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The Parakeet is in Tommy’s apartment.
More specifically, he’s breaking and entering while balancing on Tommy’s fire escape—though maybe it’s technically Wilbur’s, since Tommy moved out. Maybe technically the Parakeet is breaking into Wilbur’s apartment, but that still isn’t comforting.
With practiced ease, the Parakeet jams the left side of the window until it cracks open, then he ducks inside. His cape slides in after. Soon, the Parakeet disappears from view, like he was never there.
Tommy follows. Landing on the same fire escape, avoiding the creaks like the Parakeet had done before, and sneaking through his bedroom window. He’s about to jump into battle, heroic quips and all, when he hesitates.
Theoretically, Wilbur is at work. Theoretically, no-one’s in danger, and while this definitely isn’t ideal, Tommy doesn’t want to wreck his brother’s apartment over vigilante business. Especially since they haven’t seen each other in too long. Especially since he’ll probably be the one Wilbur calls, hours later, to complain about it.
And, it’s not like he wants to be back here. Tommy can trace the outlines of dust along the floor, of moving boxes and last-minute packing. Empty walls; plain bedsheets. It’s the lingering memory of a bedroom—a lingering memory of a life. Tommy can’t help getting hung up on it.
You’re gonna let a villain run free? a nagging doubt whispers down his spine. His mask itches. Just like that? I thought the Tempest was a hero.
Of course I am, Tommy tells himself. He’s just biding his time. He’s thinking before he charges in, just like all those tabloids say he should. With grace and stealth—like the perfect hero—Tommy waits, watching, as the Parakeet paces around the kitchen.
“Where is it?” The Parakeet starts opening drawers and closing them in a frenzy. “Where did I put it?”
It’s scary, almost, how much he sounds like Wilbur. But the Parakeet’s voice mimicry is the oldest trick in the book, so he’ll have to do better than that. Besides, Tommy would know his brother anywhere.
“Motherfucker!” the Parakeet dips into a tiger’s growl—interesting, Tommy didn’t know he could do two at once. “Where the fuck did I put it?”
He walks back and forth, reminiscent of Wilbur stressing over finals, before the Parakeet has a lightbulb moment. He pulls something from Wilbur’s desk-drawer: a briefcase. “Finally.”
The Parakeet pulls off his mask and sets it on the table. Holy shit. Maybe Tommy will finally get a piece of intel; maybe he’ll finally get a piece of the puzzle.
It’s a shame Tommy can’t get a good look from here.
A blue light shines from the briefcase, scanning, before it clicks open. The Parakeet makes a noise in victory. He pulls whatever weapon was inside— lovely, looks like this is something Tommy has to get involved in. Wilbur’s apartment is getting trashed after all.
The Parakeet fiddles with it in his hands, before setting it back down on the counter. He turns to face the doorway, and time slows. Tommy steels himself. How will he describe the face to tabloids, police sketch artists? What it will feel like, catching the famously elusive supervillain? Having the world finally take him seriously? He takes a breath, scanning the unmasked Parakeet.
And he short-circuits.
The familiar hipster haircut, curls messy and sticking to his forehead. The small grin; the stress lines. The eyes that Tommy has stared into when he was little, listening to a bedtime story.
It’s Wilbur. Somehow, impossibly, it’s Wilbur.
Everything clicks. At least he won’t get mad at us for trashing the apartment, a small part of him thinks unhelpfully.
And then it spirals from there. The Parakeet has a voice-mimicking power; Wilbur is registered as something basic, related to geography. What else has his brother been hiding from him? Coming home late in the summer, making a villain debut in the spring. Joining an organized crime network. Hiding superweapons in his desk-drawer—
The superweapon that is laying on the counter, its owner is staring at Tommy. Making eye contact.
Shit.
A growl, and he raises his fist. “The Tempest. Didn’t even bother to knock.”
Tommy acts on impulse:
“Wilbur,” Tommy says, scrambling to take off the mask. “It’s me.”
Wilbur blinks, mouth open for a moment. Maybe he’s having the same earth-shattering revelation; at least Tommy’s not alone.
“Tommy.”
“That’s me.”
Wilbur shakes his head. “You’re joking. You’ve got to be.”
Tommy doesn’t know what to say.
“You’re pulling my leg, right?” Wilbur says, voice growing louder. “I swear to God, Tommy, that better be some fan costume, or your idea of a joke, because—”
Wilbur looks on the edge of a breakdown, and Tommy wisely blurts, “It’s not.” Tommy’s growing anxiety shoots out some static electricity, for good measure.
“Fuck.” Wilbur leans onto the counter, gripping it tightly. “I should’ve known.”
“You really, really should have,” Tommy says, because right now his brain-to-mouth filter is non-existent. “Like, our powers are the same, I was always sneaking out—”
“Yup.” Wilbur grits his teeth. It sounds like he’s swallowing his own words.
A lull. Then, every about the this—the lies, the danger—clamors around Tommy again. “What the actual fuck possessed you to become a supervillain.” He could have phrased it nicer; he didn’t.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Wilbur says. His chest rises and falls, and his voice takes on an animalistic quality as he snarls, “What possessed you to start picking fights on the streets, huh?”
“Because someone’s got to!”
“No!” Wilbur gets louder, slamming his hands on the counter. He starts pacing again. “You’re meant to be at uni. You’re meant to be safe, somewhere downtown, not putting yourself in danger over—”
He bumps into the table behind him, next to the superweapon. Shit, Wilbur needs to be more careful. Tommy’s heard rumors of what it could do, and he’s not sure what will set it off.
“Wil, please, you’ve got to calm down—”
“Don’t start that,” Wilbur barks. “I haven’t been risking my life for you, been risking my career for you—”
Tommy drones out the rest of Wilbur’s monologue. All he can hear is his heart, beating like a dum, and the crackle of something in his fists. If Wilbur is the Parakeet and the Parakeet is Wilbur that means his brother has been in danger for months now. And Tommy’s work to keep them safe—to keep his family safe—meant nothing.
The sparks grow stronger. Tommy’s always had a hard time controlling the storm, but there’s nothing he can do now to stop the lightning, the current that’s flying through his heart and trying to ground itself on something, anything—
It chooses the kitchen counter.
Zap. The device goes off. Wilbur’s warbling, his growling, his hissing, stops in an instant. In a low voice: “What did you do.”
“Shit.”
Wilbur’s eyes go dark. “Get out.”
“I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out!” Wilbur smashing a glass one inch away from his face. If Wilbur had his powers, he’d surely be roaring like a lion. Snarling, snapping, biting. For now, Wilbur’s voice is only human.
Wisely, Tommy runs.
A leap across the skyline, a bound over the rooftops. Tommy runs without gravity—like he’s trying to escape gravity—like if he puts enough distance between him and the apartment he can outrun it forever.
His brother, a villain.
Maybe this is what’ll end up on the tabloids next: the Tempest last seen running along rooftops, disturbing the neighborhood peace. A menace to society.
When he’s on the other side of the city, across the river, Tommy finally lets himself catch a breath. The sun is almost setting. City lights slowly blink on, each one dotting the red-and-purple sky. The bridge stands tall in the distance.
His chest burns from all the running. Fuck, Tommy needs to work on his cardio.
He shuffles awkwardly back to his apartment, grateful that both of his roommates are out late. A change of clothing later, and he stuffs his costume in a drawstring bag and kicks it under the bed.
Tommy covers his face with his hands and pushes until he sees stars. But Wilbur still haunts him, his look of vitriol and fury and anguish all wrapped together. Tommy’s wasn’t planning on going home until Thanksgiving, or Christmas, but now he’s not sure when he’ll be welcome next, if at all.
And with that comforting thought, all of his aches and fatigue swing back in full fore, and Tommy collapses onto his mattress.
Tommy’s body moves faster than his brain, it seems. One blink, he’s staring into the eyes of a supervillain, then the Parakeet’s fastening his mask, then Tommy’s climbing the fire escape, retracing his steps, bounding across the city skyline.
And if the footsteps behind him mean anything, he’s pretty sure said supervillain is right on his tail.
Tall buildings, tall buildings. Tommy’s connection to the storm gives him a slight advantage, with the wind and altitude, so if Tommy’s can get a big enough lead, he’ll be fine.
Where is he running to? Tommy’s not entirely sure.
The city would be beautiful this time of day, if he weren’t focusing on running. Tommy’s got the wind at his back, and he can feel his leaps grow higher, the pressure on his chest lifting.
He lets out a cheer. And keeps running.
The sun falls at his back; the brisk night air settles beside him. A look over his shoulder, and the villain—
He’s no-where to be seen.
“Shit,” Tommy grits his teeth. “That can’t be good.”
“No, it can’t be,” the Parakeet—fuck, Wilbur—says in Tommy’s voice. His own brand of mind-fuckery. “Did the Tempest really think he could outrun me?”
Tommy doubles down, taking off in the opposite direction. “I don’t just think,” he says and tries to keep the waver out of his voice, “I know I can!”
A low chuckle behind him, and the chase is on again.
Tommy jumps another gap. He dodges an air vent. For a moment, it feels like flying—like soaring among the clouds and staying there forever. Like he’ll be able to outrun gravity, outrun the weight of it all, and never let his feet touch the ground ever again. It’s magical.
Then, back to reality. Tommy doesn’t let his mind wander; he doesn’t take a moment to breathe. When the details start flooding back—
Another weave. Another alleyway. A stupidly timed jump that has him wiping gravel off his palms.
Tommy turns around. His brother is right behind him.
Shit.
“How impressive.” A twirl of the fancy weapon. Tommy’s heard whispers, rumors, of what it could do. “I don’t think that chase lasted more than ten minutes.”
“Well, you know me,” Tommy quips back and doesn’t think about it too hard. The Parakeet is blocking his only exit. Lovely. “If they wanted me to do a better job, they should pay me more. Quiet quitting, you should look it up.”
“If that were the case, maybe you shouldn’t be here at all.” A raise of the weapon, finger hovering on the trigger. “Leave this life to the grown-ups.”
“And let you have all the fun?” Tommy says, trying to ignore the burning in his chest. Fuck, he needs to work on his cardio. “I don’t think so, boomer.”
A tsk. Wilbur—because it’s Wilbur, Tommy remembers—aims the weapon at Tommy’s chest.
“Wait.”
“Nope.” The grin is clear in his voice. “You’ve been a thorn in our side for too long.”
“Seriously, Wil, wait—” Tommy scrambles to take off the mask, but it’s too late.
A whine starts, and Wilbur pulls the trigger. Everything is too bright, as Tommy feels the blast work its way across his skin, until it abruptly stops and leaves leaves him blinking slowly, adjusting to the light.
“Tommy?” Wilbur says, almost swallowing his own words.
Whenever Tommy gets anxious, his powers act up. Right now, his heart is beating out of his chest; his hands are shaking; his breathe hitches every few seconds. He reaches for that spark, the current trying to make its way to ground—
It isn’t there. Tommy’s head, his heart, is quiet. The storm is gone.
And, conveniently, so is Wilbur. Maybe he left out of shame; maybe he’s off having an existential crisis. Maybe he’ll choose a new line of work.
God, Tommy can only hope.
His costume itches. It all feels too tight, pressing on his skin, and he wonders if this is what the tabloids will say next: the Tempest last seen jumping along the rooftops, wallowing in pity, disturbing the neighborhood. A menace to society.
How will he get home in this state? His head is killing him. Fatigue crawls its way up his bones, up his spine and neck. He barely has enough energy to keep himself upright.
Tommy balls the mask in his fists, trying to find his bearings. It seems Wilbur followed him across the city, across the bridge, and Tommy’s apartment is—
How convenient. Tommy’s apartment is two blocks down.
Maybe it’s a strange sight, the Tempest lazily walking atop the city, but Tommy can’t go any faster. He slinks in through a window, shutting it behind him, grateful that his roommates aren’t home.
A change of costume later, and Tommy collapses onto his mattress.
Tommy often wakes up drowning.
His dreams tend to linger, sticking to his skin like precipitation. A part of it is his connection to the storm—the hurricane in him that he can’t shake. The thunder, the lightning. The way it will circle in his head, a whirlwind, before he can gasp for air.
The scenery is always changing.
A freezing arctic, buried under the ice. The cold crawling up his spine, poking at his skin, prodding. Helpless as he smashes the ceiling above him.
A tornado. A monsoon. The salt sticking to his skin, irritating his eyes; his clothes getting twisted by the waves. Stuck on a lifeboat. Sometimes, he’s thrown overboard, and the Titanic laughs as it sails towards the iceberg.
Tommy has quite the imagination. Such is the way of the storm.
With a gnawing in his gut, he wonders how Wilbur is dealing with the loss of his powers. Did he have the same connection, the same identity? Was he drowning in his double life, or was he floating?
Maybe Tommy will never know.
But that’s fine. Tommy’s fine. Wilbur’s probably fine. He’s got the Kingpin, that villain empire has loads of manpower to spare, and Wilbur’s likely got a replacement while he takes a sick day.
Tommy changes out of his pajamas and smooths out his bed-hair. He packs his bag. He leaves for class. Ranboo—his roommate—gives him a strange look, maybe because he skipped breakfast, but he tunes it out. Ignores it, just like he ignores the side-eye Ranboo gave when he woke up this morning.
The last thing he needs right now is a heart-to-heart about his feelings, which is exactly what Ranboo would try and initiate. Tommy just has to stay one step ahead.
He approaches his classroom with confidence and is halfway through lecture when his stomach growls.
Maybe the decision to skip breakfast was a mistake.
Tommy pushes on, though, and ends up finishing the class, his lecture notes complete. Done with his first class, he now has almost two hours to himself on campus.
How should I spend them?
Tommy has an upcoming Computer Science project due. His professor’s holding office hours five minutes away. Tommy could probably grab a quick lunch at the convenience store and eat it during the meeting.
On the other hand, his head is starting to drift, to wander, and he passed a coffee shop on the way to class. Maybe he could sit down there for a bit instead.
Tommy mulls over the choices in his head.
[Grab a coffee.]
[Go to office hours.]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
Tracing back his steps, Tommy decides to go to the coffee shop. He’ll get to sit down for a while and hopefully be left alone. And when it’s time for his afternoon class, he’ll be recharged and ready to go.
When walking in, however, Tommy realizes he forgot something very important.
Tubbo works here.
“Tommy?” Tubbo calls from behind the counter. “Hey, what’s up, boss man?”
Tommy freezes, looking over at Tubbo. “Hey, Tubso,” he says back. “Just here to grab a quick bite.”
Tubbo frowns. “Did you not have breakfast? Ranboo made more than enough.”
Tommy shrugs it off. “Nah, I skipped it today. Wasn’t really feeling it , you get me?”
Tubbo’s eyes narrow. “Tommy, in all my years of knowing you, and in the past month I’ve been living with you, not once have you skipped breakfast. You’re always feeling it.”
Tommy shrinks in on himself a bit defensively. “Yeah, well, not today. You can fuck off.”
A sigh of defeat. “Fine, I won’t push. Ham and cheese croissant? Decaf latté?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” Tommy sits at a stool by the window.
Tubbo goes behind the counter to make his order, and then it’s silent. The lights buzz and hum in the air. The pre-lunch rush is only starting to trickle in, meaning the distinctive café chatter isn’t here yet, and maybe on another day, in another life, Tommy would be here to study. He’d have all his books laid out on the table, a coffee in hand, all studious and hipster and perfect.
Maybe in that other life, he wouldn’t be half dead on his feet, one croissant away from starvation.
“Ham and cheese!” Tubbo calls, sliding it across the counter.
Tell him, a part of him nudges. Tommy’s already told Wilbur—what’s one more? Besides, Tubbo’s no snitch. It’s not like a little vigilantism is going to jeopardize their friendship. Tubbo’s done worse.
But then again, Tommy’s scared of how he’ll react. He’s confided in Tubbo for years, always asking for advice and letting him in on every secret. Would Tubbo get angry with him for lying? Would he be upset about the risk of Tommy’s job, with all the bruises and scars? Maybe Tubbo would make fun of him for his name, his costume, and—
Tubbo’s been by his side for forever. Tommy doesn’t want that to end.
He takes a deep breath in, making his decision.
[Tell him the truth.]
[Leave for office hours.]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
“Um, actually, Tubbo,” Tommy stammers. Why was this so hard? “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Really?” Tubbo pours foam into a cup, clicks the lid, and sets it down on the counter. “What is it?”
Sheepishly, he says, “It’s kind of— well, it’s kind of private.”
Tubbo gives Tommy a weird look and slides his latté across the counter. Tommy takes a sip. “Okay, tell me after my shift, then.”
“Private and important, Tubbo,” he stresses. “Like, right now important—”
“Fucking hell.” Tubbo turns to a co-worker with a beanie manning the register. “ Big Q, I’m taking my lunch. You can cover for me, right?”
“It’s not even close to— you know what, fine. Whatever. I don’t give a shit. Go waste your lunch,” he says with a hand wave.
“Thanks, man!” Tubbo says, leaping over the counter.
Tommy scoffs, unimpressed. “Stop showing off, man. We get it, you were a nationally ranked gymnast, meh-meh-meh.”
Tubbo punches him in the shoulder. “If you could do the shit I can, you would be so much worse about it.”
He leads Tommy to a secluded table, tucked in the corner, and away from the door—which has a bell that rings incessantly, students filtering in to grab a lunch. Pre-lunch rush. It’s a thing.
“So?” Tubbo says, “What is it?”
Tommy fidgets with a napkin, not looking Tubbo in the eye. All his courage has left him. “I’m the Tempest,” he mumbles, the syllables stringing together as if it were all one word.
A groan. “Speak up, man, I can’t even hear you.”
Tommy clears his throat and says, “I’m the Tempest.” Tubbo doesn’t react, so he clarifies, “You know, the one in the newspapers ‘n’ tabloids. The vigilante? Uh, that’s me. I fight supervillains.”
Tubbo gives him another weird look. After a moment: “Yeah? Is that it?”
Dread pierces Tommy’s gut. “Oh, god. Don’t tell me you already knew.”
Tubbo pats Tommy on the arm, consoling. “Sorry, man.”
“How did you even figure it out? I hid all the evidence!”
“Oh, me and Ranboo connected the dots a long time ago.” Using his magnetism, Tubbo pulls a fork into his hand. “I mean, you literally have the same powers. And a suspicious amount of bruises. And when the Tempest was punched in the face by his rival, the Parakeet, the next morning you had a black eye, out of no-where. We had to buy a two weeks’ supply of ice packs.”
“Okay, Tubbo, I get it—”
“I’m not finished!” Tubbo exclaims and draws attention from a couple customers. He waves them off, then looks back at Tommy. “You text us about “studying late at the library” despite asking me for help with all your midterms. I think you’ve emptied our entire first aid kit twice now. And, when the Tempest got burned to hell and back fighting the Inferno, you suddenly got “burned” from “an oven pan.” For God’s sake, Tommy, you’ve never cooked once in your life!”
It’s silent for a moment.
Sheepish: “You done?”
Tubbo huffs, his chest rising and falling. “Yes, I’m done.”
“And you’re not mad?” Tommy checks.
“No.” A short laugh. “No, I’m not mad. Now I get to finally call you out on your bullshit and make you pay us back for all those first aid kits.”
Tommy chuckles at that. “It’s not like being a vigilante pays much.”
“Didn’t think it paid you anything.”
“Shush,” Tommy says with a smile. Derisive: “It pays me in exposure.”
Tubbo rolls his eyes.
The café is alive, now, customers rolling in and out, the bell ringing every few moments. Tubbo’s co-worker—Big Q, was it?—takes all their orders and flies through them. Literally. He’s got these tiny wings on his shoulders, and even though they don’t go fast, they’re clearly helping.
Tommy kicks his feet under the table, and finally asks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s your business.” Tubbo shrugs. “A bit awkward, too, isn’t it? How do you bring up being a vigilante in casual conversation?” He waves a hand, pulling a spoon and knife and fiddling with them. “We figured if you wanted us to know, you’d tell us.”
Tommy sighs, feeling the guilt pool in his stomach. All this time, and he could have told them. He didn’t have to go through this alone.
“Is that all?” Tubbo says after a minute. “I mean, I’m glad we got that out of the way, but I feel like there’s something you’re still not telling me. Something that’s “drop everything and take a lunch break” worthy.”
“Sorry, yeah, it’s—” Tommy cuts himself off. Where does he even start? “You said earlier I got a black eye from this villain, the Parakeet?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Well, he’s, uh, he’s my brother. Wilbur.”
At that, Tubbo finally looks stunned.
Like the first drop of rain, it all comes pouring out: “He’s Wilbur, and he— he’s working with the fucking Mafia, the Mob, or whatever, and he had this zappy thingy, I don’t even know what it was—”
“Hey, man, slow down—”
“And I went to his apartment and I followed him inside and—” A gasp, coming up for air, thrown against the rapids— “And it turned on and he lost his powers. They’re gone, and I have no idea how that thing worked, and it’s all my fucking fault!”
Tommy can feel it now, the way the storm makes him falter, riled and swirling and him trapped beneath the waves. He can’t come up for air. The same lightning that struck Wilbur starts to sizzle, crackling in his palms, and everything is too much.
He looks across the table at Tubbo— God, he can’t do the same to Tubbo. He can’t make the same mistake twice. The current shoots out, trying to find ground—
Tubbo puts a hand on his shoulder. It jumps between them, harmless static electricity, and dies shortly after.
“Breathe.”
Tommy inhales. Exhales. Feels his heartbeat slow. The clouds dissipate. It’s just him, and Tubbo, and everyone else is too caught up in the rush to matter.
“Okay, so. You’re the Tempest. And Wilbur is the Parakeet. Your rival.”
“Yup.” Tommy swallows the word.
After a minute, Tubbo says, “Damn, I knew siblings argued, but this is on a different level.”
A snort. “You can’t just say that, man!”
“Am I wrong?” Tubbo teases. “I mean, what are the odds— Actually, I take that back. Of course you’d end up in a fistfighting your brother on the daily. That’s painfully in-character for you.”
Tommy smiles despite it all. Tubbo’s energy is infectious, and somehow getting to joke and laugh about this is comforting. A sense of normalcy.
“Hey,” Tubbo says, more seriously. “I know it’s not, well, ideal now, but he’s your brother. You’re more important to Wilbur than anything. It’ll be shit now, but you’ll end up okay. You both will.”
A shaky inhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
They exchange smiles, then laughter, and Tubbo says, “Well, I think we packed a lot into that conversation.”
“Would you consider it “drop everything and take a lunch break” important?”
“Hm, maybe. Though I didn’t get to eat anything, in the end. Not much of a lunch.”
“Oh, shut it.”
It’s a whirlwind around them, customers coming and going, the bell ringing and the smell of espresso in the air. Tommy doesn’t know how Tubbo manages it all.
I’m glad someone I care about knows. Maybe in the future, he’ll get to sit down with Wilbur, and they can laugh and joke about it like this. But for now, he has Tubbo, and it will be enough.
[Ending reached: TOFFEE]
“Thanks,” Tommy says as Tubbo pushes the croissant and coffee towards him.
“Is that all?” Tubbo asks, a tinge of worry in his voice.
Tommy looks into Tubbo’s eyes. He can’t risk this; Tubbo’s too good of a friend to lose. “That’s all for me,” he says. “I need to go to Philza Minecraft. I have a project I need help on.”
Tubbo sighs. He clearly knows that’s not all, but he doesn’t push. “Whatever, man. Have fun with Professor Watson. Tell him I say hi.”
“I will,” Tommy says, a little guilty. The lunch rush is about to come in, he can see the crowds hanging by the door. He takes a napkin by the door, and says on his way out, “I’ll see you tonight?”
The bell rings as he opens the door. “Yeah, I’ll see you later, Tommy,” Tubbo calls to his back.
Tommy wraps his sandwich neatly, trying to remember where Professor Watson’s office was. He retraces his steps, through the maze of hallways and courtyards and quadrants, before he gets to the right building.
He shuffles up the hallway, stopping just outside the office. Professor Watson, the name reads. The door is already slightly ajar. A little redundantly, Tommy knocks. “Anyone home?”
“Come in,” his professor says, distracted. He looks up from his work, pages stacked by his laptop, a mobility air by the chair. “Oh, Tommy! What’s up?”
Tommy puts on his brave face, and says a little too loudly, “Philza Minecraft, biggest man alive!” Tommy does a couple finger guns for good measure. “I need your help with this project you assigned. And Tubbo says hi, by the way.”
Phil laughs. “Tell him I say hi when you see him next. Why don’t you sit down, we can look at this together.” Tommy sits down thankfully, pulling the wrapped croissant out of his bag. It’s a little cold, but still good. “What do you need help with?”
Tommy stares at his lunch. Wilbur, talk about Wilbur, something nudges. He shakes it off.
“Tommy?” Phil repeats himself.
“Oh, shit, right! Sorry. I, uh, I need help with this part of the assignment.” He pulls out a rubric from his backpack, getting a little grease on it. “Like— Here. I know we have to use HTML to code this website, but I don’t know where to get started.”
“Oh, that’s easy to explain,” Phil says. He gestures for the paper, and Tommy gives it to him. Then, he starts explaining it detail.
Too bad Tommy can’t focus on a single word. His mind keeps wandering off, thinking about everything but the assignment. Whether he’s eating too fast. Ranboo’s face at breakfast. Tubbo’s concern at the café. Wilbur, yesterday night, and how it was his fault the weapon had gone off. His fault that Wilbur lost his powers.
If Tommy had said something sooner, said something differently, would it have changed anything? If he texted Wilbur instead of trying to pull a stakeout, if he had ran instead of staying in the apartment? If he had done something, anything , differently, would Wilbur still be okay?
How the hell did his brother even have voice changing powers in the first place? Wilbur’s power was supposed to be related to geography. It made no fucking sense. Was Wilbur lying about that, too?
“Tommy,” Phil says again. “Tommy!”
Tommy jolts back to attention.
Phil looks worried, concerned, and that can’t be good. “Are you okay, mate?”
“Yeah, I... yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, what were you saying?”
Phil sighs, but he doesn’t seem upset. Just worried. He hands the rubric back towards Tommy. “How about instead of going over this, you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Phil is the coolest teacher Tommy’s ever had, by a long shot. Every class, he’s always been so understanding, and funny, and he feels like someone relatable, someone Tommy could actually talk to. Phil encouraged him to try out for e-sports, He’s the head of the Computer Science department while simultaneously being the advisor for the e-sports team. Phil even encouraged Tommy to try out, before his life turned upside down and all his free time got eaten up by vigilantism.
Point is, Phil’s always been there for him. Maybe that’s what inspires Tommy to ask, “What would you do if something bad happened to someone you care about because of you?”
Phil blinks. Maybe Tommy said it all a little too fast. “Well, it depends on how badly they were hurt, and if it was an accident.”
“It’s—” Tommy takes a sharp breath in. “It’s bad. Like, really bad. It’s not— they’re not hurt physically, but they can’t really get better. They lost something that’s important— really fuckin’ important, and I can’t get it back for them.”
A hum. “Well, if something bad happened to my wife because of me, I would feel guilty. I don’t think there’s any changing that. But I don’t think she would blame me, if it were an accident. If I didn’t mean to hurt her, y’know? She’s a good person like that.”
Tommy frowns. “Okay, well, what if this person realized that you were someone that they hated, and they only just found out? So they realize that you’re this person that they hate, and then you hurt them so badly, in a way that can’t be fixed.” Tommy can feel his hands shake. “How could anyone fucking forgive you for that?”
“Mate, why don’t you tell me what this is really about,” Phil says, but not unkindly.
Tommy looks down at his fists, balled up in his lap. His croissant lays next to him, half-eaten, but he doesn’t have an appetite anymore. He backs up.
Phil looks so kind. Trustworthy. Phil’s never given him a reason to keep secrets.
“My brother,” Tommy begins.
“Which one?” Phil asks. “Techno or Wilbur?”
“Wilbur,” Tommy says quickly, dread filling his stomach. “Not Techno. We haven’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t want to see us.”
Phil frowns, but gratefully doesn’t push. “So, what about Wilbur?”
Tommy swallows deeply. “You have to promise not to tell anyone. Please.”
“I mean, I’m technically a mandated reporter—”
“Promise me,” Tommy says again. “I’m not— no “harm to myself or others,” I swear, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. This stays between the two of us..”
A sigh. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
It settles in the room between them. Tommy takes a breath in, flexing his fingers. He can’t meet Phil in the eye. “Okay. I’m… I’m a vigilante. The Tempest. The one with the storm powers.”
“A vigilante ?” Phil stresses.
Tommy nods. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Phil takes a moment to let it sink in, staring at the desk. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, something not quite sad but not quite hopeful either. Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it.
Phil shakes his head. “I should have expected this,” he says, almost fondly. “Of course a chaotic little shit like you would be a vigilante. It’s painfully in-character.”
Maybe Tommy should be taking offense. But lucky for Phil, all he can feel is relief. “You aren’t going to tell anyone?”
Phil shakes his head. “I swore it. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that, I’m not a dick. Besides, I think you can handle yourself in a fight.”
“Oh,” Tommy says and feels a little like he’s floating.
Phil looks at him expectantly, coaxing the words out of him.
“Okay, so. I’m a vigilante. And there’s this villain I fight all the time— The Parakeet. Well, not all the time, but a lot more than anyone else. He gave me a black eye one time,” Tommy recalls. “Anyways, so, me and him, we’ve got history. Bad blood, you could say. And I’m outside the apartment I used to live in with my brother, Wilbur, and the Parakeet’s fuckin’ in there. He’s going through all my brother’s shit, looking for something. And I’m about to stop him, but it’s—” Tommy’s voice cracks. “It’s not the Parakeet, it’s just Wilbur. It was always just Wilbur.”
Phil nods along, his face neutral. It’s comforting though—Phil’s listening to everything he’s saying, paying attention to every word, before passing any judgment. It gives Tommy the courage to continue.
“So I confront him. That’s my fuckin’ brother, of course I’m gonna ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Like, why the fuck would he be a super villain— That’s not what Wilbur’s like. It’s just not. And he gets— he gets mad, proper angry, and he has these powers I didn’t even know about, and he’s just. He’s pissed. And I don’t even know how it happened, he had some sort of taser, or something, and he— It hit him.”
“Is he okay?” Phil asks, a little more concerned. “Did you take him to a doctor?”
“No,” Tommy says quickly. “No, it wasn’t like that. It took— It took away his powers. He had this thing with his voice, he could change it, and I didn’t know about it until then. And when he got hit— He lost it. His voice went back to normal, and he couldn’t change it again.”
Tommy, stupidly, feels tears gather in his eyes. “It’s my fault. If I had done something differently, he wouldn’t have lost his powers. We could have talked it out. But I was fucking stupid, did some stupid shit, and now I don’t even know if I’ll get to talk to him again.”
Phil passes him a tissue box from his desk, and Tommy takes one. “First of all,” Phil begins, “This doesn’t sound like your fault. If anything, it sounds a little like Wilbur’s too. You both have to take the blame. ”
“But I—“
“If you’re going to hold yourself to those high standards, you have to hold others to them, too. It’s only fair. Wilbur could done something differently, and he probably wouldn’t have lost his powers. Maybe you would’ve gotten hit by the— taser, you said? Maybe you would’ve been hit instead. But what’s done is done. Wilbur knew what he was getting into when he became a villain. It sounds like he was the one who got the device in the first place. He should have been prepared for its effects. That wasn’t your fault.”
“I...” Tommy trails off. He doesn’t feel... good , per say, but Phil has a point. Wilbur was a villain. Wilbur had been a villain for a while. He had to know there was a chance of this happening, especially with how long he must’ve had the weapon in his apartment. Tommy moved out, what, three months ago?
Phil snaps him out of his trance. “Don’t blame yourself for Wilbur’s actions, Tommy. It’s not fair to either of you.”
A quick nod. “Okay.”
“Is that all you wanted to talk about, mate?” Phil says, as if it’s just a regular office hours. “Did you get all the help you needed?”
Tommy looks out the window. The sun is shining. People are gathering in the courtyard, under the autumn leaves, and his afternoon classes will start soon. He takes a tentative bite from his croissant.
Reconciliation is far off in the future. Tommy’s still confused, still hurt, and still feels guilty for what he’s done. Maybe Wilbur will be extra mad the next time he sees him. Maybe the next time Tommy sees him won’t be as the Tempest and the Parakeet, but as Tommy and Wilbur. Brothers.
Still, it’s too far away to tell. For now, Tommy has someone else in his corner. Another mentor he can turn to. He’s carving out a life for himself, and it’s a pretty good one at that.
“Yeah, this helps,” Tommy says, wiping croissant flakes off his fingers. “This helps a lot. Thank you, Phil.”
Phil gives him a smile. “Anytime, mate.”
[Ending reached: AUTUMN LEAVES]
Tommy grabs a boxed lunch from the convenience store, swiping his ID card through the register. He’s two steps out the door before he remembers to grab cutlery, which he quickly goes back to grab.
All in all, Tommy ends up a little frazzled and has to retrace his steps to find Professor Watson’s office. Through the maze of hallways, courtyards, and quadrants, he almost sighs in relief when he reaches the right building.
Tommy shuffles up the hallway, stopping just outside the office. Professor Watson, the name reads. The door is already slightly ajar. A little redundantly, Tommy knocks. “Anyone home?”
“Come in,” his professor says, distracted. He looks up from his work, pages stacked by his laptop, a mobility air by the chair. “Oh, Tommy! What’s up?”
Tommy puts on his brave face, and says a little too loudly, “Philza Minecraft, biggest man alive!” He throws in some finger guns for good measure.
Phil laughs. “What’s it this time, Tommy?”
“Just wanted to help on an assignment.” Tommy sets his bag on the floor, digging out his lunch. “Hope it’s alright if I’m eating, too.”
Phil chuckles. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. Here, we can look at this together.” Tommy sits down thankfully, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. It’s a little cold, but still good. “What’s giving you trouble?”
Tommy chews absentmindedly. Wilbur, talk about Wilbur, something nudges. He shakes it off.
“Tommy?” Phil repeats himself.
“Oh, shit, right! Sorry. I, uh, I need help with this part of the assignment.” He pulls out a rubric from his backpack, dusting it with crumbs. “Like— Here. I know we have to use HTML to code this website, but I don’t know where to get started.”
“Oh, that’s easy to explain,” Phil says. He gestures for the paper, and Tommy gives it to him. Then, he starts explaining it detail.
Too bad Tommy can’t focus on a single word. His mind keeps wandering off, thinking about everything but the assignment. Whether he’s eating too fast. Ranboo’s face at breakfast. Wilbur, yesterday night, and how it was his fault the weapon had gone off. His fault that Wilbur lost his powers.
If Tommy had said something sooner, said something differently, would it have changed anything? If he texted Wilbur instead of trying to pull a stakeout, if he had ran instead of staying in the apartment? If he had done something, anything , differently, would Wilbur still be okay?
How the hell did his brother even have voice changing powers in the first place? Wilbur’s power was supposed to be related to geography. It made no fucking sense. Was Wilbur lying about that, too?
“Tommy,” Phil says again. “Tommy!”
Tommy jolts back to attention.
Phil looks worried, concerned, and that can’t be good. “Are you okay, mate?”
“Yeah, I... yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, what were you saying?”
Phil sighs, but he doesn’t seem upset. Just worried. He hands the rubric back towards Tommy. “How about instead of going over this, you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Phil is the coolest teacher Tommy’s ever had, by a long shot. Every class, he’s always been so understanding, and funny, and he feels like someone relatable, someone Tommy could actually talk to. Phil encouraged him to try out for e-sports, He’s the head of the Computer Science department while simultaneously being the advisor for the e-sports team. Phil even encouraged Tommy to try out, before his life turned upside down and all his free time got eaten up by vigilantism.
Point is, Phil’s been there for him time and time again. But, maybe that makes him too good to lose. If Tommy tried to explain his situation, would Phil even understand? Would he turn Tommy in to the authorities? Phil’s an amazing teacher, and a good person, but Tommy doesn’t know when that will run out.
Tommy considers his options.
[Tell him what's on your mind.]
[Leave and say nothing.]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
Phil’s always been there for him. Maybe that’s what inspires Tommy to ask, “What would you do if something bad happened to someone you care about because of you?”
Phil blinks. Maybe Tommy said it all a little too fast. “Well, it depends on how badly they were hurt, and if it was an accident.”
“It’s—” Tommy takes a sharp breath in. “It’s bad. Like, really bad. It’s not— they’re not hurt physically, but they can’t really get better. They lost something that’s important— really fuckin’ important, and I can’t get it back for them.”
A hum. “Well, if something bad happened to my wife because of me, I would feel guilty. I don’t think there’s any changing that. But I don’t think she would blame me, if it were an accident. If I didn’t mean to hurt her, y’know? She’s a good person like that.”
Tommy frowns. “Okay, well, what if this person realized that you were someone that they hated, and they only just found out? So they realize that you’re this person that they hate, and then you hurt them so badly, in a way that can’t be fixed.” Tommy can feel his hands shake. “How could anyone fucking forgive you for that?”
“Mate, why don’t you tell me what this is really about,” Phil says, but not unkindly.
Tommy looks down at his fists, balled up in his lap. His sandwich lies in his lap, half-eaten, but he doesn’t have an appetite anymore. He backs up.
Phil looks so kind. Trustworthy. Phil’s never given him a reason to keep secrets.
“My brother,” Tommy begins.
“Which one?” Phil asks. “Techno or Wilbur?”
“Wilbur,” Tommy says quickly, dread filling his stomach. “Not Techno. We haven’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t want to see us.”
Phil frowns, but gratefully doesn’t push. “So, what about Wilbur?”
Tommy swallows deeply. “You have to promise not to tell anyone. Please.”
“I mean, I’m technically a mandated reporter—”
“Promise me,” Tommy says again. “I’m not— no “harm to myself or others,” I swear, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. This stays between the two of us.”
A sigh. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
It settles in the room between them. Tommy takes a breath in, flexing his fingers. He can’t meet Phil in the eye. “Okay. I’m… I’m a vigilante. The Tempest. The one with the storm powers.”
“A vigilante ?” Phil stresses.
Tommy nods. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Phil takes a moment to let it sink in, staring at the desk. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, something not quite sad but not quite hopeful either. Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it.
Phil shakes his head. “I should have expected this,” he says, almost fondly. “Of course a chaotic little shit like you would be a vigilante. It’s painfully in-character.”
Maybe Tommy should be taking offense. But lucky for Phil, all he can feel is relief. “You aren’t going to tell anyone?”
Phil shakes his head. “I swore it. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that, I’m not a dick. Besides, I think you can handle yourself in a fight.”
“Oh,” Tommy says and feels a little like he’s floating.
Phil looks at him expectantly, coaxing the words out of him.
“Okay, so. I’m a vigilante. And there’s this villain I fight all the time— The Parakeet. Well, not all the time, but a lot more than anyone else. He gave me a black eye one time,” Tommy recalls. “Anyways, so, me and him, we’ve got history. Bad blood, you could say. And I’m outside the apartment I used to live in with my brother, Wilbur, and the Parakeet’s fuckin’ in there. He’s going through all my brother’s shit, looking for something. And I’m about to stop him, but it’s—” Tommy’s voice cracks. “It’s not the Parakeet, it’s just Wilbur. It was always just Wilbur.”
Phil nods along, his face neutral. It’s comforting though—Phil’s listening to everything he’s saying, paying attention to every word, before passing any judgment. It gives Tommy the courage to continue.
“So I confront him. That’s my fuckin’ brother, of course I’m gonna ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Like, why the fuck would he be a super villain— That’s not what Wilbur’s like. It’s just not. And he gets— he gets mad, proper angry, and he has these powers I didn’t even know about, and he’s just. He’s pissed. And I don’t even know how it happened, he had some sort of taser, or something, and he— It hit him.”
“Is he okay?” Phil asks, a little more concerned. “Did you take him to a doctor?”
“No,” Tommy says quickly. “No, it wasn’t like that. It took— It took away his powers. He had this thing with his voice, he could change it, and I didn’t know about it until then. And when he got hit— He lost it. His voice went back to normal, and he couldn’t change it again.”
Tommy, stupidly, feels tears gather in his eyes. “It’s my fault. If I had done something differently, he wouldn’t have lost his powers. We could have talked it out. But I was fucking stupid, did some stupid shit, and now I don’t even know if I’ll get to talk to him again.”
Phil passes him a tissue box from his desk, and Tommy takes one. “First of all,” Phil begins, “This doesn’t sound like your fault. If anything, it sounds a little like Wilbur’s too. You both have to take the blame. ”
“But I—“
“If you’re going to hold yourself to those high standards, you have to hold others to them, too. It’s only fair. Wilbur could done something differently, and he probably wouldn’t have lost his powers. Maybe you would’ve gotten hit by the— taser, you said? Maybe you would’ve been hit instead. But what’s done is done. Wilbur knew what he was getting into when he became a villain. It sounds like he was the one who got the device in the first place. He should have been prepared for its effects. That wasn’t your fault.”
“I...” Tommy trails off. He doesn’t feel... good , per say, but Phil has a point. Wilbur was a villain. Wilbur had been a villain for a while. He had to know there was a chance of this happening, especially with how long he must’ve had the weapon in his apartment. Tommy moved out, what, three months ago?
Phil snaps him out of his trance. “Don’t blame yourself for Wilbur’s actions, Tommy. It’s not fair to either of you.”
A quick nod. “Okay.”
“Is that all you wanted to talk about, mate?” Phil says, as if it’s just a regular office hours. “Did you get all the help you needed?”
Tommy looks out the window. The sun is shining. People are gathering in the courtyard, and his afternoon classes are about to start. He takes a tentative bite from his sandwich.
Reconciliation is far off in the future. Tommy’s still confused, still hurt, and still feels guilty for what he’s done. Maybe Wilbur will be extra mad the next time he sees him. Maybe the next time Tommy sees him won’t be as the Tempest and the Parakeet, but as Tommy and Wilbur. Brothers.
Still, it’s too far away to tell. For now, Tommy has someone else in his corner. Another mentor he can turn to. He’s carving out a life for himself, and it’s a pretty good one at that.
“Yeah, this helps,” Tommy says. “This helps a lot. Thank you, Phil.”
Phil gives him a smile. “Anytime, mate.”
[Ending reached: CRUMBCOAT]
“Actually, it’s nothing.”
A frown, disappointment etching itself along Phil’s face. “Tommy, are you sure—”
Tommy packs up bag. “I think I get it now, Professor. Thanks for explaining it. It was really helpful.” Maybe if Tommy says it enough, Phil will get off his back.
It doesn’t work. “Tommy, really—”
“I’ll see you in lecture next week.” With that, Tommy practically runs out the door.
He races down the stairs, out the building, and he keeps running, on and on. His footsteps are a constant patter beneath his feet. He’s out of breath when he stops by the coffee shop from earlier, and realizes in his panic he’d forgotten to bring his sandwich with him. “Fuck.”
His stomach growls and makes his choice for him. Well, guess he’s buying lunch twice today.
When walking in, however, Tommy realizes he forgot something very important.
Tubbo works here.
“Tommy?” Tubbo calls from behind the counter. It’s hard to hear him over the lunch rush chatter, but Tommy sneaks around the side to chat.
“Hey, Tubso,” he says back. “Just here to grab something to eat.”
Tubbo frowns. “Did you not have breakfast? Ranboo made more than enough.”
Tommy shrugs it off. “Nah, I skipped it today. Wasn’t really feeling it , you get me?”
Tubbo’s eyes narrow. “Tommy, in all my years of knowing you, and in the past month I’ve been living with you, not once have you skipped breakfast. You’re always feeling it.”
Tommy shrinks in on himself a bit defensively. “Yeah, well, not today. You can fuck off.”
A sigh of defeat. “Fine, I won’t push. Ham and cheese croissant? Decaf latté?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” Tommy sits at a stool by the window.
Tubbo goes behind the counter to make his order, conveniently skipping the line, and then it’s silent. Or, well, not quiet per say—the distinctive café chatter is buzzing in the air, and patrons are rushing in and out—but Tommy’s not talking anymore. He has time to think.
Maybe on another day, in another life, Tommy would be here to study. He’d have all his books laid out on the table, a coffee in hand, all studious and hipster and perfect. He’d be sending off emails to his professors and organizing group projects.
Maybe in that other life, he wouldn’t be half dead on his feet, running away from office hours.
“Ham and cheese!” Tubbo calls, sliding it across the counter.
Tell him, a part of him nudges. Tommy’s already told Wilbur—what’s one more? Besides, Tubbo’s no snitch, at least not like Professor Watson. It’s not like a little vigilantism is going to jeopardize their friendship. Tubbo’s done worse.
Besides, Tubbo’s been by his side for forever.
“Um, actually, Tubbo,” Tommy stammers. Why was this so hard? “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Really?” Tubbo pours foam into a cup, clicks the lid, and sets it down on the counter. “What is it?”
Sheepishly, he says, “It’s kind of— well, it’s kind of private.”
Tubbo gives Tommy a weird look and slides his latté across the counter. Tommy takes a sip. “Okay, tell me after my shift, then.”
“Private and important, Tubbo,” he stresses. “Like, right now important—”
“Fucking hell.” Tubbo turns to a co-worker with a beanie manning the register. “ Big Q, I’m taking my lunch. You can cover for me, right?”
“We’ve got a full line of— you know what, fine. Whatever. I don’t give a shit. Go take your lunch,” he says with a hand wave.
“Thanks, man!” Tubbo says, leaping over the counter, careful not to bump into anyone on the way.
Tommy scoffs, unimpressed. “Stop showing off, man. We get it, you were a nationally ranked gymnast, meh-meh-meh.”
Tubbo punches him in the shoulder. “If you could do the shit I can, you would be so much worse about it.”
He leads Tommy to a secluded table, tucked in the corner, and away from the door—which has a bell that rings incessantly, students filtering in to grab a lunch.
“So?” Tubbo says, “What is it?”
Tommy fidgets with a napkin, not looking Tubbo in the eye. All his courage has left him. “I’m the Tempest,” he mumbles, the syllables stringing together as if it were all one word.
A groan. “Speak up, man, I can’t even hear you.”
Tommy clears his throat and says, “I’m the Tempest.” Tubbo doesn’t react, so he clarifies, “You know, the one in the newspapers ‘n’ tabloids. The vigilante? Uh, that’s me. I fight supervillains.”
Tubbo gives him another weird look. After a moment: “Yeah? Is that it?”
Dread pierces Tommy’s gut. “Oh, god. Don’t tell me you already knew.”
Tubbo pats Tommy on the arm, consoling. “Sorry, man.”
“How did you even figure it out? I hid all the evidence!”
“Oh, me and Ranboo connected the dots a long time ago.” Using his magnetism, Tubbo pulls a fork into his hand. “I mean, you literally have the same powers. And a suspicious amount of bruises. And when the Tempest was punched in the face by his rival, the Parakeet, the next morning you had a black eye, out of no-where. We had to buy a two weeks’ supply of ice packs.”
“Okay, Tubbo, I get it—”
“I’m not finished!” Tubbo exclaims and draws attention from a couple customers. He waves them off, then looks back at Tommy. “You text us about “studying late at the library” despite asking me for help with all your midterms. I think you’ve emptied our entire first aid kit twice now. And, when the Tempest got burned to hell and back fighting the Inferno, you suddenly got “burned” from “an oven pan.” For God’s sake, Tommy, you’ve never cooked once in your life!”
It’s silent for a moment, only background noise in the air.
Sheepish: “You done?”
Tubbo huffs, his chest rising and falling. “Yes, I’m done.”
“And you’re not mad?” Tommy checks.
“No.” A short laugh. “No, I’m not mad. Now I get to finally call you out on your bullshit and make you pay us back for all those first aid kits.”
Tommy chuckles at that. “It’s not like being a vigilante pays much.”
“Didn’t think it paid you anything.”
“Shush,” Tommy says with a smile. Derisive: “It pays me in exposure.”
Tubbo rolls his eyes.
The café is still alive, customers rolling in and out, the bell ringing every few moments. Tubbo’s co-worker—Big Q, was it?—takes all their orders and flies through them. Literally. He’s got these tiny wings on his shoulders, and even though they don’t go fast, they’re clearly helping.
Tommy kicks his feet under the table, and finally asks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s your business.” Tubbo shrugs. “A bit awkward, too, isn’t it? How do you bring up being a vigilante in casual conversation?” He waves a hand, pulling a spoon and knife and fiddling with them. “We figured if you wanted us to know, you’d tell us.”
Tommy sighs, feeling the guilt pool in his stomach. All this time, and he could have told them. He didn’t have to go through this alone.
“Is that all?” Tubbo says after a minute. “I mean, I’m glad we got that out of the way, but I feel like there’s something you’re still not telling me. Something that’s “drop everything and take a lunch break” worthy.”
“Sorry, yeah, it’s—” Tommy cuts himself off. Where does he even start? “You said earlier I got a black eye from this villain, the Parakeet?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Well, he’s, uh, he’s my brother. Wilbur.”
At that, Tubbo finally looks stunned.
Like the first drop of rain, it all comes pouring out: “He’s Wilbur, and he— he’s working with the fucking Mafia, the Mob, or whatever, and he had this zappy thingy, I don’t even know what it was—”
“Hey, man, slow down—”
“And I went to his apartment and I followed him inside and—” A gasp, coming up for air, thrown against the rapids— “And it turned on and he lost his powers. They’re gone, and I have no idea how that thing worked, and it’s all my fucking fault!”
Tommy can feel it now, the way the storm makes him falter, riled and swirling and him trapped beneath the waves. He can’t come up for air. The same lightning that struck Wilbur starts to sizzle, crackling in his palms, and everything is too much.
He looks across the table at Tubbo— God, he can’t do the same to Tubbo. He can’t make the same mistake twice. The current shoots out, trying to find ground—
Tubbo puts a hand on his shoulder. It jumps between them, harmless static electricity, and dies shortly after.
“Breathe.”
Tommy inhales. Exhales. Feels his heartbeat slow. The clouds dissipate. It’s just him, and Tubbo, and everyone else is too caught up in the rush to matter.
“Okay, so. You’re the Tempest. And Wilbur is the Parakeet. Your rival.”
“Yup.” Tommy swallows the word.
After a minute, Tubbo says, “Damn, I knew siblings argued, but this is on a different level.”
A snort. “You can’t just say that, man!”
“Am I wrong?” Tubbo teases. “I mean, what are the odds— Actually, I take that back. Of course you’d end up in a fistfighting your brother on the daily. That’s painfully in-character for you.”
Tommy smiles despite it all. Tubbo’s energy is infectious, and somehow getting to joke and laugh about this is comforting. A sense of normalcy.
“Hey,” Tubbo says, more seriously. “I know it’s not, well, ideal now, but he’s your brother. You’re more important to Wilbur than anything. It’ll be shit now, but you’ll end up okay. You both will.”
A shaky inhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
They exchange smiles, then laughter, and Tubbo says, “Well, I think we packed a lot into that conversation.”
“Would you consider it “drop everything and take a lunch break” important?”
“Hm, maybe. Though I didn’t get to eat anything, in the end. Not much of a lunch.”
“Oh, shut it.”
It’s finally dying down around them, the bell going silent. Customers chat and mingle, and the smell of espresso fills the air.
I’m glad someone I care about knows. Maybe in the future, he’ll get to sit down with Wilbur, and they can laugh and joke about it like this. But for now, he has Tubbo, and it will be enough.
[Ending reached: SECOND LUNCH]
Tommy often wakes up drowning.
Not today, though. The waves are calm, and the quiet humming in his chest—his connection to the storm—is gone.
A part of him sighs in relief. A part of him aches, longing for the hurricane. His head hurts most of all: his synapses fire without lightning, and his whole body feels anchored to the bed.
Its like he has the full weight of gravity on his chest. Reaching out, Tommy grabs his phone.
He checks the time. Yeah, Tommy’s not going to class. Not like this.
Tommy puts the phone down and goes back to sleep.
When he wakes again, it's through sounds and smells. Something sizzling in the kitchen. The smell of food, of breakfast, floating through the apartment.
Fuck, Tommy’s hungry.
He gets up, tackles his bed-hair, and doesn’t bother changing out of his pajamas. Instead, he walks in to find Ranboo, wearing a Kiss the Cook apron and poking at a pan with a spatula.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” Tommy says, perfectly coherent. “What’re you making?”
“Eggs. Bacon.” Ranboo tilts the pan. “And some toast in the toaster. I thought you had class?”
“Sure did.”
A frown. “But you slept in.”
“Yup.” Tommy pops the ‘p’ for extra emphasis. The chair makes a long, scratching noise as Tommy pulls it out and sits down. Ranboo winces. Tommy would be more conscientious if his head wasn’t killing him. “Hope you saved some for me.”
It’s quiet between them as they eat. Tommy gets up periodically to refill his glass of water. When he’s about two-thirds of the way through his breakfast, he says a quiet thanks to Ranboo.
“Oh, it was nothing.” Ranboo waves a hand dismissively. “I’m just glad you’re feeling alright. It’s a bit uncharacteristic for you, sleeping in.”
“I’ll have you know I’m perfectly in-characteristic.” Tommy cuts through his egg. “Maybe I’m just having an off day. Everyone gets those.”
“Sure,” Ranboo says, unconvinced. “Well, me and Tubbo were a little worried about last night—”
“Don’t worry about me—”
“—You were fast asleep at like, eight PM, and—”
“—Really, man, I’ll be alright.”
Ranboo blinks. “You sure?”
Tommy gives him a smile, brighter than he feels. “Of course.”
“Okay,” Ranboo says, more to himself. “Okay. Um, if you’re really feeling up for it, we’re running low on a couple things. Here, I made a list.”
It’s only got five things on it. Still, Tommy’s having second thoughts. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so adamant about feeling a hundred percent. The moment he steps into the store, with its bright fluorescent lights, and parents and children, and nosy cashiers, he’s sure his headache will swing back in full force.
But if he doesn’t go, Ranboo might get suspicious. And start second-guessing Tommy. Maybe he should go, despite the headache, for Ranboo’s sake. He very kindly made Tommy breakfast, after all.
Tommy replies,
["I'll run to the store."]
["I'll stay here. We can get that stuff later."]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
“I’m run to the store,” Tommy decides and snatches the list out of Ranboo’s hand. “But I’m picking up more Coke, and you can’t stop me.”
Ranboo laughs, a lot of his worry evidently gone. “You sure you’re feeling up for it?”
“Certain.” Tommy does another once-over of the list: milk, band-aids, q-tips, cheese, and ibuprofen. He winces. Band-aids and ibuprofen were probably because of him. “This all?”
“Well, if they have chicken on sale, I’ve been meaning to make a pot pie.” A pause, contemplative. “But only if you can get a good deal.”
“What even constitutes a good deal?” Tommy wonders out loud. “Like, does the chicken start fuckin’ spilling insider secrets? Oh, look here, they’re not charging enough for me. I’m an absolute steal. Your mother would be ashamed if you didn’t get me, meh-meh-meh.”
Ranboo sighs, a little eshasterated. Tommy has that effect. “I don’t know, I guess it’s around five bucks for a rotisserie? It’s been forever. Just grab what’s on the list, that’s most important.”
“Don’t worry, Ranboob, I’m on it,” Tommy says, sounding more confident than he is. The moment the door shuts behind him, he lets his exhaustion show.
Technically, he could walk to the store, but a shuttle drops by soon, and Tommy would rather drop dead than try to walk the whole way.
The stop is just minutes away from his house. By the time he gets there, the shuttle has just arrived, and he rushes on, the doors closing behind him. It’s the middle of the day, so the car is mostly empty. Thank God.
They go in a loop around town, and Tommy counts the stops in his head, almost falling asleep in his chair. Without much fanfare, he gets off at his stop.
Tommy sighs, staring up at the sign. This shop is alright, always giving him good deals, but he just prays that one cashier isn’t around today. He’s always staring at him. Tommy doesn’t know what his problem is, but it gets on his nerves.
He struts in and scans the area. Sure enough, that goddamn cashier is here. In fact, he’s manning the only open register. How convenient. Every time Tommy visits, he’s always here. Maybe he picks his schedule around Tommy, trying to guess when he’ll stop by. It would be just like him. Fuckin’ creep.
The cashier looks back at him, making eye contact. Tommy shudders, looking away. Are his eyes purple? What kind of a medical condition gives someone purple eyes?
Moving faster now, he speeds towards the dairy section. The back of his neck sweats, and he can feel the cashier’s eyes on him. He doesn’t even bother with a cart or basket, just carrying everything as he goes around the store. Milk. Cheese. Next section. Band-aids, q-tips, ibuprofen. He grabs everything off the list, and more. By the end of it, he’s got enough bandages to fill three first aid kits, enough ice packs to fill a freezer, and enough band-aids that hopefully, Ranboo will never ask him to buy any again. And also, he’ll stop feeling so guilty about using all of it.
Tommy’s arms are full of everything he needs, and all he has to do is pay for it.
Tommy unceremoniously dumps everything on the conveyor belt. Even the milk, which probably shouldn’t have been handled so carelessly. He winces. Ranboo might get mad at him, or worse, suspicious. But it’s doesn’t matter now, there’s nothing he can do. He can’t go back and get a new one. He doesn’t trust the cashier enough to leave him alone with his groceries.
The cashier scans the items, but still has that stare. It’s creepier up close. Tommy looks everywhere but his eyes, and he spots a name tag. “Purpled?” he says out loud.
“That’s me,” the cashier, Purpled, says.
“So, Purpled, you keep staring at me. I bet you’re wondering why I always come in here with bruises,” Tommy says, straightening out the BAND-AID box on the conveyor belt.
“Uh, no, I don’t,” Purpled responds.
An intrusive thought creeps into Tommy’s head. Maybe he could finally get this cashier off his back.
[Overshare with the cashier.]
[Use some common sense.]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
“Oh no, bud, I’m gonna finally let loose. Get you off my case and to stop staring at me every time I come in here.” Tommy leans in close, trying for intimidation. It doesn’t work as well as he hoped, because his exhaustion causes him to almost fall over, and he has to grab the counter for support.
Purpled gives him a blank stare. Almost an invitation to continue.
“Well, you see, you know the guy in the papers? The one they all nag on? The Tempest?” Tommy’s glad he bought a shitton of stuff, because there’s no way Purpled is escaping him now. “I’m him.”
Purpled blinks slowly.
“Don’t give me that look!” Tommy shoots back. “Anyway, so I was doing a stakeout on my arch-nemesis, the Parakeet, when, bam! He reveals his secret identity! He was all like—" Tommy goes into a deep voice. "Square up and fight me, and I was all… Well, actually, I was getting the fuck out of dodge, but after that—”
“Would you like to join our rewards club?” Purpled cuts him off. Unenthused: “You would save 15% off this order, and 10% off all future orders.”
A scoff. “Rude! Can’t believe you’d interrupt me. Here I was, thinking you kept staring at me because you had some intrigue. You wanted to unlock my mystery.”
Again, Purpled blinks at him slowly. “The only mystery here is why you haven’t signed up for our rewards program. Free money. Can I get a phone number?”
“1-800-69-420,” Tommy says without hesitation. “Email is [email protected].”
It goes through, apparently, because Purpled stays silent.
“ Anyway, so I’m face to face with this guy, and he’s got this weapon from the weird fuckin’ mafia he works at, and he pulls the trigger, and I’m all like ‘ahh’ and I— You know, maybe the papers were right about me, because I can be real impulsive sometimes, and I reveal myself at the last second—”
“Cash or card?” Purpled interrupts him again. Rude.
Tommy fumbles in his bag, looking for what cash Ranboo gave him. Shit, it might not be enough. “Uh, cash, but— could you give me those last couple things for free? As like a thank you for, you know, saving the city once or twice.”
Purpled gives him a blank stare. “No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“I will get on my knees and beg, if you let me.”
Unimpressed, Purpled takes the last couple things off his tab. Maybe it’s an act of kindness. Maybe he just wants Tommy out of the line. “Would you like a bag for ten cents?”
“Sure.” Tommy waves him off. “So anyway, the blast hits me, and— I’ve got these storm powers. Connection to the storm and all that. The tabloids rave on and on about it. So I get hit and I’m— well, I’m writhing in agony, and he gets away, and I wake up with a killer headache.”
“Explains the ibuprofen,” Purpled says, before freezing.
Tommy slams on the counter, pointing at him, grinning in victory. “Ha! You were paying attention!”
Sheepishly, Purpled starts bagging up his items. “Yeah, man, whatever.”
“And then my roommate, Ranboo, asked me to get groceries and now I’m here.”
“Uh, cool?” Purpled says after a minute. He hands Tommy his bag. Impressive, he managed to fit it all in one.
Tommy takes a breath. Wow, he needed to get that off his chest. “Thanks for listening.”
Purpled looks like he’s contemplating making Tommy tip him extra. Or quitting his job on the spot.
“Anyway, I was wondering, uh, any advice?”
A tsk. “I don’t know man, live your life. You keep talking about tabloids and newspapers or whatever and want my opinion but it’s like… Live your life. I’m just minding my business.”
Tommy’s frenzy seems to die down. “Live my life, yeah… Hey, you’re not bad at advice. You should look into a new line of work, you know, if the grocery store thing doesn’t work out.”
Purpled gives him a blank stare. “Sure. Have a good day.”
“You too, cashier man!” Tommy shouts in reply, heading out the door. Oh, good, he made it just in time for the shuttle.
Passing the rest of town, Tommy sits and lets the interaction stir in his mind. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to get it off his chest. But man, it was satisfying having someone listen to him. Someone take him seriously.
He kicks his feet, getting off at his stop.
Tommy hands him the receipt. Ranboo looks down at it, looks back up, then looks down again. “Hey, Tommy, I appreciate the enthusiasm but this… You know we only needed a couple boxes of band-aids, right?”
[Ending reached: RETAIL THERAPY]
In the end, Tommy’s rational side gets the better of him, and he fumbles, “Uh, because I fall down stairs a lot, yeah. It’s why my roommates made me get all this stuff.”
Purpled gives him a blank stare. When he’s done scanning all Tommy’s stuff—and, God, Tommy got a lot of stuff—he asks, “Would you like a bag for ten cents?”
Carrying all of it was painful enough in the store. “Yes, please.”
Purpled bags all of his stuff, and Tommy takes it, and carries on with his day.
When he gets back to the apartment, he’s got a tickle in his throat, an itch on the tip of his tongue. He needs to put this bag down, he needs to get the weight off his chest. Bottling it up will kill him.
Ranboo’s in the kitchen. Tommy hands off the bag to him. Ranboo gives him a strange look at the receipt, and the amount of items, but ultimately is politely silent. Maybe Tommy’s half-dead posture gives him sympathy points.
“How was the store?” Ranboo starts packing everything away. “Di you see the cashier again?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, unenthusiastically. Ranboo tilts his head. “I mean— He was there. Didn’t really notice him, to be honest.”
A hum. When Ranboo’s done with all the groceries, he leads Tommy to the couch. “C’mon, sit,” he commands, as if Tommy were a dog. Begrudgingly, Tommy does. Ranboo’s oddly threatening when he wants to be. Must be how tall he is.
“What?” Tommy says, and maybe it would have more heat to it if his head wasn’t throbbing.
“You’re not leaving this couch until you tell me what’s up.”
Tommy crosses his arms. Defensive: “Nothing’s up . I was just tired. Had a long day yesterday.”
“Oh, right. You said you were planning to visit Wilbur yesterday, am I remembering that right?” Ranboo says casually, and Tommy’s blood freezes. “How did it go?”
Tommy stops. His hands start to tremour. Shit, he forgot he went with that excuse. Even worse, he ended up being half-right. Unconvincing, even to his own ears: “Oh, yeah, it was alright.”
A frown. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’m totally fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He wrings his hands together, as if that would stop them from shaking. He couldn’t stand being in that apartment yesterday. And how pathetic must he look now, heart beating like a drum, when there’s half a city between them?
Ranboo stares at him, up and down. He concludes, “Something happened with Wilbur.”
“No, of course not! What makes you think that?” Tommy says, far too quickly, far too loud, and he mentally slaps himself. Top ten ways to make yourself seem suspicous as hell: whatever the fuck that was.
Ranboo sighs and takes a seat next to him. “Tommy, I want to help you, I really, really do. But I can’t do anything if you won’t tell me anything. I’m just... I’m worried about you, man. Tubbo is too. You’re always out late, showing up with new bruises left and right, and you’re pushing yourself to the limit. Something seems off.”
“I...” Tommy trails off. Ranboo’s nice. Ranboo’s one of his best friends. He’s always been a good listener, and he’s always been clear about caring for Tommy. About having his back. If he shared the truth, Tommy knows Ranboo would take it in stride. No matter what, that’s how kind he is.
“It was hard going back there,” Tommy says eventually. He picks at the couch cushion, revealing the white underneath. “I don’t know if I was ready for it.”
“Yeah?” Ranboo coaxes. “What do you mean?”
Tommy goes quiet. Then: “Remember when I was moving in, that first night? I got all depressed and lonely and slept out in the lounge with you guys?”
A nod.
“Um, all my life, it’s just been me and Wilbur in that apartment. I never really felt alone. So… Anyway, going back there brought up a lot.” Tommy’s being vague, he knows, but he’s tired, and if Ranboo wants his answers, he has to be patient.
“Like what?” Ranboo says gently. He looks at Tommy, hanging on to every word, and no matter what Tommy says he knows Ranboo will listen.
For Tommy, places have always been innately tied to memories, to people. This apartment is where he sees Ranboo. The coffee shop where he sees Tubbo. Even the grocery store where he sees the cashier. Tommy compartmentalizes.
The same is true for the Tempest. Rooftops are where he sees villains. Downtown is where he gets bruised. That apartment was solely for Wilbur, not the Parakeet, and there’s a pressing dissonance when he reckons with it. Places are memories are people, so what does that mean for his home? Is it where he grew up, where his family’s from, where he moved out and left behind an empty bedroom? Or is it nothing more than a hiding place for a supervillain, his rival, and a source of danger?
How could Tommy go back to it, anyway? The Tempest can’t fight there. He knows every picture on the mantel is precious, every appliance and wallpaper costed them extra shifts at the corner, costed him his brother’s chances at college. The same brother’s who’s turned it to a warehouse, corrupting it, tainting it, storing bloody weapons in—
Tommy doesn’t know. Something wet gathers in his eyes, and he goes back to the first night, after moving in. “It was hard being alone for the first time. I felt like I was leaving him behind. So, that’s why I wanted you there.” A shuddering breath. “It made everything easier.”
“It was fun, too,” Ranboo reminisces. “We dismembered one of the couches and used its remains to build a pillow fort.” Tommy smiles at the turn of phrase. “We even put on your favorite movie— Which, by the way, I’ll never understand why you chose Up.”
“It’s comforting!”
“I can’t get past Carl and Ellie…”
Tommy crosses his arms and resists the urge to stick out his tongue. “Not my problem. In this life, you have to get through the sad montage to get to the happy ending.”
A smile, crinkled at the corners. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Tommy’s voice trails off. That’s the Ranboo he’s talking to—the one who will do anything to support him. The trust, the courage, comes back in full force. Like ripping off a band-aid, Tommy blurts, “I’m the Tempest.”
“What?” Ranboo squawks.
Tommy snaps, “Got a problem with that?”
“No, no, it’s all good.” He flounders, wringing his hands. “It’s all good. Explains all the band-aids. Honestly, me and Tubbo had a running theory— Well, it’s not important.”
Tommy kicks his feet. “I’m not done yet.”
Ranboo turns to him, going quiet.
“So, I’m the Tempest.” God, why was this so hard? “And my rival, my nemesis, the Parakeet— I saw him yesterday.”
A pause. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. He was… He was in Wilbur’s apartment. And he’s got his mask off, and I sneak up on him, and he turns around, and—” He runs out of breathe. A huff. “And, turns out he wasn’t trespassing, exactly.”
Ranboo repeats the words to himself. Then: “Oh. Oh, damn.”
“So I run. Obviously.”
“Checks out.”
“And— Okay, the reason he was in the apartment was because he was hiding this taser, weapon thingy.” Tommy gulps. “And he’s chasing me with it, and it… It hits me.”
“Oh. Oh, God, Tommy, are you okay?”
Tommy waves him off, but it’s not as convincing as he’d like. “Yeah, it wasn’t anything serious. Just made me bone tired. Don’t know how I managed the trip to the store, to be honest. But, uh.” He reaches inside him, trying to pull out whatever spark he can. Expectedly, nothing happens. “I might have to book an appointment with the power registry.”
“Book an appointment—” The horror dawns on his face. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Wilbur didn’t—”
“He did,” Tommy says, heavy. “I don’t have it anymore.”
Ranboo goes quiet. “Well, that sucks.”
The ghost of a smile. “Eh, it can’t be too bad,” Tommy says and nudges Ranboo. “You’ve lasted, what, eighteen years?”
A strained laugh. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Sure,” Tommy says, “But I’ll manage.”
Ranboo doesn’t reply.
Was that it? Did he hit everything he was supposed to? Tommy starts counting on his fingers. “Secret identity, chase with Wilbur, passed out when I got home, yeah, I think that’s all.”
“That’s all,” Ranboo echoes. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“Well, you said earlier you ‘n’ Tubbo had a theory, right? How much did you get right?”
Sheepish: “I think I owe Tubbo some money after this. Honestly, I didn’t want to think about it too hard. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Don’t worry, Ranboob.” He does a grimace. “At least now I can finally take a break.”
A chuckle. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Oh, shut it.”
Ranboo gives him a look. Exasperated, concerned, with a small smile. Most importantly, supportive. Maybe a little mother hen.
Winter is on the horizon, but for now, they still get to enjoy the last scraps of fall. Orange leaves on the windowsill. Pumpkin pie they’ll cut up, with fresh, homemade whipped cream, and Tommy can enjoy it with those he cares about.
Maybe Wilbur is a far off memory, in the future. Tommy doesn’t know what will happen next. For now, he’s got Ranboo, and he’s got Tubbo, and it’s enough. His tunnel vision relaxes.
Tommy can see his future laid out, like a winding path in front of him. Taken one step at a time, again and again. In the blink of an eye, he’ll reach tomorrow. He’ll reach the day after that, too.
He lets out a breath. Maybe he had nothing to worry about, after all.
[Ending reached: MOTHER HEN]
In the end, just thinking about the store gives Tommy a headache. “I think I’ll just stay here. We can get that stuff later, anyway.”
“Okay, now I’m really worried,” Ranboo says, going full mother hen. He almost presses a hand to Tommy’s forehead, before stopping himself. “You never give up a chance to visit the store. You’re too invested in this weird rivalry with the cashier, and every time I take us you always end up in a staring contest.”
“It’s not a rivalry, ” Tommy protests. “He’s just a creep. That dick has some sort of problem with me, and I’m going to figure it out.”
Ranboo leads him to the couch. “C’mon, sit,” he commands, as if Tommy were a dog. Begrudgingly, Tommy does. Ranboo’s oddly threatening when he wants to be. Must be how tall he is.
“What?” Tommy says, and maybe it would have more heat to it if his head wasn’t throbbing.
“You’re not leaving this couch until you tell me what’s up.”
Tommy crosses his arms. Defensive: “Nothing’s up . I was just tired. Had a long day yesterday.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, you said you were planning to visit Wilbur yesterday,” Ranboo says casually, and Tommy’s blood freezes. “How did that go?”
Tommy stops. His hands start to tremour. Shit, he forgot he went with that excuse. Even worse, he ended up being half-right. Unconvincing, even to his own ears: “Oh, yeah, it was alright.”
A frown. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’m totally fine. Nothing’s wrong.” He wrings his hands together, as if that would stop them from shaking. He couldn’t stand being in that apartment yesterday. And how pathetic must he look now, heart beating like a drum, when there’s half a city between them?
Ranboo stares at him, up and down. He concludes, “Something happened with Wilbur.”
“No, of course not! What makes you think that?” Tommy says, far too quickly, far too loud, and he mentally slaps himself. Top ten ways to make yourself seem suspicous as hell: whatever the fuck that was.
Ranboo sighs and takes a seat next to him. “Tommy, I want to help you, I really, really do. But I can’t do anything if you won’t tell me anything. I’m just... I’m worried about you, man. Tubbo is too. You’re always out late, showing up with new bruises left and right, and when you came home last night, something seemed off.”
“I...” Tommy trails off. Ranboo’s nice. Ranboo’s one of his best friends. He’s always been a good listener, and he’s always been clear about caring for Tommy. About having his back. If he shared the truth, Tommy knows Ranboo would take it in stride. No matter what, that’s how kind he is.
At the same time, Tommy’s been hiding something for months . Something big. Something dangerous. Moreover, Tommy thinks—no, knows—that Ranboo would forgive him. It stings. He doesn’t know why, but it does. It makes him feel selfish. He doesn’t deserve that unconditional forgiveness.
Tommy turns over the decision in his head.
[Tell him the truth.]
[Lie, and go get groceries instead.]
[Go back one choice.]
[Go back to the beginning.]
“It was hard going back there,” Tommy says eventually. He picks at the couch cushion, revealing the white underneath. “I don’t know if I was ready for it.”
“Yeah?” Ranboo coaxes. “What do you mean?”
Tommy goes quiet. Then: “Remember when I was moving in, that first night? I got all depressed and lonely and slept out in the lounge with you guys?”
A nod.
“Um, all my life, it’s just been me and Wilbur in that apartment. I never really felt alone. So… Anyway, going back there brought up a lot.” Tommy’s being vague, he knows, but he’s tired, and if Ranboo wants his answers, he has to be patient.
“Like what?” Ranboo says gently. He looks at Tommy, hanging on to every word, and no matter what Tommy says he knows Ranboo will listen.
For Tommy, places have always been innately tied to memories, to people. This apartment is where he sees Ranboo. The coffee shop where he sees Tubbo. Even the grocery store where he sees the cashier. Tommy compartmentalizes.
The same is true for the Tempest. Rooftops are where he sees villains. Downtown is where he gets bruised. That apartment was solely for Wilbur, not the Parakeet, and there’s a pressing dissonance when he reckons with it. Places are memories are people, so what does that mean for his home? Is it where he grew up, where his family’s from, where he moved out and left behind an empty bedroom? Or is it nothing more than a hiding place for a supervillain, his rival, and a source of danger?
How could Tommy go back to it, anyway? The Tempest can’t fight there. He knows every picture on the mantel is precious, every appliance and wallpaper costed them extra shifts at the corner, costed him his brother’s chances at college. The same brother’s who’s turned it to a warehouse, corrupting it, tainting it, storing bloody weapons in—
Tommy doesn’t know. Something wet gathers in his eyes, and he goes back to the first night, after moving in. “It was hard being alone for the first time. I felt like I was leaving him behind. So, that’s why I wanted you there.” A shuddering breath. “It made everything easier.”
“It was fun, too,” Ranboo reminisces. “We dismembered one of the couches and used its remains to build a pillow fort.” Tommy smiles at the turn of phrase. “We even put on your favorite movie— Which, by the way, I’ll never understand why you chose Up.”
“It’s comforting!”
“I can’t get past Carl and Ellie…”
Tommy crosses his arms and resists the urge to stick out his tongue. “Not my problem. In this life, you have to get through the sad montage to get to the happy ending.”
A smile, crinkled at the corners. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Tommy’s voice trails off. That’s the Ranboo he’s talking to—the one who will do anything to support him. The trust, the courage, comes back in full force. Like ripping off a band-aid, Tommy blurts, “I’m the Tempest.”
“What?” Ranboo squawks.
Tommy snaps, “Got a problem with that?”
“No, no, it’s all good.” He flounders, wringing his hands. “It’s all good. Honestly, me and Tubbo were kind-of suspecting— Well, it’s not important.”
Tommy kicks his feet. “I’m not done yet.”
Ranboo turns to him, going quiet.
“So, I’m the Tempest.” God, why was this so hard? “And my rival, my nemesis, the Parakeet— I saw him yesterday.”
A pause. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. He was… He was in Wilbur’s apartment. And he’s got his mask off, and I sneak up on him, and he turns around, and—” He runs out of breathe. A huff. “And, turns out he wasn’t trespassing, exactly.”
Ranboo repeats the words to himself. Then: “Oh. Oh, damn.”
“So I run. Obviously.”
“Checks out.”
“And— Okay, the reason he was in the apartment was because he was hiding this taser, weapon thingy.” Tommy gulps. “And he’s chasing me with it, and it… It hits me.”
“Oh. Oh, God, Tommy, are you okay?”
Tommy waves him off, but it’s not as convincing as he’d like. “Yeah, it wasn’t anything serious. Just made me bone tired. And, uh.” He reaches inside him, trying to pull out whatever spark he can. Expectedly, nothing happens. “I might have to book an appointment with the power registry.”
“Book an appointment—” The horror dawns on his face. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Wilbur didn’t—”
“He did,” Tommy says, heavy. “I don’t have it anymore.”
Ranboo goes quiet. “Well, that sucks.”
The ghost of a smile. “Eh, it can’t be too bad,” Tommy says and nudges him. “You’ve lasted, what, eighteen years?”
A strained laugh. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Sure,” Tommy says, “But I’ll manage.”
Ranboo doesn’t reply.
Was that it? Did he hit everything he was supposed to? Tommy starts counting on his fingers. “Secret identity, chase with Wilbur, passed out when I got home, yeah, I think that’s all.”
“That’s all,” Ranboo echoes. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“Well, you said earlier you ‘n’ Tubbo were suspicious, right? This can’t be entirely out of no-where.”
Sheepish: “It was more Tubbo than me. Honestly, I didn’t want to think about it too hard. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Don’t worry, Ranboob.” He does a grimace. “I can’t exactly go vigilante-ing like this.”
A nudge. “Maybe not yet. When’s the last time you took a break, anyway?”
“I can’t remember.” Tommy chuckles. “Maybe that’s a sign.”
Ranboo gives him a look. Exasperated, concerned, with a small smile. Most importantly, supportive. Maybe a little mother hen.
Winter is on the horizon, but for now, they still get to enjoy the last scraps of fall. Orange leaves on the windowsill. Pumpkin pie they’ll cut up, with fresh, homemade whipped cream, and Tommy can enjoy it with those he cares about.
Maybe Wilbur is a far off memory, in the future. Tommy doesn’t know what will happen next. For now, he’s got Ranboo, and he’s got Tubbo, and it’s enough. His tunnel vision relaxes.
Tommy can see his future laid out, like a winding path in front of him. Taken one step at a time, again and again. In the blink of an eye, he’ll reach tomorrow. He’ll reach the day after that, too.
He lets out a breath. Maybe he had nothing to worry about, after all.
[Ending reached: SECOND HOME]
“Um, actually, I’ll go to the store after all.” Despite Ranboo’s protests, Tommy grabs the list from the counter. “And I’m picking up more Coke, and you can’t stop me.”
“Tommy, wait—”
He tries to keep the waver out of his voice. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll get all the discounts I can.”
Ranboo grabs his sleeve, and— God, he can really be intimidating sometimes. “Seriously, come on.”
Tommy gives him a look back. Maybe something’s clear in his eyes: the missing storm, the missing hurricane. All that’s left of him is someone going through the motions, running on empty, and Tommy can’t give Ranboo what he’s looking for right now, he can’t give him the truth. He can’t form the words.
Abruptly, Ranboo’s grip releases. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Tommy says, possibly the worst lie he’s told today. Possibly the best. The moment the door shuts behind him, he lets his exhaustion show.
Fuck, now what?
Technically, the store is ten minutes away, but a shuttle drops by soon, and Tommy’s legs are killing him. There’s no way he can walk the whole way.
The stop is just a block away from his. By the time he gets there, the shuttle has just arrived, and he rushes on, the doors closing behind him. It’s the middle of the day, so the car is mostly empty. Thank God.
They go in a loop around town, and Tommy counts the stops in his head. Half of him is about to fall asleep; half of him is buzzing with guilt, nervous ticks, and he almost lets out of sigh as he reaches his stop.
Tommy sighs, staring up at the sign. This shop is alright, always giving him good deals, but he just prays that one cashier isn’t around today. He’s always staring at him. Tommy doesn’t know what his problem is, but it gets on his nerves. He can’t handle it. Not today.
He struts in and scans the area. Sure enough, that goddamn cashier is here. In fact, he’s manning the only open register. How convenient. Every time Tommy visits, he’s always here. Maybe he picks his schedule around Tommy, trying to guess when he’ll stop by. It would be just like him. Fuckin’ creep.
The cashier looks back at him, making eye contact. Tommy steels himself and looks back. He is going to be productive, and like hell if he’s letting that stupid looking—are those purple eyes?—cashier get in his way.
Moving faster now, he speeds towards the dairy section. The back of his neck sweats, and he can feel the cashier’s eyes on him. He doesn’t even bother with a cart or basket, just carrying everything as he goes around the store. Milk. Cheese. Next section. Band-aids, q-tips, ibuprofen. He grabs everything off the list, and more. By the end of it, he’s got enough bandages to fill three first aid kits, enough ice packs to fill a freezer, and enough band-aids that hopefully, Ranboo will never ask him to buy any again. And also, he’ll stop feeling so guilty about using all of it.
Tommy’s arms are full of everything he needs, and all he has to do is pay for it.
Tommy unceremoniously dumps everything on the conveyor belt. Even the milk, which probably shouldn’t have been handled so carelessly. He can’t be bothered to care.
The cashier scans the items, but still has that stare. It’s creepier up close. Tommy’s gaze drifts, and he spots a name tag. “Purpled?” he says out loud.
“That’s me,” the cashier, Purpled, says.
“So, Purpled.” Tommy lets the awkward silence sit. An intrusive thought creeps into his head. Maybe he could finally get this cashier off his back.
“I bet you’re wondering why I always come in here with bruises.” Tommy straightens the BAND-AID box on the conveyor belt.
“Uh, no, I don’t,” Purpled responds.
“Oh no, bud, I’m not done.” Tommy leans in close, trying for intimidation. It doesn’t work as well as he hoped, because his exhaustion causes him to almost fall over, and his nerves are getting the better of him. He has to grab the counter for support, something to steady him.
“Well, you’re on to me. You cracked the big secret.” Tommy does a panicked chuckle. “You know the guy in the papers? The one they all nag on? The Tempest?” Tommy’s glad he bought a shitton of stuff, because there’s no way Purpled is escaping him now. With a shit-eating grin: “I’m him.”
Purpled gives him a blank stare.
“Don’t give me that look!” Tommy shoots back. “I’m secretly a vigilante, and my brother’s secretly a villain, and my arch-nemesis, and my roommate has been pestering me all day, all week, actually, and—”
“Would you like to join our rewards club?” Purpled cuts him off. Unenthused: “You would save 15% off this order, and 10% off all future orders.”
A scoff. “Fuck off. No. God, you’re rude, can’t believe they’d train employees to interrupt a valued customer.”
Purpled blinks slowly. Spiritually, it’s like rolling his eyes.
“Here I was,” Tommy says, trying to sound hurt, “I thought you kept staring at me because you had some intrigue. You wanted to unlock my mystery.”
Again, Purpled blinks at him slowly. Then, he sighs, and punches something in his terminal. “The real mystery is why you’d turn down free money. Cash or card?”
“Fucking— Cash. I guess.” Tommy fiddles with the money Ranboo gave him. If he gets rid of the last things on his tab, he can afford it all, extra supplies included. “Maybe the tabloids were right, I can be real impulsive. If you ever find yourself behind a power-sapping weapon? Tip: don’t reveal your identity at the last second. Actually, fucking don’t find yourself on the other side of a—”
“Would you like a bag for ten cents?” Purpled interrupts him again. Rude.
“Fucking hell. You’re a real character, did you know that?”
The ghost of a smile. “I don’t make the price. It’s state law. Would you like a bag for ten cents?”
“Sure. Whatever.” Tommy pulls a dime from his pocket. “Here. Just— God. You ever have days where everything goes wrong, and then it gets worse?”
“You mean like having to deal with rude customers, dumping their life problems on you?” Purpled says, deadpan. A shrug. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“You motherfucker.”
“Swearing at me, too.”
Tommy slams a hand on the table. He tries to muster up another insult, but he can’t. That pit in him, where words felt impossible, where everything was going too fast and he was too tired to handle—
It’s gone.
“Here you go,” Purpled says after a minute. He hands Tommy his bag, and impressively managed to fit it all in one.
Tommy sucks in a breath. Damn, he needed to get that off his chest. “Thanks for listening,” he says. “Really.”
A tsk. “Yeah, man, whatever. I’m just minding my business.”
His frenzy seems to die down. “But, still— thanks. I really needed that. You should look into a new line of work, you know, if the grocery store thing doesn’t work out.”
Purpled returns to the blank stare. “Sure. Have a good day.”
“You too, cashier man!” Tommy shouts in reply, heading out the door. Oh, good, he made it just in time for the shuttle.
Passing the rest of town, Tommy sits and lets the interaction stir in his mind. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to get it off his chest. But man, it was satisfying having someone listen to him. Someone take him seriously.
Ranboo he can deal with now. Ranboo he can deal with tomorrow. He’s waited this long to tell him; he can wait a little longer.
[Ending reached: BLOSSOMS]