Archive of Our Own

Tommy stands outside the gates of his school, a healthy distance from his peers. Being one of the only hybrids here with features as prominent as his, he’s learned to be wary of people.

Yellow wings with dotted white feathers are folded uncomfortably tight behind him as if he could ever hide the fact he’s a bird hybrid. He still has most of his downy feathers, and though he’s ashamed of how babyish they make him look, being a hybrid means no one knows much about him, or just how delayed his aging really is. Being a rare bird hybrid only adds to the fact. All the better, he’d probably be picked on for that, too, if the other students could tell.

Being fourteen and fresh in high school, Tommy expected the bullying to simmer down… somewhat. Unsurprisingly, they only got more creative with their tactics.

For the most part, though, Tommy is left alone. He stays quiet and invisible, and to be unseen is to be immune.

He stands on the far side of the gate, waiting to see the familiar van of his foster father, Phil, pull into the lot.

Tommy’s been waiting to go home since first period. He has a mountain of homework, and he swore everyone had decided to be especially loud today. Hypocritical, he knows. Tommy’s never liked loud things, even if he is an instigator himself, but six hours of uncontrolled chaos from a highschool classroom is a whole different level.

Tommy’s just grateful to go to a safe house and lay in a comfortable bed.

At this foster house, he’s been allowed to decorate his room and he even has clean, well fitting clothes. They spoil him, certainly, but after today, Tommy is ready to be spoiled with a locked door and warm blankets.

Not to mention with the cold weather, Tommy has had half his mind on the blankets laid over his bed all day. That being, turning them into a sort of sad looking mock of a nest. Tommy’s always been particularly good at repressing his instincts, but the colder it gets, the louder they become, and the harder it is to fight them off.

Thankfully, Phil is an avian hybrid himself with stunning black wings, an odd contrast to his light blonde hair. He’s also the only other bird hybrid Tommy’s ever met.

Tommy’s been offered all sorts of odd things for his ‘instincts’ by the older avian, and though he is grateful to have been thought of, the only thing he ever accepted were the heated blankets.

This isn’t Tommy’s first hybrid placement, but it is his first avian placement, not to mention that one of Tommy’s foster brothers is a pig hybrid as well, making three out of four residents hybrids. The overwhelmingly non-human ratio has been a stark contrast to his previous foster homes. It’s not everyday you meet a hybrid, and it’s not everyday the house is full of them.

And yet, here Tommy is, the fourth addition to this unit. They’re not family, but it’s not a stretch to say they’re friendly after these six or so months. They’re polite to him, they don’t hit or degrade him- they treat him like a friend.

Still, he’s waiting for it to end. For him to mess up somehow and reveal their true colors. There’s just something about Tommy that’s rejected in even the nicest of homes. He used to think it was his wings, but now he’s not so sure.

Friendly, but not family. These houses never produce family, and after years of bouncing through the foster system, ‘friendly’ is more than Tommy could ever ask for. He’d go as far as to say he hopes this is the house he ages out of the system in.

Hopeful, extremely hopeful, he knows. He’s freshly fourteen, meaning Tommy still has four more grueling years of all this. He just hopes they’re spent here.

So much hope with so little outcome, but if he doesn’t dream then he lives here, where the house isn’t full of family and he’s likely to cycle through them, just like all the others.

If he doesn’t dream, he lives in reality, where he shivers as night falls and holds back calls for a flock he doesn’t know. Tommy belongs to no kin, but how he dreams he does, and how he brushes it off with gratefulness for more fucking friends.

Reality is cold and unforgiving, so Tommy hopes in a place that is warm.

When he sees Phil’s van pull up, Tommy just about jogs to the vehicle.

He crawls in the back, immediately noticing that his two foster brothers are in the car as well. Usually, only Phil picks Tommy up.

Tommy sits in the back with Wilbur with a seat between the two. When Tommy gets in the car, Wilbur puts down his phone, brown eyes studying the kid. Tommy tries not to squirm.

It’s not that Tommy dislikes Wilbur, it’s more that Tommy knows well enough to distrust Wilbur. The full blooded human with curly auburn hair, deep brown eyes to match and a startlingly tall stature all spells one thing to Tommy: Danger.

Wilbur has never done a thing to Tommy, no, but humans? Humans have done more to Tommy than the kid ever thought capable.

(All those houses where the parents thought it was hilarious how Tommy would jump at the slightest touch to his wings, and how well of a punishment it was to pluck his feathers and bend them back.)

But Wilbur has been pretty nice. Tommy assumes he’d have to be since he and Techno were adopted by Phil long before Tommy was ever introduced.

“How was school, kid?” Phil asks, smiling at Tommy through the rear view mirror.

Light blue eyes twinkle at Tommy, but the boy can hardly reciprocate the enthusiasm. He only glances at Phil, then looks to his knees. “Fine.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Leave him alone,” Phil gently chides, “Hey, Tom, there’s a blizzard coming in and we need to stock up. You’re okay with going to the store, right?”

Tommy shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Even Tommy wants to go home,” Techno mutters. The pig hybrid is looking forward, and all Tommy can see are the long tracks of his pink hair.

Phil glares at Techno. “We’re not going home.” He turns his focus back to the road. “We’re all here, and we need food-“

“-You’re going to get gross food, though,” Wilbur loudly complains, dramatically throwing his head back.

“God forbid you eat something green,” Phil grumbles.

“God forbid we get takeout once in a while,” Wilbur retorts right back.

Tommy frankly doesn’t mind either way. Maybe if he asks politely, they can drop him off at home and he can avoid all this bickering-

“You can’t live off of fried rice, Wil,” Techno comments.

Wilbur crosses his arms, sticking his nose up. “And you can’t live off of potatoes.”

Techno turns to face Wilbur, his elbow on the center console with a belligerent finger pointed at Wilbur and dark eyes daring the man. “Now, you see here, you’d know that you could survive off a potato-exclusive diet if you read something other than Charlotte’s Web, Wilbur.”

Wilbur scoffs in offense, exclaiming, “Are you implying I’m benighted?!”

(Oh god, they’re both pretentious.)

“Ah, so he does have a brain.” Techno sarcastically remarks.

“Oh, you pompous twat-!”

“Boys! Shut it!” Phil leans forward, peering down the street. “I can't see to make a left over all your shouting!”

Tommy frowns, and the arguing does cease, right before Wilbur’s barking laughter. If he didn’t think he’d be questioned (or reprimanded), Tommy would cover his ears. For now, he just lets his eyes droop and his wings fall over his shoulders like a security blanket.

Techno sighs, sitting properly in his seat again. “Phil, we need to find you a retirement home, and fast.”

Phil finally makes the turn. “I’m not that old.”

“Old enough to drive.” Wilbur leans forward, giving Phil a scrutinizing stare. “That’s suspiciously old.”

“Well, since no one else here seems to be in a rush to get their license-“

Immediately, both Wilbur and Techno speak over each other and at Phil, arguing that nineteen is far too young to be doing anything adult-like.

“We’ve only just finished high school-!”

“-You expect us to find time with college coming up-“

“-Besides, who drives anymore, anyways?”

“-can’t even keep a plant alive, how am I expected to be responsible for pedestrians?”

Phil startles out a laugh, gripping the steering wheel. “Oh my god, not this again-“

Tommy takes in a grounding breath. Some higher power above had definitely decided that everyone be excessively loud today. Of course, Techno, who never speaks above a monotonous drawl had to get worked up, and of course Wilbur had to be whiny about inconsequential details.

“Pedestrians are very accident prone!” Techno stresses, “It’s not my fault they always seem to jump in front of cars.”

“Mhm,” Phil dismissively hums, focusing on not hitting pedestrians himself.

“Sometimes they do jump,” Wilbur darkly adds.

The conversation lulls, and for once, Tommy is grateful for Wilbur’s questionable sanity.

“Yeah…” Phil awkwardly trails off. “Anyways, I don’t mind driving you lot, though. Just simmer down a bit.”

Tommy hadn’t even noticed, but at some point Phil must’ve clocked in the boy’s discomfort. Phil is staring at him through the rear view mirror with growing worry, clearly having made the comment for Tommy.

Maybe if Tommy looks pitiful enough, Phil will offer to take him home.

Techno and Wilbur continue conversating, though by their father’s direction, much more quietly.

Tommy softly sighs, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.

(He doesn’t know how much more he can take, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do when he’s reached his breaking point.)

-•-

Tommy stands outside the store with his foster family, listening to Phil dish out the obligatory pre-store lecture.

“I have a list, and we’re sticking to it,” Phil instructs, narrowing his eyes on a specific brunette.

Wilbur only reflects Phil’s cold gaze.

Tommy can’t quite tell that they’re joking until Phil looks away with a smile.

It wouldn’t be a surprise for Wilbur to be reprimanded on this- Wilbur is notorious for grabbing whatever’s shiny, which is funny considering he has no instincts. At least, Tommy is pretty sure humans don’t have instincts; It’s always hybrids that are brought up in the conversation of instinctual needs and usually not in any favorable light at that.

Phil begins leading Wilbur, Techno and Tommy through the store, keenly watching them for signs of mischievous behavior. Namely, keeping his eye on Wilbur. The only person who’s actually helping Phil shop is Techno.

In the refrigerated fruits section, Phil sifts through the containers for a pack of strawberries while Wilbur uselessly stands behind Phil, and Tommy idly behind Wilbur.

“Oh, Tech, if you want mashed potatoes again you should go grab some,” Phil notes without looking up.

Techno doesn’t need any further direction, leaving the three and pacing down the aisle.

Tommy nervously waits by the peaches, delicately touching their fuzzy skin.

Entering the store had been a wall of noise, and being inside for this long wasn’t any more soothing. He likes noise, but not too much, and this is way too much.

Wilbur sneaks up to Tommy, escaping Phil’s watchful eye. With Wilbur being nineteen, it’s a wonder why Phil adopted the lunatic- surely, there should’ve been signs in his childhood that he’d… well, never grow out of it.

Which is telling, when Wilbur leans down and asks Tommy, “Do you want to get candy?”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Wilbur gives him a splitting grin. “Candy.”

Tommy glances at Phil, who’s now moved onto bananas. A faint, ‘stick to the list’’ rings through Tommy’s mind.

Looking back at Wilbur, Tommy tries not to seem too nervous. “Will he be mad?”

Wilbur frowns slightly. “No, no- he might sigh, but he also sighs when he wakes up.”

Tommy hums, unconsciously drawing in on himself. “I don’t know, I don’t want to-“

“Hey.” Wilbur nearly puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder before stopping himself. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it’s now or never.”

Focus flitting between Wilbur and Phil, Tommy catches the older avian side eyeing the both of them and Tommy freezes.

Phil slyly winks and returns to the produce.

That must’ve been approval- and Wilbur didn’t even notice.

Tommy slowly nods. “Okay. Candy.”

And just like that, Wilbur disappears into the nearest aisle. Tommy struggles to keep up with Wilbur’s quick pace, veering at every turn. When the man is built like a skyscraper, Tommy thinks learning how to fly might just be easier at this point.

After unceremoniously pushing through crowds of people and flinching at every brush of his wings, Tommy skids to a halt behind Wilbur, who’s finally stopped in front of a literal wall of candy.

Wilbur waves to the holy display. “Take your pick.”

“Uh-“ Tommy chews on his lip, looking up, down and back around at all the options. “-What are you getting?”

Wilbur steps forward, taking a single box off the shelf and showing it to Tommy.

“You might not like them,” Wilbur murmurs, then grabs another box off a higher shelf that Tommy is certain he couldn’t reach if he jumped. “But-“ Wilbur hands the brightly colored box to Tommy, “-I used to like these when I was younger.”

Tommy gingerly takes it. The packaging is clearly marketed towards kids, but Tommy bites his tongue. Even playfully, he isn’t willing to insult Wilbur, especially not while they’re… bonding? Is using your foster father’s money without his knowledge bonding?

Tommy gently smiles. He hopes this is bonding. He really does like Wilbur, and if Wilbur likes him, maybe he’ll stay.

“Thanks.” Tommy directs his smile up at Wilbur, who returns it.

Wilbur raises his hand for Tommy to hold. “Let’s go find Phil- We still have to sneak them in the cart.”

After a moment, Tommy takes Wilbur’s offer, making the man beam.

Wilbur begins to step forward, pulling Tommy along. “Did you want-“

They both flinch at a loud crack, and Tommy jumps closer, dropping the box with a nervous cheep.

Just as quickly, Tommy snaps his mouth shut, throwing himself as many threats as it takes to get the bird noises to shut up.

(Humans don’t like to deal with bird noises, people don’t like to deal with Tommy. How hard is it to shut up, don’t be weird, don’t act like an animal, and use his words. Wilbur doesn’t even understand him, and what is he trying to say? That he’s scared? Of a little noise? God, he really is just an animal. Untamed and feral. Maybe he should be treated like one. Maybe they should kick him to the side of the road with all the other rats.)

Wilbur is quick to console Tommy, despite being startled himself. “It’s okay, Toms, just a noise-“

Another louder crash, and Tommy hardly sees one of the aisles collapse in on itself before he’s buried his face in Wilbur’s chest.

His heart is thumping like he’s running a marathon, and all but his legs are wrapped around Wilbur. Shaking and uncontrollably chirping, Tommy still doesn’t think he’s felt safer in his life than in Wilbur’s arms.

And Wilbur is hugging Tommy back, rubbing above his wings and whispering, “It’s fine, no one was hurt. It only fell, dear. I’ve got you.”

Tommy can’t totally understand the words, not when his mind is a jumble of fear and adrenaline. He’s all instincts now, but he knows that Wilbur is protecting him and Wilbur will keep him safe. Tommy can’t even fight his birdbrain when Wilbur’s name is replaced by the title, dad.

“Tommy, can you look at me?”

Something about that clicks in Tommy’s mind. His arms slacken, his head tilts up, and he meets Wilbur’s gaze.

Deep brown eyes study him in concern. “You’re okay, yeah?”

Tommy nods, but blushes when he tries to pull himself away from Wilbur. Soft yellow wings are locked around the man, and Tommy just about stumbles back trying to tug himself away from Wilbur.

When he does, though, an ear piercing avian screech leaps out of his throat like a fire alarm, turning all eyes on him.

Tommy covers his mouth as his eyes water. He’s not daft- pugnaciously stupid, but not ignorant. He knows what he’s done.

Wilbur’s eyes, though, are full of concern. “Are you sure you’re-“

“Doesn’t your friend here know not to do that shit in public?”

Wilbur turns to the human just a few feet away who’s angrily (and rather dramatically) rubbing his ears.

Tommy's about to apologize, but Wilbur’s already pushing up his sleeves, narrowing his eyes on the guy. “Don’t talk about my brother like that, asshole.”

The guy looks between them, especially focusing on Tommy’s wings. They tightly fold behind Tommy’s back under the scrutinizing eyes.

“I don’t see the family resemblance, unless disturbin’ the public counts,” The man sneers.

“I’ll give you a disturbance in your face if you keep-“

“Wilbur!”

Wilbur whips around, suddenly looking much less like he was about to fight a grown man-

“What are you doing?” Phil shouts.

-And more like a kid caught breaking the rules.

Wilbur turns to the guy, but he’d already turned tail and ran. “There was someone insulting Tommy-“

Phil peers at Wilbur, meeting the two with an overflowing cart and a trailing Techno. Partially absorbed by his own conflicting morals, Phil says, “You shouldn’t pick fights...”

“Unless you can win them,” Techno adds.

Phil doesn’t disagree.

Wilbur mutters angrily to himself, stomping forward to meet them and nonchalantly dumping his candy into the cart.

Tommy, however, is frozen in place, staring slack jawed and with little tremors shaking his body. Without Wilbur beside him, he feels frozen. Like it’s not safe to move.

“Hey, Tom?”

Tommy jumps back when Phil’s hands land on his shoulders. He doesn’t even remember Phil walking up to him.

“Woah- hey, what’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing-“ Tommy stammers, and Phil stifles a subtle laugh with a kind smile.

“It’s clearly not nothing, mate.”

Tommy’s eyes land on Wilbur, the brunette who’s watching Tommy with trepidation and wide eyes.

Phil’s eyes follow Tommy’s, also focusing on an oddly guilty looking Wilbur.

“A shelf broke,” Wilbur blurts out, “It was loud.”

With an understanding hum, Phil turns back to Tommy. “Yeah, we heard it too. You’re alright?”

Tommy can see it in Phil’s eyes, there’s a sense of urgency in his voice, or something close to frantic worry. He has to have heard Tommy call, unmistakably loud and fledgling-like, yet he’s choosing not to say a word. Phil must know what Tommy’s done, though he doesn’t seem mad. Silence for the sake of Tommy’s own embarrassment, or to avoid the topic? To deny Tommy of his lineage or for a chance of redemption?

No, a hybrid couldn’t do that to another. Right?

“I’m fine,” Tommy whispers.

With a final look, Phil frees Tommy of his prying eyes. “Okay, let’s go to checkout, then.”

And just like that, Tommy follows behind his foster family, swallowing peeps and chirps with his wings pressed against his back. Wilbur is in front of him, close enough to jump forward and cling to, but Tommy is far from Wilbur’s responsibility. Tommy is a half grown person who’s more than his instincts.

It doesn’t matter if he imprinted- there must be some way to reverse this.

He isn’t losing this house because he confused a friend for a brother, and a brother for a dad.

He doesn’t even like Wilbur all that much. A friend, but only because they were friendly- Not at all like a dad, and yet his stupid brain was pushing him to float closer to Wilbur, to hold onto him. Wilbur will keep him safe, it’s convinced, and Tommy can’t begin to explain how deranged that is.

Fourteen years old, and Tommy imprinted. Not only that, but onto his foster brother only five years older than himself. His human foster brother. Obviously, instincts are illogical, but they at least have some sense of regularity- and this? This is… unheard of.

Something’s wrong with Tommy. Seriously, wrong.

To imprint at fourteen would be odd enough, but it couldn’t have been on Phil? Or even a damn stranger?

Tommy’s screwed. Completely screwed.

He has to fix this, he has to create a polar image of the man that disproves his brain’s perception just enough to detach from this irrational idea.

(But could he ever get Wilbur to hurt him?)

Tommy’s heart skips a beat and he bites his finger to stop another bird call. It looks like a nervous habit to anyone watching.

Tommy is far from fucking nervous.

There’s not a cell in his body that isn’t hot with panic, a muscle that isn’t shaking and a thought that isn’t devoted to formulating a plan on how to fix himself.

The worst part is that there are three forces at work, tugging at his motivation simultaneously.

The drunken avian side he very consciously ignores screams that Wilbur will protect him from anything. His own survival instincts remind him that Wilbur is a human, heartless and void of compassion for that which is lesser, that being Tommy. And finally, who Tommy identifies with the most, his rationale is trying to keep those two sides in check whilst also managing normalcy and devising a plan.

Tommy just needs to listen to that rational side. The one that doesn’t react or feel, but thinks and considers and doesn’t fuck everything up. It wasn’t his rationale that made him instinctively attached, nor did it make him fear a damn loud noise in the first place.

Tommy bites his lip, forcing himself to stare at the floor. He keeps turning back to Wilbur, drawn to watch the man like he was a magnet.

This is entirely unacceptable. He doesn’t need to be booted off to another home to know that.

(And he thinks it’d crush him, to leave Wilbur.)

For now, Tommy can start small- just don’t look at Wilbur like he’ll die without him.

Easy enough.

If Phil already knows, if he’s deciphered Tommy’s hellish screech and body language, then his avoidance must be an offering. A chance to better himself, and Phil will continue to pretend like nothing happened.

Tommy won’t let Phil down. He can fix this. He has to.

-•-

As soon as they’d gotten home after an uneasy car ride (Phil continuously glanced at Tommy throughout as if the kid was a ticking time bomb), Tommy had beelined for his room, muttering something about studying and exams.

He was left alone until dinner time.

A sharp knock at his door, and Tommy almost jumps out of his skin.

A few minutes later and after many rounds of controlled breathing, Tommy joins his foster family in the dining room. His movements are carefully thought out, his wings especially- it’s difficult to control them, but Phil would be able to tell the subtleties. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Wilbur and Techno weren’t totally oblivious either.

Tommy sits down at the opposite end from Wilbur (which he realizes might be a mistake, because every time he lifts his head his eyes lock on the man) and receives a raised eyebrow from Techno. This isn’t Tommy’s normal spot.

Tommy tries his best to keep his head down, shoulders slumped and his posture as (terribly) relaxed as ever, but it feels like he’s breaking his bones to do so. His wings hurt with how stiff he’s trying to keep them.

There’s light conversation between the other three, but Tommy can hardly hear anything unless it’s Wilbur saying it. So, Tommy elects to keep his head down, his focus on picking at his food.

When Techno taps beside Tommy’s plate, catching the boy’s attention, Tommy snaps up with a flinch. No one mentions it.

“Are you okay?” Techno asks, giving Tommy a rather judging stare.

“Just tired, big man.” Tommy gives a light smile, and before he knows it, he turns the smile to Wilbur.

Wilbur frowns in confusion, opening his mouth to speak, but Phil beats him to it. “Are you sure?”

Tommy shrugs. “Stressed about a test tomorrow. I’m fine, really.”

(Truthfully, he doesn't want to crawl over the table like he belongs in a horror flick just to be closer to Wilbur.)

This is easy enough, Tommy thinks as he tears his eyes away from the brunette once more. His heart is racing and he’s given up on relaxing his wings, letting them flatten on his back, but besides that, he’s doing fine!

Surely this won’t be that difficult. For the sake of staying somewhere safe, Tommy can manage a little self inflicted discomfort.

-•-

A new problem makes itself known when Tommy tries to crawl into bed.

Apparently, he can’t sleep without Wilbur.

His bed has been twisted into a rather limp looking nest, blankets, pillows, and especially soft clothing added to the bedding and outside, yet it wasn’t enough. It’s an empty nest, and something in Tommy says that an empty nest is as good as no nest at all.

Angrily peeling it apart and making his bed the human way, Tommy ignores his birdbrain. He doesn’t even know why he tried to make a nest tonight in the first place as if that would help him repress these destructive thoughts.

Still, Tommy stubbornly shuts his eyes and curls up under the covers. There’s a chill that settles in his bones and rattles his soul, shaking him awake. It must be the winter weather settling in.

Tommy will have to sleep sometime, with or without Wilbur. It’s not as though his stupid bird instincts are powerful enough to keep him awake forever.

-•-

It’s seven in the morning.

His stupid bird instincts were, in fact, strong enough to keep him awake for what feels like the beginning of forever.

Tommy doesn’t want to get out of bed. He’s thoroughly exhausted, yet he can’t rest anywhere that his brain doesn’t declare to be safe.

But, since sharing a bed with his foster brother is very much not an option, Tommy settles on venturing to the kitchen for a snack, instead. Food helps you sleep, right?

He peels himself out of bed and drags his legs forward until he’s ended up in the kitchen, staring at the inside of the fridge with not a thought passing through his head.

God, he’s tired.

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he’s slept, now that he thinks about it. It feels like much, much more time has passed. He’s furious and he’s tired and he’s so weirdly cold- he can’t stop randomly shivering, but he checked the thermometer in the house. At a warm seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit (twenty two Celsius), Tommy is shivering.

He needs sleep.

Or… food. Yeah.

Tommy plucks a container of jello out of the fridge, turning to the counter to open it while the fridge door quietly closes behind him. Slumping over the counter, he holds the cool plastic in his trembling hand.

For the minutes he stands there, he mostly stares at the jello. It takes him a moment to register the fact that he needs to open it to eat it, and his eyes certainly can’t do that.

Tommy’s not even really hungry.

After laying in his bed in a torturous half sleep for almost ten fucking hours, Tommy’s not even hungry.

Maybe he’s sick? He must be sick. Sick and sleep deprived, probably something to do with the weather. People get sick when it’s cold, right?

Without ever opening the jello container (and forgetting to put it back in the refrigerator), Tommy raises himself up from the counter and stumbles out of the kitchen before ramming right into a new wall.

Wilbur steps back, almost grabbing Tommy’s shoulders. “Oh, shit, sorry-“

Wilbur doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, and Tommy doesn’t consciously register that the wall is Wilbur before he lets out a series of chirps.

With a wide eyed stare, Tommy gapes at Wilbur like the man has a second head. Wilbur only looks confused.

Tommy doesn’t know what he’s just conveyed in bird-word, but he chirped loud enough for the whole house to hear, including Phil.

“Are you alri-?”

Tommy pushes past Wilbur (resolutely not grabbing the man’s arm when he does) and down the hall, straight for the nearest open door (which happens to be the bathroom) where he firmly locks the door. No one will come in, he’s certain, but more importantly, Tommy needs to stay in.

But, Tommy was right. This will be easy.

Another chirp bubbles up, and Tommy bunches up the bottom of his nightshirt, stuffing it in his mouth to stifle the high noise.

As long as he doesn’t see Wilbur, this’ll be a piece of cake.

Wilbur, who lives in the same house as him, who he spends meals with, who drives him home after school on Fridays and- oh shit, this won’t be easy. It will be fucking impossible.

Literally impossible- without any smidgen of a chance for that damning word to be a hyperbole.

Another ear piercing chirp, and Tommy moves to sit on the cool tile, shivering when he makes contact. It’s as if the world has been carved from ice and Tommy missed the memo. He curls up with his arms around his knees, trying to preserve some warmth, and a hand over his mouth.

Tommy doesn’t want to leave this house. He doesn’t. He- he loves it here. He doesn’t know if he loves the people, but he knows he can trust them not to hurt him, and that feels closer to love than anything he’s felt before.

This time when he does a bird call, it’s not quick and sharp. It’s long and whining, and Tommy’s seen enough of the nature channel to know what a despaired bird sounds like. (At least he’s stopped begging for Wilbur, now he’s only heartbroken that Wilbur’s gone.)

He’s heard Phil chirp and call before, but he knows he’s not the same. He’s special in the worst way, because no matter what scenario he’s thrown into, he’s always lucky enough to receive the worst, most unreliable standards. Even if he follows them, he always seems to get punished.

He’s trying, but if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do. Avoid Wilbur just long enough for the imprinting to fade? Is that even possible?

His vision blurs with tears. The tile of the bathroom floor is cold. The bathroom feels colder than the rest of the house, the walls covered in sterile white and washed in muted blues. Tommy feels like he’s freezing, but it’s seventy two degrees.

Why is he so damn cold?

A knock on the door makes Tommy jump with a sharp inhale.

Out of the four of them, there were two bathrooms on opposite ends of the house. Tommy had chosen (ran for the nearest open door) the much more frequented one, but it couldn’t kill them to walk those thirty feet, right?

“Uh- Occupied!” Tommy shouts.

“Okay,” Techno replies, “I want my hairbrush.”

Techno will absolutely not leave the house without his hair brushed (as opposed to the far superior, more elegant ‘I woke up like this’ style that Tommy adorns) and Tommy internally screams his frustration.

“I’m- it’s pretty bad in here!” Tommy’s voice cracks and he cringes. “Like- mustard gas, man!”

Okay, details may have been unnecessary, but he’s panicking and it isn’t even true so it doesn’t really count as oversharing-

There’s a pause after Tommy speaks, and he thinks he just might’ve warded off the Techno. But, just when he thinks he’s safe:

“Are you crying?” It’s said with an emphasis of bafflement- not judgment.

Regardless, Tommy is going to bash his head into the tile. “Like I said, pretty intense! I think I handicapped the toilet-“

Almost too soft for Tommy to hear over his rambling, Techno gently interrupts him with a sigh. “Can you let me in, kid?”

“…Are- are you sure?” Tommy hiccups halfway through his sentence, really selling the fact that he’s totally not crying.

“Assuming that there’s no threat of mustard gas.”

“…No,” Tommy says under his breath.

Tommy’s always had a problem with vulnerability. Well, not always. One could argue it started when his parents gave him up when he was too young to remember. Maybe it began when he was pushed around group homes, treated like scum over something he wished he could change, too.

He has a problem with vulnerability, but isn’t it already too late? Techno knows Tommy’s crying, and that’s half the battle. Of course, everyone knows Tommy cries, but it’s different to see it, to know it with all its messy tears and fruitless blubbering. It’s different to know what makes them cry.

If Tommy’s leaving this house tomorrow, he’d like comfort while he can still take it.

After tense deliberation, Tommy leans forward, flipping the lock. A few moments later, Techno silently slips through and closes the door behind him.

When he sets his eyes on Tommy, slumped and shivering on the floor with his wings spread over the tile and tears on his cheeks, Tommy thinks Techno almost looks disgusted- But Tommy corrects his assumption. It’s some kind of painful sympathy he’s seeing, one Tommy’s not used to receiving.

Techno squats down in front of Tommy, dipping his head to meet Tommy’s eyes. “Wanna tell me why you’re cryin’?”

Tommy shakes his head, burying his face in the crook of his arms.

This is possibly the last time that Techno will ever see him cry.

And it’s over this.

After a bit of shuffling, Tommy sees that Techno has joined him on the floor. “Wilbur said-“

Tommy covers his mouth just in time to keep the chirp in, but it’s still very audible within the walls of the restroom.

Evidently, Wilbur can’t even be mentioned without Tommy’s head going into overdrive.

Techno looks Tommy up and down, a frown forming. “You shouldn’t do that.”

Tommy curls back up, laying his chin on his arms to better see Techno. “Do what?”

“Hold back your instincts.”

Tommy shrugs. “It’s never hurt me before.”

“Phil says you imprinted.”

As Tommy’s wings begin to tremble where they’re held against his back, wide blue eyes meeting Techno’s.

Tommy never said a thing, but Phil knows.

“What?” One shaky word, and now Techno is certain.

Techno gently continues, “He said he didn’t know who, though, but he knows. Bird sense or something.”

Tommy hiccups another sob, grimacing when it’s loud and raspy. The bird calls have been tearing at his throat, and it hurts to cry.

In the same voice he used to get Tommy to open the door, Techno whispers, “You didn’t want to imprint, did you?”

If Tommy crying on the bathroom floor isn’t an obvious giveaway, he doesn’t know what is. Tommy slowly shakes his head, his eyes squeezed closed.

Tommy hears Techno let out a soft exhale. Another, subtle demonstration of sympathy, whether Techno intended it or not. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

Tommy looks up, furrowing his eyebrows. “What?”

“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” Techno repeats, “You know dad loves you.”

Tommy’s mouth parts in raw shock.

“Oh,” Techno blurts out. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

Tommy stares at the tile. He can’t care to process whatever is behind Techno’s expression.

Good kids don’t behave like animals, that’s the one dependable rule Tommy has learned. Whether it be calls or nests or simply stretching his wings, in every human house, it’s been too much. Tommy’s conditioned himself to be a good kid, one that foster parents want to adopt, yet it seems to be a perpetually raising standard he’s expected to achieve.

He still doesn’t know where that standard lies here. Phil is a bird hybrid, and he behaves like one, but what about Tommy? If Phil really does love Tommy, it wouldn’t matter to him, right? Phil was never upset by Tommy’s bird habits before, even when Tommy took the fleece blanket from the couch for his own nest.

Tommy can almost believe that in a house full of hybrids, it was okay to be one.

Unfortunately, Techno seems to have the wrong idea.

The right idea, if Tommy didn’t have some mixture of terrible luck and a lobotomized birdbrain.

The human is why Tommy worries. Phil might not mind Tommy, but Wilbur? Wilbur, who’s perfectly human, who doesn’t expect weird behavior and most certainly does not want to engage in or encourage it.

When Tommy acts like an annoying, loud, wild animal- when Tommy acts like himself, where will Wilbur’s compassion go?

“I’m fine, Tech, really,” Tommy says. He’s not trying to convince Techno anymore, he’s trying to get him away. “I’ve been doing this for years.”

“There’s symptoms,” Techno points out. “It affects you, even if you don’t believe it.”

“Then let it.” Tommy lays his head in his arms.

Techno sighs. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

After a weak, “Piss off,” Tommy hears Techno stand up to leave.

“But- Phil does love you. And I think I speak for Wilbur when I say… uh… yeah,” Techno pauses and clears his throat. “You’re alright.”

Tommy can’t help but laugh through his tears. A burning ‘I love you, too,’ bubbles up, but he keeps it in his chest.

It’ll hurt less, when he’s inevitably sent away.

Techno does end up taking his brush and locking the door before he leaves.

Tommy’s tears eventually dry, and he learns to breathe again.

He hears the front door open and close twice, and since Phil takes Tommy to school, Phil is presumably the only one left in the house.

Gathering his bearings and standing on shaking legs, Tommy catches himself in the mirror.

In whole, it’s not a pretty sight.

Tommy’s never had many feathers- something about stress making him lose them, and the ones he did have weren’t well kept. They had gaps, or ‘stress bars’ running all through them, and the canary yellow they should be is closer to a muddy tan, and the white feathers are gray. Ruffled and unkept, uncared for.

To be entirely frank, they look ugly.

Tommy hasn’t dared to touch his wings since the supermarket, and before then, well… he’s never been the best about taking care of them. It’s his own personal way of rejecting his anatomy, ignoring it until it becomes its own form of self destruction.

At least the rest of Tommy looks presentable.

His eyes, albeit a little red and puffy, aren’t full of tears, and his face, though flushed, is able to force into a smile.

He can look happy and presentable, and that’s enough.

Tommy leaves the bathroom and sees Phil waiting for him in the foyer. He pointedly avoids Phil’s nosy glances, turning to his room to change out of his pajamas and into something fitting for school.

It’s quiet in the house, and Tommy’s skin crawls as he slips into his clothes. Nothing seems to fit right on his skin, it’s all so cold and scratchy, not to mention the creeping feeling sending shivers down his spine.

His gut sense tells him that at every turn, every corner, there’s something waiting in the shadows, that he needs to wait for Wilbur to proceed.

Tommy obviously does not follow his gut instinct. It’s as stupid as the rest of his birdbrain. He resorts to pushing through the irrational fear and meeting Phil in the living room, who’s noticeably staring at Tommy’s wings.

“You alright?” Phil asks, but it’s clear he too knows the answer.

“Yup,” Tommy doesn’t meet Phil’s eyes. He doesn’t even look in his direction. Every other home might’ve lectured him for his rudeness, or even slapped him for it, but Phil just hums uneasily.

“If you’re sure.”

-•-

The ride to school was silent besides Phil’s prying eyes. Tommy knows his wings look shittier than usual, and that he does legitimately look sick- and feel it- but Phil seems to want Tommy to… do something about it. Say something.

Tommy doesn’t know what. An unhelpful voice whispers that Phil is silently commanding Tommy to ‘fix it, or else,’ but Tommy’s trying to believe that Techno wasn’t joking.

Tommy lays his head down for every class, never sleeping, only resting. It’s a battle just getting his eyes to close when there’s apparently ‘danger afoot.’

Besides a few sympathetic glances from teachers and peers, he’s left well enough alone to wallow and mope. Whatever he was supposed to have learned is simply white noise for his tired brain.

During lunch, the loud cafeteria and barking laughter of his friends is the same, monotonous drone. It’s all the same, and yet paranoia creeps up his spine and sleep pulls on his body.

To add to Tommy’s cheerful mood, it’s Friday, and on Fridays, Wilbur gets off work early. Their usual routine would be Wilbur picking Tommy up from school, taking the two of them to some crappy diner that suspects as a drug center, blowing off steam and just… hanging. Tommy loves Fridays, usually.

And of course, usually, Tommy hasn’t imprinted on a fucking human.

So, when Wilbur’s car pulls up to the lot, Tommy hikes his bag up his shoulders and tries not to look too disgruntled.

“Hey, Toms!” Wilbur leans into the back as Tommy throws his bag in the backseat and gets himself situated. Tommy usually sits in the front next to Wilbur, knocking elbows on the console. But, for some truly lovely reason, Wilbur doesn’t mention the seating change.

Maybe he knows.

Wilbur tries to lean into Tommy’s view, at least to get a laugh out of Tommy. “So, I was thinking, we could go to this new place that just opened up?”

Tommy keeps his eyes on the floor and his hands in his lap. His wings are shaking, he can practically hear the feathers rustle.

How couldn’t he know?

Wilbur turns back to the wheel, driving out of the lot. “Er- well, it didn’t just open up- it was closed for a while because someone got murdered in the parking lot or something, I don’t know, its irrelevant-“

“Can we go home?” Tommy’s voice squeaks and he cringes, but Wilbur goes silent. “If that’s alright?”

“Yeah, um…” Wilbur trails off before sighing. “Is everything okay? I mean, I was talking to Phil, and he said-“

“Fine,” Tommy blurts out. “I just wanna go home.”

It sounds like he’s crying when he’s not, and if it weren’t for the seat belt tying him down, he’d happily dive into oncoming traffic.

Wilbur breaks the silence again. “You know you can talk to me, right?” At the stoplight, Tommy can see in his peripheral that Wilbur leans over the console to look at Tommy again. “I mean anything. Even if you don’t think I’ll understand-“

“I just haven’t preened in a while,” Tommy whispers, “Please stop.”

If Wilbur continues, if he leans more into Tommy’s space or, god, touches him, Tommy doesn’t know how he won’t collapse then and there. Fall on his foster brother like Wilbur’s his dad, and like he’s not just a human guy Tommy is on friendly terms with.

So much for trying to make friends with his foster placements.

Wilbur is generous, and the rest of the ride is silent, leaving Tommy alone to wonder what he’ll have to pack.

When they arrive home, Tommy’s still in his own head, moving on autopilot as he follows Wilbur into the house. He watches his shoes as he walks, and when Wilbur stops in front of him, Tommy doesn’t think about copying the action before he does.

“Toms?”

Tommy wearily looks up, but his eyes only get to Wilbur’s shoulder. That, and with Tommy basically breathing down Wilbur’s neck, there’s not much else he can see besides the man’s shoulder.

“Sorry-“ Tommy rushes out before maneuvering around Wilbur and into the open front door of the house.

He goes straight to his room, locks his door, flops on his bed and ignores the aching in his chest. If he focuses too much on it, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to breathe.

He doesn’t know if it’s his heart trying to strangle itself or his lungs trying to give him the easy way out. Either way, it hurts and with his nausea and headache it feels like too much to feel.

He wants medicine, but he can’t pull himself up to grab it. He wants to be warm, but something is wrong with these blankets. He wants Wilbur, but Wilbur is a human, and Tommy’s lucky if all he did was laugh at the idea.

-•-

Hours later, Phil knocks on Tommy’s door, offering dinner. Tommy denies. Phil insists, and Tommy still denies. He mumbles something about being tired and eating later, and only one of which is an honest truth.

Tommy wonders how much longer he’ll have to feel like this before it kills him. There’s not a doubt in his mind that if he can’t sleep, if he can’t eat, and if every ache of his bones and twist of his stomach persists, he’ll be dead by tomorrow.

No pitiful nest will help him, now. Nothing he can do is working. Logically, he knows he’s only sick, but without a remedy, the sickness is debilitating. It feels like it’s killing him from the inside.

And all he can think about is how much better he’d feel if Wilbur were here, as if he’s some magical cure and not, again, some fucking guy.

-•-

Tommy wonders if he pretends to sleep through the knocking, if it’ll ever go away.

With every deafening pound, he thinks not, and resorts to dragging himself out of bed and to his door.

His hand hovers over the knob, hesitating.

If it’s Techno, Tommy will probably just cry all over again. If it’s Phil, he could be here to tell Tommy to start packing, and if it’s Wilbur, well if it’s Wilbur…

Tommy swings open the door.

“I just want to talk.” Wilbur looks sympathetic, like Tommy’s a kicked puppy and not an overbearing teen-child.

(If it’s Wilbur, Tommy’s screwed.)

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tommy replies, much too harsh when Wilbur only seems genuine.

Tommy would like to know where that genuinity goes when he starts acting like himself.

“Please? I’m-“ Wilbur sighs, and continues in a low voice. “I’m worried about you. Phil said some stuff and I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Some stuff- so Wilbur definitely knows, and he definitely thinks it’s Phil that’s the lucky fellow.

Tommy needs to start packing.

“I know you haven’t eaten dinner,” Wilbur continues, “Can… Can I make you something?”

The knot in Tommy’s stomach loosens at the idea, and he almost relaxes.

Wilbur and him, sharing a meal, one that Wilbur procured. So simple, but why did it feel like so much?

Too much- “No. I’m not hungry.”

Wilbur clearly doesn’t believe Tommy. “Can I come in?”

Tommy does a full body freeze.

To have Wilbur, his dad, for lack of a better word, in his room? By his nest?

Tommy knows his wings are shaking, but he can’t even form a reply. A coo bubbles up as if that’s going to be his response, and Tommy slaps a hand over his mouth.

Wilbur raises his eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

Tommy nods, coughing out whatever bird noise had tried to claw itself out of his throat. He tries to play it off, waving a dismissive hand like it happens all the time. “It’s a bird thing.”

By the look on Wilbur’s face, that was not the right thing to say.

“Okay.” Wilbur waits, but Tommy’s done.

“You can leave-“

“What?”

“It’s okay, just stupid bird stuff. I’m fine.” Tommy rambles, feeling the pressure of Wilbur’s withering stare. It’s not meant to be intimidating, but when Tommy’s odd affinity for how warm it seems is at the forefront of his mind, it’s a threat.

Wilbur, Tommy realizes, is a threat to Tommy’s safety and stability- but also seems to hold it in the palm of his hands.

“It's a you thing too, right?” Wilbur gently asks, leaning into Tommy’s space.

Tommy takes a step back to avoid Wilbur, but unfortunately, it looks like he’s just invited Wilbur into his room.

Into his nest.

Tommy can’t stop the call this time, but it’s not as loud as they were this morning. If anything, this one sounds content.

Still, it catches Wilbur’s attention, who’s now expectantly watching Tommy.

(And, some part of Tommy knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. This wasn’t a way to live, sick and imprinted and without a parent of any kind. Tommy wasn’t made to be alone, and how he crumbles when he is.)

It’s too late.

Like with Techno, Tommy takes his opportunity to steal comfort while it’s there, before it’s earned or hostile or condescending. He can at least trust Wilbur to be genuine.

…He supposes he does trust a human after all.

Tommy closes the door, but he stays where he is, a healthy distance from Wilbur who’s in the middle of his room. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to hold back any closer than this.

He could say he’s only sick. He wants to, just to keep this house, but Wilbur knows the truth. It seems he’s backed himself into a corner, and the only way out is to be honest and accept whatever new placement he’ll get.

Tommy really did like this house. He thought it’d be different, that he could be different, but he still makes the same mistakes.

“I think I messed up,” Tommy starts. “No- I did. I did mess up. Not on purpose, I mean, but-“

Tommy’s rambling.

He needs to cut it clean and quick, like a bandaid.

“Yeah, I messed up.” Tommy can’t keep eye contact, and his gaze falls to the floor. With puffy wings and a shaking voice, he utters, “And now my brain thinks you’re my dad.”

There. There it is. The bomb that’s been waiting to detonate.

There’s relief in knowing it’s finally allowed to explode. No more nervous waiting and hoping for a different fate. It’s hit the ground, and now Tommy can sit back and watch with the weight of disappointment knowing that after so much fighting, he’s finally failed.

But, when Tommy looks up, Wilbur is smiling. He almost looks like he’s suppressing a laugh.

Of course, Tommy isn’t being hit or yelled at, but to be laughed at hurts. It’s the same kind of betrayal. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “Please don’t laugh-“

Wilbur completely sobers. “No, no, I’m not laughing, I’m just surprised- Can I hug you?”

The air is squeezed out of Tommy’s chest. It’s said so simply, like the punchline to a well delivered joke. Which begs the question, “You’re joking?”

“I’m not. Can I?” Wilbur asks, raising his arms.

Tommy feels his wings puff up and his eyes widen. Pitifully, he whispers, “Really?”

Wilbur chuckles, a little confused.“Really.”

Tommy doesn’t move at all. He’s pulled to Wilbur, and his legs stumble to keep up before he slams into the man. He knows he’s knocked the wind of Wilbur from the gasp above and the way Wilbur struggles to keep them standing. Tommy isn’t much help. His wings add an odd, unbalanced weight where they wrap around Wilbur, effectively giving the man a double hug- one with his arms, and one with his wings. One from his head, and one from his heart.

Tommy could stand there for hours. He’s exhausted, still, but it’s like he’s been given some miracle cure, and suddenly his body is content and healthy. No headache, no stomach pain, no whisperings of danger, and the tightness in his chest is unraveling.

Where the world is constructed from ice and frost, Wilbur is the only thing left with the warmth of life. It’s as if the chilly air doesn’t exist when he’s with Wilbur.

It all… melts.

He feels like a mess of knots being carefully undone, one after the other by gentle hands. Never pulling too hard or moving too fast. Gentle hands like the one on his back and the other around his shoulders, gentle like the man curling over Tommy, leaning his head onto the blonde’s, even if his hair was unwashed and knotted.

Here, he feels organized. The chaos in his mind and body has stilled, quieted into something peaceful, blissful after these hectic past few days, and Tommy only wants to revel in the sensation.

Peace, and quiet.

And then the cooing starts.

Not coos of adoration from Wilbur, no- avian coos relentlessly spilling from his mouth like vomit, spoiling the air, loud and obnoxious.

“I’m sorry.” There’s tears falling from his eyes, landing on Wilbur’s chest. They tinge the back of his throat hoarse as he blubbers, “I don’t mean to, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose, I sw-“

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur shushes, “I’m not mad- it’s a surprise, certainly, but not unwelcome.”

Tommy gets out a few more disgusting sobs into Wilbur’s shirt, asking, “What?”

“Well, you’re- you’re family, Toms, and I like being your family.”

Tommy doesn’t cry at that. He breathes, he mulls over the idea like he’s tasting it, looking at it inside and out. A joke? A ploy? A game? None ring true, but how could honesty be the only remainder?

If it was, it’d be like a dream.

It already feels like a dream come true, being warm after so many nights hopelessly spent with clattering teeth.

Tommy decides to cry a bit more, only because it’s nice to have a shirt to wet that’s not his own.

Tommy chokes on his words. “That’s really nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Wilbur's smile is heard in his voice.

Wilbur just hugs Tommy like it’s easy, and like he wants to be there.

It doesn’t feel real. After dreaming and hoping for something for so long, and finally receiving this idealized experience, how is Tommy meant to believe it? That it’s simply handed to him, that it could ever be real?

Dreams don't come true. Only nightmares do, and so could this be a nightmare, waiting for the twist?

When hope, for the first time ever, doesn’t lead to disappointment, pain and betrayal, what is Tommy meant to feel?

How does he accept that reality is forgiving when he’s learned to live with the opposite?

It doesn’t feel real. Not at all. If it is a dream, it’s one Tommy is determined to stay inside forever, or at least until his brain fails and the dream ends. He thinks he could do that.

He’s waiting for the shoe to drop and for Wilbur to laugh, reveal the curtain and slap Tommy on the back before they send him off. He’s waiting for Wilbur to admit he’s only being nice because Tommy’s not going to be around for much longer.

In the minutes it must be where Tommy just cries into Wilbur’s chest, none of that happens. A few consoling words are whispered, and even once, Wilbur apologizes.

“I know, I’m sorry, sunshine.” The man mutters, and Tommy looks up in confusion.

“What?” Tommy’s voice cracks while wiping his tears away on his own shoulder to better see Wilbur. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because you’re so scared, Toms. I wish you weren’t scared of just- telling me.” Wilbur gives Tommy a squeeze, bringing the boy's head back to his chest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother, that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me.”

Tommy sniffles, asking a muffled, “So… I’m not gonna be sent away?”

“No, no! What? No?” Wilbur exclaims, hugging Tommy tighter. “No, not if I have something to say about it.”

Without Tommy’s consent (he’s a minor, too), a low coo escapes his mouth. He knows why, he felt it too- that warm, fire in his chest that confirms Wilbur as his. His caregiver, provider, protector, or just his dad.

Wilbur’s just his older brother, but he’s also so much more.

He’s a promise, and in this very moment, he’s keeping it.

“I love you,” Tommy murmurs. Tommy thinks that’s the first time he’s said it.

“I love you too.” But it’s not the first time Wilbur has.

Tommy takes in deep breaths, one after the other, following in sync with Wilbur.

Once Tommy’s tears become only sticky remnants, Wilbur asks, “What can I do to help you?”

“Uh-“ A question Tommy did not expect, nor felt equipped to answer. “-I don’t know, this hasn’t happened before.”

“Don’t you imprint on your parents?” Wilbur queries.

“I don’t remember that,” Tommy quietly replies.

Wilbur, a fellow foster kid, doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t much to say. He could apologize, but Tommy already knows Wilbur is sorry. Everyone’s sorry, but no one seems to want to fix it.

“What do you want, Tommy?”

He knows exactly what he wants. He has since last night.

“To go to bed.”

Wilbur barks out a soft laugh, but leads them over to Tommy bed. It’s only when Wilbur tries to back away, that Tommy follows him. Looking down with an expectant gaze, Wilbur squeezes Tommy’s hand in reassurance. The man can probably see the unease on Tommy’s face.

“But, can… can you just stay here? While I sleep?”

Wilbur frowns, looking back at the bed and to Tommy again. “That’s it?”

Wilbur doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t. Tommy is fourteen and asking his nineteen year old foster brother, not even his real brother, to share his bed, and why? It sounds like he’s an idiotic child, afraid of the dark. Truthfully, Tommy doesn’t know what the hell he’s afraid of, but anytime Wilbur isn’t around, everything seems all the more terrifying.

He’s not a baby, he’s not even a fledgling, and yet he acts with the maturity of one and demands the respect due to a teenager.

A human would never understand. Tommy would be surprised if Phil even fully did.

It just seems he’s on this constant search for honest consolation from a place that sees him, that doesn’t love him out of pity or obligation but out of true emotion and adoration.

Every day, that seems more unachievable. With every person he lets down, that lets him down, it seems more impossible.

“Just for tonight, please,” Tommy begs, and if he weren’t dry of tears, his eyes would water. “I’m really tired, and I can’t sleep with-“

“No, yeah, it’s fine,“ Wilbur quickly assures with a sympathetic smile. “I just expected more, like, bird stuff.” He gives an awkward chuckle.

Tommy doesn’t really know what Wilbur means, but he’s being pulled to his bed and sat down on his nest. His eyes droop and his shoulders sag, and he begins pulling the covers up.

Then Wilbur delicately crawls in right beside Tommy, avoiding the edge of the nest. Someone taught him avian etiquette.

Wilbur, inside Tommy’s nest, careful not to ruin it.

Suddenly, his sad little nest looks a lot more like home.

Tommy looks up at Wilbur with a low, long cheep, absolutely starstruck.

“What?” Wilbur asks, lying down and getting himself comfortable. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

Tommy is still sitting up, staring at Wilbur when the man opens his arms. Beaming at the invitation, Tommy falls back into his brother's arms, and that same peaceful fog enters his mind.

When the tension leaks from his shoulders and the prickle on the back of his neck fades away, he’s left exhausted, but content. The perfect recipe for sleep.

Tommy does a happy trill then reflexively apologizes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, darling, I…” Wilbur trails off in a low voice. He doesn’t sound much more awake than Tommy. “I kinda like hearing that you’re happy.”

Pondering on that, Tommy realizes something.

How many houses, and with how many families, has his happiness been punishable?

Even more, how truly sweet it is that Wilbur likes to hear it. Sleep deprived and comfortable in his brother’s arms, Tommy lets himself believe it for tonight.

For not being a hybrid, Wilbur is very clingy, nearly flopping over Tommy as he hugs him. With Tommy and him chest to chest, it’s not exactly comfortable for Tommy’s wings to be squashed beneath him, but he’ll deal with the aching in the morning.

Right now, he’s got a cuddly brother, and he wants to take full advantage of this, enjoy it to every extent.

When Wilbur, half asleep, shifts even more to use Tommy like a pillow, Tommy instinctively does a little chirp, catching Wilbur’s attention.

Without much of a pause, Wilbur flops onto his back and brings Tommy with him (who squawks in surprise), laying the younger boy over his chest. The second Wilbur has secured Tommy there with a hand over the boy’s back and another on his head, Wilbur promptly passes out.

Tommy doesn’t think it could be more comedic- his head tilted back, cuddling Tommy to his chest like a teddy bear, totally comfortable.

Seeing Wilbur so relaxed was just another reminder that Tommy was safe, too. If Wilbur was okay, Tommy would be okay.

Just before Tommy falls asleep, he gets out a final happy warble- and discovers Wilbur had only been resting.

Gentle, slow fingers move through his hair. Not with the pressure of a massage or the grating of scratching, just moving through his hair methodically, occasionally parting curls where they meet.

It’s a lazy motion, and Tommy has decided he loves it. It’s calm and it’s Wilbur, and Wilbur is everything Tommy needs in this moment.

Tonight, Tommy decides to deal with tomorrow when he wakes up. For now, he takes a much needed rest.