo in the gloom, Tommy squidging back into the shadows and trying desperately to muffle his sniffling in his shirt.

The footfalls draw closer and closer, clunk louder and louder. He hears leather creak, and a soft, feathery rustling.

And then they come to a halt in front of him, and Tommy thinks he might pass out.

“What the-?! What’re you doing back here, kid?”

He cracks an eye open, and the first thing he sees is boots.

They’re scary boots. Dark, salt-stained leather, with soles thick enough to probably kill him with one kick. And the man is somehow standing easily, weight on one leg, even though the heels are tall enough to make Tommy’s tired legs hurt just looking at them. 

He looks up slowly, past the boots, past a- is that a corset?! , past a weird shirt with big sleeves, past graceless gilded wings until he sees the man's face.

He’s definitely going to pass out. 

This man is the most terrifying person he’s ever seen. 

One eye is dark, flicking from Tommy to his bag to the walls around them, but the other is a milky white, unmoving and unseeing. Tommy shudders, own eyes stuck to the twisted serpentine scar disfiguring the left side of his face, slashing dully crimson through one eyebrow to twist the corner of his mouth up into a grimace, golden fangs glinting slickly where his lip is pulled taut. 

Tommy’s about to start crying, regardless of being a big man, when he realises with a jolt of hope, that he recognises him. He saw him dancing with Wilbur last night. And if he knows Wilbur, then he might be able to tell him where he is.

This idea makes him forget entirely that this is a random terrifying probably evil stranger. 

“Kid? You okay?”

Tommy wipes his nose, stands up straight and says “I’m Tommy, from Avylrra. I’m looking for Wilbur and Technoblade.”

The man stares. There’s a weird look on the working half of his face. 

“...You want to find the twins. Who are you?”

Tommy doesn’t miss a beat.

“I’m their brother.” He doesn’t look convinced, so Tommy pulls out his secret weapon. “I know them, I do. Look. Wilbur gave me this. It’s special.”

Digging into his pocket, he pulls out a gambling chip. There’s a feather scratched crudely into the top. Wilbur didn’t really give it to him, it was in the bag and Tommy just took it, but now seems a good time to give it back and this man never has to know.

“He gave you my chip?”

Ah. Shit. This guy must know them better than he expected.

Better keep going.

“See. I told you it was special. Now take me to them.”

Silence.

Then the man shrugs. 

“I was heading that way anyway. You’re not too far from the inn they stay at. Come on, Tommy from Aylvrra.”

“It’s just Tommy, y’know. What’s your name?”

“My name is Quackity fro- It’s Quackity. Quackity Nevadas. I own the inn Wilbur’s staying at.”

Another weird name. 

“And Techno?”

“And your bone-headed brother. Yes.”

After what is definitely a longer walk than Tommy would have liked, they draw up to the steps of a pub on the dockside, near where the twins perform. The sign swinging above the door is a faded ace.

Quackity shoves the door open and tugs Tommy in after him. Instantly they’re hit with a wall of noise and heat. There are people everywhere he looks, rugged travellers sitting around tables with cards, a couple of bards leaning against the bar, serving girls darting around with teetering trays of drink, (he sees the Enderian from yesterday, and as soon as his eyes land on them, they whip round and wave, the tray they’re holding topping dangerously) people singing and people shouting and people dancing and drinking and playing and fighting and flirting and-

“Tommy!”

Tommy whips around, and Wilbur’s standing in front of him with a covered basket and a beam that rivals the sun. He doesn’t wobble when Tommy throws his arms around him and smushes his face into the older boy’s waist.

He smells like spice and smoke and safety. 

Suddenly his eyes are stinging, and he presses harder into a linen shirt, doing his best not to snivel.

There’s a warm weight on his head, and he realises distantly that Wilbur is stroking his hair.

His eyes sting harder.

“-ou just found him in an alley? What made you decide to bring him back? You’re not normally a child person.”

He can’t see Quackity, but he feels the shift as Wilbur takes his weight on one side.

“...Well he said he knew you, and he had the chip. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“Soft motherfucker. Anyway, Tommy looks about ready to drop. I’ll take him up to Techno and come back down later to help out.”

Tommy raises his head and then immediately wishes he hadn't when Wilbur leans over and presses a kiss to the weird funky scar corner of the other Avian’s mouth. Icky. That can’t be nice.

“Bye, Q.”

Wilbur, with the child attached to his hand, makes a beeline for the back of the tavern, tugging Tommy up to a flight of sketchy wooden stairs.

“Why’d you kiss him like that? It was ew.”

“Kiss him like what? You look like the kind of kid to think all kisses are ew.”

“They are. But why did you kiss him on the gross bit? You could have chosen the normal side.”

Wilbur snorts.

“Precocious brat. He doesn’t like the scar, so I always choose that bit when I can, to show him that I don’t give a shit.”

They pause in front of a peeling blue door, and Tommy watches as he fumbles with the key.

“That’s stupid. I don’t get it.”

Wilbur pushes the door open, laughing.

“That’s because you’re an insensitive wart.”

He’s hustled into a light, remarkably clean room. There's a window at one end with white, fluttering curtains, and a fire and a rocking chair at the other. 

Fitted neatly in between are a bed, table and dresser. Technoblade is spread out over the bed, book in hand, glasses sliding off his nose. He looks up when Wilbur closes the door.

“Oh good, your back. I put some water on, we can mak- Oh. You brought the child.”

“I did. Ducky found him and brought him back for me.”

“Do not call that brick of a man Ducky in my presence ever again. That’s the worst thing I’ve heard all day. Anyway, Tommy why are you here?”

“I ran away.”

“You what?! ”

Chapter Text

“I ran away.” Tommy repeats with complete calm, as if he’s telling them about the weather.

“...You ran away.”

“Yes.”

“From your loving parents and nice home?”

“...It’s not nice. They tried to make me go to a boring party instead of coming to see you again so I snuck out of my window and I’m going to live with you.”

Technoblade is speechless. Wilbur is less so.

“You are ridiculous. And you aren’t living with us, we’re broke as actual hell, you’d starve. And I bet your parents are terrified right now.” A sigh. “I’ll have to send Ranboo over with a message for them.”

“What!? No! Wilbur, please don’t!”

“They’ve got t-”

He’s interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. Wilbur swears.

“D’arvit-! That’ll be Ivi. Techno, discipline that child while I get the door.”

Technoblade smiles. And then he leans over the edge of the bed and picks up a-

A stick?

Rock?

Some kind of stone-stick hybrid?

Tossing the stick-with-rock-on-it from hand to hand, Techno gets up. Tommy is by no means stupid. He takes off across the room and jumps for the dresser. His almost-brother dashes after him.

Wilbur’s standing in the doorway, talking to a young woman with blonde braids wound around her head like corn, managing to pretend that the complete ruckus behind him did not exist.

“Yep, it’s no problem, Ivi. Come pick her up when you’re done, and don’t hurry, we’re home all day.”

Tommy misses her answer because Techno makes a particularly violent swipe with the rock-stick and he has to drop and roll past.

“Tell Ranboo to come up and bring Michael with him if you see him going back down, I’ve got an errand for him. Bye!”

Tommy and Techno freeze in matching positions of bloodthirsty violence as Wilbur turns back to them. There’s a child on his hip.

Techno rolls his eyes and slings himself back onto the bed. Tommy takes this as an invitation and slings himself on top.

Wilbur sits down neatly beside them and plonks the baby on Techno’s chest. It gurgles, fair hair fluffing around happily.

“Mind Ambrose a second, will you? I wanna get some lunch going.”

Techno just groans miserably. Tommy kicks him.

“Wilbur, why is there a child?”

“Another child.”

“Shut up, Technoblade. I am A Big Man.”

“You’re like, four foot five. You come up to my belt.”

“NO I DO NOT! YOU’RE JUST FREAKISHLY TALL!”

Their argument is drowned out by Wilbur beginning to chop carrots with unnecessary violence, the carving knife he’s holding slamming down onto the board with enough force to make the table rock.

“Shut-” Chop- “Up-” Chop- “Both of you.”

Tommy evaluates the situation and wisely decides to keep his mouth shut. Technoblade makes up for this with antagonization.

“I don’t know, man. Can’t a guy have beef with a child in his own home? Bruh. Not very anarchist of you, Wilb-”

There’s a heavy chunk and a crackle of plaster. Techno turns his head slowly to look at the knife embedded in the wall just above the headboard, pinning a chunk of his hair. Then with one smooth movement, he yanks the knife free, drops the baby on Tommy and dives across the room. Wilbur’s already waiting with a second, larger knife and a slightly manic expression.

Tommy is still sitting on the bed, looking at the baby in his lap with unbridled horror.
It babbles at him, dribbling.

He in no way signed up for this.

There’s no point asking either of them for help, the tussle is still going strong, and neither of them have been stabbed yet.

The child wobbles, tipping dangerously towards the edge of the bed, and Tommy grabs it and pulls it back before it can kill itself. That might piss off Wilbur.
It’s surprisingly heavy, and it’s warm in his arms.
The morning’s effort have taken its toll, and the blankets he’s sprawled on are comfy as Prime. Closing his eyes for just a minute wouldn’t hurt, right? The baby probably won’t escape, and it’s not like he has anything better to do. The sound of fraternal battle fades into the background as he squiggles back and lets the itch in his eyes drag him down.

…

“-ey, Tommy. Tommy. Wake up. We have potatoes.”

“And soup,” says Wilbur, taking a crock off the fire with a cloth. “Aww, look at them. It’s adorable.”

Tommy cracks an eye open, and then closes it when he sees another child clinging to Technoblade’s hair.

He gets lifted up like he’s yet another baby and is deposited at the table, child #1 still attached.

Wilbur plonks a bowl of soup and a baked potato down in front of him and hands him a spoon.

“Ranboo’s gone to tell your mum and dad that you’re here. That’s where the other kid is from, if you were confused. His name’s Michael, and the little girl’s Ambrose. Ambrose belongs to a girl I know, and Michael’s Ranboo’s kid. He’s sweet, for devil spawn. Feed that child soup while you’re there, please.”

Tommy, half awake, begins to mechanically spoon soup into his mouth and the child at random. It’s good soup, but his brain isn’t quite working right, and when he absently tries to feed Ambrose with the wrong end of the spoon Techno laughs so hard he snorts soup out of his nose.

Wilbur, sitting neatly at the other end of the table with Michael, gives them both a look.

The afternoon passes fast.
Once the table is cleared and the children are gone, they’re free to relax.
They light a fire, pile onto the bed and each pursue activities of their own (Wilbur is darning shirts, Techno polishes too much weaponry, and Tommy bothers both of them), arguing steadily the whole time. When none of them can take each other’s presence any longer, Tommy goes with Wilbur to the seafront, and Techno disappears on a mysterious errand on the other side of town.
Wilbur stands on the sideline with his cloak bundled around his shoulders, and flirts with anyone who comes within three feet of him while Tommy sprints up and down the shoreline picking up assorted rocks, sticks and sand. Wilbur eats this consistently whenever it gets picked up to assert dominance.

Tommy inevitably falls into the sea, and gets carried soggily home in the cloak.

By the time they get back in the fire is banked up and Technoblade is putting bread on a toasting fork.
He’s somehow foreseen the incident, and there's a dry, if oversized shirt and pants on the table.
Wilbur manages to bully him into the new clothes, hang his wet ones to dry and start dinner at the same time.

“Come on, Tommy. It’s getting late. Hop in bed, before Techno hogs all the blankets.”

Tommy turns away from the open starry window, patters across cool floorboards, crawls onto the mattress where Technoblade is already out and scrapes pink hair away from where it’s fanned across the scratchy pillows.
There’s a sizzle as Wilbur pinches out the candle and shoves them both over to squidge his lanky frame in next to them. It’s not roomy when it’s just the twins, and with an extra person, even a small-ish man like Tommy, they’re wedged in like sardines. But he doesn’t mind the squash, really. The reassuring warmth and pressure is far, far better than his cold, empty bed at home.

Tommy nestles firmly in between them, linen sheets crackling as he pulls the covers up and tucks them under his chin, surrounded by calm and safety on all sides.
The last thing he hears before sleep claims him is the matching sets of breathing from either side.