Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilbur is a logical man, despite what one might think due to his persuasion. 

Perhaps this is due to his age—or unage, is it? He’s only been dead a few decades, and with how crazy the ancient assholes act, there’s a chance that’s the reason he’s the only sane person here. Being too old must turn one’s brain to mush.

He likes to think he’ll keep his wits about him as he turns just as outdated as all the others. Surely, he will never be as bad as those two.

It’s not a high bar there. And Wilbur would quite like to extract himself from them, lest whatever it is that makes them insufferable is catching, but, well. 

He is a logical man. And this is why he knows that he can’t snatch a fledgling away from a half-way ancient, and a fully ancient, vampire. Even if it is his fledgling. 

Techno’s unconscious half hold on the two of them nails that in sickeningly.

Apparently, despite his best attempts, Wilbur has tripped his way right into a most unfathomable situation, only right for the worst of vampires. Nothing like this has ever happened to a human before, has it? He’s pretty sure that it hasn’t even happened to most vampires before. Maybe these two, they look way too haughty to be tromping into Wilbur’s apartment while each holding about half of an unconscious body.

Wilbur tries to ignore that he would very much like to also be latched onto a limb or two of the snoring man.

“Over here,” He says instead, kicking away an empty coffee cup that held blood in it… some time ago, and brandishing his hands over the small nest in the middle of his floor.

Phil and Tommy look at it like it’s killed their mom.

“How quaint of a place,” Tommy practically growls, disgust palpable.

“Broke bitch,” Phil mumbles.

“And yet the only bitch with a place near enough to bring their fledgling to, so,” Wilbur grits out.

He makes a move as though to grab the fledgling, earning barred teeth from both of the blonds. Which, okay, razor sharp teeth are nothing new. It truly doesn’t bother Wilbur.

His hindbrain on the other hand kind of makes him want to back off and trip far out of the way of the beings who could literally yank his head off, probably with half a hand flick. Seems about as logical as stepping back from a chainsaw wielding maniac about now.

He stamps down on that impulse by reminding himself that his fledgling is right there, uncomfortable and very much needing to rest somewhere safe.

Shockingly, it keeps his feet planted in place. Huh, that fledgling bond must be something to let him so obviously disobey much stronger vampires.

Makes sense, he’d kind of rather have his head tossed off than let the fledgling out of his line of sight.

When Wilbur reaches out for the turned, Phil twists cleanly away over to the nest, setting him down within. It gets Tommy’s glare off of Wilbur, at least. The primeval teen looks a second from throwing a bloody tantrum.

“This shithole surely counts as neglect. You should get your sire rights revoked for letting a fledgling in here,” Tommy gripes, elbowing Phil aside to sit beside Techno without touching the nest.

With an eye roll, Wilbur takes in the totally average apartment around him. Aside from a few pieces of clothes on the ground and some uncleaned blood receptacles, the place is neat enough. And sure it’s small, but it’s nice for the price!

Not everyone gets riches inherited from their sire.

Speaking of which: Wilbur hurriedly kneels in the nest.

“As we have made clear, it’s quite literally the only safe nest any of us have for him close by. So watch it with neglect,” Wilbur says.

He doesn’t bother looking for a response, since the fledgling seems to have noticed that he’s no longer being lugged around anymore. Techno’s eyebrows push together and his eyelids flutter. Wilbur leans closer, expecting him to wake up once more. Instead, the pink haired man rolls over, shoving his face into the blankets and starting to burrow in.

Three coos pierce the air, before all cutting off very abruptly. Wilbur flickers his eyes towards the others, noticing them doing the same, before they all refocus on the fledgling at the same time. 

Okay, no mentioning that.

Anyway, Techno is far more important. His arms and legs are incredibly uncoordinated, sluggishly pulling on blankets and kicking his feet in deeper. As he’s trying to yank a blanket up, his hand slips free and he smacks himself in the face. Recoiling at the self attack, he nearly opens his eyes again, before simply falling limp.

“A strong warrior in the making,” Tommy praises, patting the pink haired man’s forehead.

As though in response, Techno yawns wide enough to turn his head over. Which means he closes his mouth and gets a bit of cloth from a shirt thrown in the nest at some point stuck in his mouth. Oops.

Wilbur quickly pulls the shirt out of his mouth, ignoring the sound of tearing fibers, and throws it over his shoulder. He would have straightened up if he knew he was bringing a fledgling home!

“Okay, we need to get out of this dump fucking yesterday,” Tommy says. “Obviously I can’t expect either of you to take care of my fledgling properly.”

“Hey, again, I’m the only one who—” Wilbur is cut off.

“Bet you don’t even know his name,” Phil says, voice flat and eyes glacial.

“What? Excuse you—” Tommy puffs, offended.

“Yeah? What’s his name, then?” Phil asks.

“Like you even know!”

“I do. Of course I do,” Phil gloats. “Because I pay attention.”

“Obviously you didn’t pay attention well enough to notice that there was a bite mark on the person you so dickishly tore into!” Tommy shouts back.

Phil scoffs. “Please. Your defensiveness is embarrassing, mate.”

The two vampires snipe back and forth, obviously growing more irritated with each other as the seconds pass and the words fly. It would not surprise Wilbur if these two have been beefing since before he was born. Not that he can blame them, they are insufferable, it’s impossible not to beef with them.

For example, the fact that neither of them are bothering to even glance towards Wilbur aside from offhanded prods at his socioeconomic class.

“I’m pretty sure I bit him first,” Wilbur mumbles, slipping his hand against Techno’s cheek.

The pink haired man presses his face to the palm immediately, still fast asleep. Little breaths puff against his wrist. It’s horrifically sweet.

Both of the vampires are glaring at him now.

“You should learn your place,” Tommy says.

“You’re in my place, as you have made crystal fucking clear,” Wilbur snaps. “And I know I bit him first. The bureau said they found him in an alley, and I’m the one that brought him to the alley before biting him.”

Wilbur tugs back Techno’s sleeve, showing off the reddened, nearly black, bite. It’s hidden well under his clothes, which explains how someone else might have bitten him later on, assuming he was just drunk from venom or something. The two bite marks on the guy’s neck are far harder to miss, and Wilbur knows he didn’t.

They weren’t there when he bit him.

There’s those teeth pointed at him again. They’re no longer than Wilbur’s own fangs, no sharper and likely not much more power behind the jaws.

The strength in the rest of their body, and regeneration to boot. Well. Those are based quite heavily on age and age alone. 

Suddenly, it seems like a good idea to shove the fledgling that's between them firmly behind him. In case his heart gets ripped out. Wouldn’t want to bleed on the poor sleepy thing.

“I probably turned him first too,” Wilbur says brazenly. “Seemed that way when Techno was walking with me.”

Look, Wilbur's a logical man. But he’s also someone with more pride than logic. Something he knows for certain is a universal vampire trait, as far as he’s seen. It can’t be helped.

As though unconsciously agreeing, the fledgling rumbles below Wilbur’s hand, curling towards him happily. The pride within Wilbur’s chest grows two sizes. Good, since it’ll help hide his heart a bit. 

Tommy jerks his hand forward, closing his fingers around Wilbur’s throat, squeezing and yanking him back. It’s difficult to fight against the bruising grip when he’s mostly focused on not stepping on or bumping Techno. Luckily, he’s literally thrown out of the nest, bouncing a few feet away across the floor. Unluckily. Tommy is growling and stalking closer.

“You are nothing. It was dumb indulgence to let you live this long, but pruning loose ends is always required.” 

The seeming teen stomps his foot alongside the words, fists balled up and flailing. There’s a killer pout on his face. Wilbur’s pretty sure it’s the last thing he’ll ever see. It’s equal parts hilarious and chilling.

Skittering onto his feet, Wilbur tries to back up, but he ends up hitting the wall before he can even blink. Hands are on his shoulders, pinning him. Tommy parts his mouth, preparing to separate Wilbur carotid from his throat, when the blond’s curls are suddenly grabbed and yanked away. Just enough strength is lifted from Wilbur’s chest for him to take one unneeded breath and try to drop back down to the floor, feet kicking uselessly.

“Hey! You’ll get the fledgling repossessed, you idiot!” Phil shouts. “I’m not waiting weeks for a court case just because your shitty pride can’t take a hit!”

Snarl changing direction, Tommy jams his elbow backwards, directly into Phil’s nose. It cracks, and Tommy follows it quickly, grabbing Phil’s hair right back and yanking hard. A lock of the long strands snap clean in the middle, leaving his face framed unevenly.

“Oye!” The old man shouts in offense. “Don’t fuck up my looks, some of us have a wife!”

“You’d better hope your wife has other husbands, cause she’s losing one!” Tommy screeches back, lunging to bite Phil this time, before the man catches his throat and holds it back.

Wilbur takes the opportunity to scooch backwards. Then he actually gets off of his ass, crouching low still and scurrying back in the direction of the nest.

The second he passes the brawling pair, there’s an angry shout, and then the lanky teen goes flying through the air, landing heavily right before Wilbur. He realizes as Tommy twists over and smoothly swipes Wilbur's legs out from below him that it was on purpose.

“I beg your pardon, I’m still killing you!”

For probably the first time in his life, Wilbur is towered over. A fancy shined shoe slams down on his windpipe, digging in so hard the cartilage must bend. It certainly cuts off his ability to suck in any air, and more importantly, he can feel his blood surge at the blockage, unable to get past.

Wilbur scrapes his fingernails at the ankle, managing to gouge a few deep lines into the skin. The dark blood drips over him sluggishly—a bottle of decade old nail polish, black in color, of course—spilled over his hands.

“Stop it! I refuse to get audited!” Phil yells, trying to tackle Tommy.

The guy might be twiggy, but he hardly sways as the much better built man hits him, physically hanging off of his shoulders for a second. It’s really quite the sight. Too bad that Wilbur is having trouble seeing it through his quickly darkening vision.

Dying is a familiar feeling. At least this time he’s not covered in puke. Or bell bottoms.

A high pitched scream pierces the air.

Before Wilbur can fully fall unconscious and have his head squished free like a bug, Tommy stumbles back a smidge. He turns enough that Wilbur can gasp and blink at the pang of blood gushing back into his eye veins. 

Though he doesn’t take advantage of it, since the screaming is his fledgling.

Techno is halfway out of the nest, clawing forwards with faltering jerks on one hand. His other one is sunk into his own long hair, yanking on the strands to show his terror. As though the deep carved fear on his face wasn’t enough.

“Stop, no, no, please,” He pleads, words slurring together between cries and panicked exclamations.

Like it’s an impulse, the sole of Tommy’s boot digs down into his throat again. And then Wilbur realizes that it is not just the terror Techno is screaming out or the impending feelings of death washing through him. Right in his chest, deeper even than his heart, a balled up tangle that connects him to the fledgling absolutely quakes with fear and anguish and so many feelings that a fledgling would collapse beneath, but multiplied a thousand times over.

Wilbur gasps despite being unable to breath, before his eyes roll back and the strands consume him.

What a wretched feeling. The fledgling needs soothed and fixed, bundled up far safer to never feel this again. To feel their sire die and be hurt and leave him again—

With jerks and spasms, Wilbur forces himself back into his body. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but both of the other vampires are beside Techno now, trying to hold him and comfort him.

It’s for naught. The fledgling is flailing, like a puppy with its tail stepped on. Still reaching out for Wilbur.

That makes it almost completely easy to stand. When his fledgling is holding his arms out and crying for him like that, it’d really be impossible to stay away a second longer, even if his head was fully chopped off. He stumbles the last step, already embracing Techno before he hits the ground.

“It’s okay, you’re alright,” Wilbur rasps, tasting blood with the words. This is more important. “Everything is okay now, I promise.”

Techno raises trembling fingers to Wilbur’s throat, dusting over the fucked up surface, even with his face pressed firmly into the front of his shirt. Wilbur pulls the hand away gently.

“Don’t worry about me, it’ll be all better in just a moment. All better now, really,” Wilbur talks on.

It seems to work, at least a little bit. Or maybe that’s just because Wilbur is no longer being attacked.

The connection between them has calmed the smallest amount, though still upset enough that Wilbur coos around the actual metal tanged fluid that swells up in his throat. Well, it can’t be helped.

A fledgling worrying about their sire, how disgraceful.

Obviously, loathed as it may be, Phil and Tommy feel it too. Phil is outright rubbing his own chest and Tommy looks all the more like a toddler fed lemon for the first time. They’ve upset their fledgling terribly.

It seems slightly worse than just upset—though that’s hardly just anything. Techno tips backwards, just an inch, in order to bat hand in the others’ directions, obviously anxious towards them having disappeared or been mauled too.

His face peels away enough to see that a bit of blood has dripped out of his nose, matching the tear tracks over his cheeks. The daze on his face seems twisted, still upset and pained and seemingly dizzy with how his eyes are moving rapidly.

Wilbur jumps, better adjusting his hold around Techno. It’s obvious that the man will tip over if left to hold up even an inch of his own body.

Phil clasps Techno’s reaching hand quickly, while Tommy leans forward and wicks the blood away. The fledgling seems content to wilt in their direction now, calmed quickly from the exhaustion. When Wilbur makes a move as though to let him go, he earns the least focused glare he’s ever seen before in his life. It might as well be a gun to his head, he lets the fledgling lay down over his legs.

“No more excitement, see? You can sleep,” Wilbur rasps around a smile.

It hardly seems like Techno believes him, but he still knocks out a few seconds after laying his head down. Far less soundly than before, but at least he’s getting some sort of rest.

Which leaves…

Wilbur raises his face to meet the far more steady glares, lips flat in awkwardness. He really hopes the second degree murder attempt doesn’t upgrade to first degree, right now.

“So…” He eventually says through the tension.

Phil scoffs and rolls his eyes, not pausing in his delicate petting of Techno’s hand. Tommy still looks murderous, malding, though thankfully silent now. He’s still wiping away any blood that trickles out of the fledgling’s nose. It’s slowed now, but the presence at all is concerning. Wilbur’s not totally sure what it could mean.

The truth is that he’s never turned a person before, never cared for a fledgling. And certainly there’s not a lot of examples of this sort of thing among other vampires.

Wilbur sighs at the lack of response.

“Obviously your murder spree hurt my fledgling,” Wilbur says, waving a hand over his still mangled throat.

It just makes Tommy jerk his head up, glowering all the more.

“That wasn’t anything close to a murder spree,” The apparent teen mutters.

“Fine, but I need to know that you’re not going to be so petty to hurt my fledgling again,” Wilbur says.

He truly hasn’t learned his lesson. Mouthing off to ancient vampires is becoming a bad habit. To be fair, he never had this problem before a fledgling hijacked his brain, so it’s really not his fault.

“I would never hurt my fledgling!” Tommy snaps, voice cracking, denoting the horror of eternal puberty. Regardless, there is enough force to his voice that Wilbur can’t help but to slouch and scooch back an inch.

Techno rolls over, stomach digging into Wilbur’s knees in a way that certainly can’t be comfortable. But he simply reaches out and latches onto his fuming sire with his single free hand. It almost seems to calm the guy a bit.

Or he’s just been doused by the fledgling’s freezing hands. They’re kind of ridiculously cold, even for vampires.

When Wilbur gains control over his jaw again, he opens his mouth to rebut, before Phil cuts in. Literally, he raises a hand between their faces.

“Whatever, doesn’t matter. Obviously, the fledgling has bonded with the three of us enough for the sire bond to go both ways.” Phil’s hand slowly goes to his own chin, rubbing it. “Or is it three ways? Six?”

“What of it, you fribbler,” Tommy snaps.

“Of it that a sire being badly injured or dying harms their fledgling even in a normal situation. And it seems that it is true for the three of us with Technoblade. If one of us dies, he’ll be mentally shattered, at best. And he seems of a fragile inclination,” Phil goes on explaining. He truly almost seems wise for a moment there. Then, he accidently leans his head too far forward where it is resting on his hand, sending one of his own fingers jabbing into his eye.

“My fledgling isn’t fragile. Bitch,” Tommy says quietly, but obviously his heat has been blown out.

Well, this is a development. Wilbur supposes that it makes sense, he’s certain that he would die if Techno did. At least while he’s still a fledgling, logically the strong attachment will eventually go away when Techno’s all grown up and murdering vagabonds on his own. But for now, something within Wilbur assures him that the foreseeable future will have a lovely little bond that literally makes them drop dead like a fly in a jar full of hairspray. That is quantumly linked together. With another fly. In another jar of hairspray. So he supposes the first jar would not have hairspray, in that case.

He pets Techno’s pink, slightly sweaty hair. Hopefully fledglings don’t have to breathe, he’s been face down for a while.

“Somehow, you are right, though. No overt murder attempts in front of my fledgling till he’s stopped clinging to the pair of you,” Tommy says, crossing his arms. Or, arm. He doesn’t dare move the one holding onto Techno.

“No covert murder attempts either,” Wilbur says, rubbing his throat.

“Mm,” Tommy hums noncommittally.

Phil seems closer to agreeing with Tommy than he has possibly ever. The contemplative look on his evil, kind old man face is truly disconcerting. Wilbur shivers slightly, nearly wishing to be firmly on the other side of the planet from this pair once again.

Then, he looks down at the fledgling sprawled out on his lap, drooling steadily on his pant’s leg. Unfortunately, very worth it. Who needs an intact airway?

As though agreeing, Techno suddenly spasms until his head jerks to the side. He gasps dramatically, before flopping back down.

Fledgings still need air, it seems. Noted.

—

Even when the most awkward sense of peace humanly, or vampirely, imaginable settles over the nest with the three of them staring intently down at the sleeping man, Techno begins to toss and turn. He appears uncomfortable, unable to drop into unconsciousness quite so deeply. Though he doesn’t fully wake either, doing not much more than frown and whine in pain.

What could it be? Surely Wilbur’s nest isn’t that bad, is it? 

He looks around the nest with a critical eye, subtly kicking another empty paper cup that once held blood away. That’s probably not enough to bother a fledgling. They’re supposed to like blood.

Still, Techno turns over for the 207th time before Wilbur spares a glance towards the older vampires. Not that he needs them for anything close to help for his fledgling, but maybe a second opinion on if this is normal would be good. Being old is probably good for that one thing.

Tommy seems set on turning his face into a literal knot with how harshly he is glaring down at the fledgling. Though a mechanical hand is petting his shoulder with a limp wrist. Hrm.

Phil is laying on his stomach, twisting a lock of Techno’s hair into an actual literal knot. His legs are bent at the knees so that his feet are up, kicking behind him. Hrm, hrm.

Techno turns over for the 208th time, audibly gasping before gritting his dull teeth.

“Is this normal?” Wilbur breaks and asks. “He’s still in pain.”

“Pain builds character in children,” Tommy says firmly.

Both Wilbur and Phil side eye the man at that, but one would think the guy had just bemoaned the state of children’s rights around the world with how he actually frowns and rubs at the crook between Techno’s brows.

“Well, turning into a vampire hurts. The venom and all. And he got bit three times, so,” Phil trails off.

“I’d say all the better, if it wasn’t both of yours’ lame ass venom,” Tommy says. Then he looks at Wilbur. “I’d doubt someone as young as you even makes venom, surely something is wrong with it.”

Wilbur sighs, but then simply pinches the space between his eyebrows. They decided not to outright kill each other a few hours ago, and Wilbur’s definitely the one that would be killed. 

But seriously, why is it always aimed at Wilbur…

“Fine, what helped with your past fledglings?” Wilbur asks, nobley neutral.

The two turn their eyes to the ceiling, suddenly far more interested in water stains than the topic.

“Wait—” Wilbur starts.

“No,” Tommy says firmly.

“Excuse you—” Wilbur tries again.

“No,” Tommy says. “Not you. Zip it.”

Mouth left agape, Wilbur’s eyelid twitches before he looks towards Phil. The man twists the shortened lock of his hair around his finger, smiling humorously.

“Yeah, no, not you.”

“Wha—Urgh, you two are so—!” Wilbur grumbles.

“The disrespect of youths these days,” Tommy says, elbowing Phil’s head.

“Mm, by Death it doesn’t rub off on my fledgling,” Phil says back placidly.

“Neither of you have turned someone before?” Wilbur asks sharply.

“Well, neither have you,” Tommy shoots back.

“You were just talking about how I couldn’t even do it,” Wilbur says.

“We are in agreement about that,” Tommy says.

“I.” Wilbur blinks. 

And then he doesn’t point out how haughty and old both Tommy and Phil are. Truly fucking disgraceful. But getting murdered will not help his fledgling. Carefully, he pets Techno, much like one would to a cat to soothe theirself.

“He’s still hurt, so what do we do?” Wilbur seethes.

As though sending the message home, Techno turns over for the big 209. In his twitching discomfort, his hand jerks out so that the back of his palm slaps against Phil’s face. The man chuckles at it, like he’s been told a good joke.

Tommy also seems to be enjoying that joke.

Wilbur collapses forward, grabbing on his hair and pulling slightly. Techno tries to turn over for the 210th time, but is blocked by Wilbur’s body. He swings his arm out, hitting the back of Wilbur’s head with his hand.

Phil and Tommy enjoy this joke too.

Tommy gasps after a moment. “Ah, he’s probably hungry. He’s a growing boy, after all.”

Sitting back up and looking down at his full grown man fledgling, Wilbur finds it’s possibly true. The hungry part. How long has it been since they turned him?...

It’s doubtful Techno was able to catch his own food while supremely floppy behind a dumpster. The rats around that area are quite spry.

“That’s actually probably true. He should have some sire blood,” Phil agrees.

There’s a pause, and then Phil leans towards the fledgling at the same time that Tommy snaps out to grab and stop him. Angry hisses fill the room and Tommy makes a move towards the bangs on the other side of Phil’s face, obviously rife to even out the cut. Techno twitches.

“Hey, hey—” Wilbur protests.

“No,” Phil and Tommy say at the same time to Wilbur.

Seething himself, Wilbur embraces Techno’s quickly upsetting form. The two blonds are squabbling at each other like seagulls over a french fry, only slightly less beak. These fucking two.

Threateningly, Wilbur raises his wrist to his own mouth, obviously preparing to bite the veins beneath. If it’s the only thing that gets the two of them to chill the hell out towards each other, then—

Before he can finish the thought, Tommy quite literally snatches Wilbur’s wrist out of the air, slamming it down on the nest. Somehow, it ends up with his neck wrenching to the side. So that his smarting throat slams into his shoulder. Motherfucker—

“Not you,” Tommy hisses.

“Then fucking give him your blood,” Wilbur croaks, setting his jaw.

“That’s not—” Phil starts to protest.

“He’s the oldest. His blood is technically the best,” Wilbur says. He hates to admit it, but it is true. If it’s the best thing for his fledgling, well… It’s not like he’d be allowed by either to give his blood.

“Dusty ass blood,” Phil mutters.

“Finally, logic,” Tommy says, nodding. “Shocking from you.”

Of course.

Still, he helps Techno sit up a little bit. The guy’s pink eyelashes flutter discordantly—which, how are they even pink, his hair is pink from dye? Regardless, Tommy looks far too pleased as he bites his own wrist open, setting it upon Techno’s lips.

The black blood dribbles off Techno's chin, seeping into the front of his shirt. The moisture or the smell, probably both, rouses him from his uncomfortable sleep. His eyes open as slivers, cheeks puffing out slightly.

“Ew,” Techno says, shoving Tommy’s arm away.

“Hey!” Tommy scolds.

The vampire pinches Techno’s ear, pulling him closer to the bleeding wound. There’s a second where the fledgling fights against hold, weak and sloppily. Wilbur straightens up, nearly snapping forwards to grab the displeased fledgling. 

But, then the smell seems to actually hit Techno, making him blink twice, widely, before latching his teeth around the wrist. Like a kitten having fallen face first into a saucer of milk, he drinks the blood terribly. Tommy pats the top of his head while he does, truly finishing the drenched cat look.

It’d be sweet, if his fledgling wasn’t feeding from a different sire.

Forcing himself not to hiss, Wilbur watches through slitted eyes. Don’t try to murder a guy linked to his fledgling. Don’t definitely fail at that. Don’t get murdered himself. Not. Doing. That.

There’s a self-satisfied smile on Tommy’s face as Techno starts to drip more blood over himself than swallow any. It’s the only set of kind eyes in the room, since Wilbur and Phil are glowering at him. Techno seems quite peeved too as the wrist is pried away from him, a bloody, annoyed squeak leaving him. But Techno practically turns to water as his ear is pinched once more and he’s set flat on his back. He’s out like a light. A red light, slathered in blood.

“Aw,” Tommy outright coos.

It’s not like Wilbur can even fault the man, the sight is quite adorable. There’s no fangs in his mouth yet, but the fledgling’s teeth are coated in dark blood, and he finally looks content again. Honestly, it's nearly nostalgic too, since that’s kind of how Techno looked a few days ago when Wilbur nearly killed him from feeding off him and left him in an alley.

Oops. But also, it is pretty aw.

“First feed from a sire, just how it should be,” Tommy says happily, patting Techno’s forehead.

Not aw at all. Wilbur’s teeth hurt from grinding.

“Ah yes, after a week of starving. Truly perfect siring,” Phil says sarcastically.

“You left him too, dickhead,” Tommy snaps back.

“I can admit my mistakes and focus on making it up to him,” Phil says.

Tommy simply scoffs, before his face smooths out.

“Well. I’m the one making up for his hunger now,” Tommy says, carefully starting to wipe some of the blood off of Techno’s face.

The fledgling leans towards the ancient teen, making a couple crackly sounds that might be failed purrs. It gets the message across well enough.

A sire feeding their fledgling is necessary for them to survive. And it’s part of the bonding experience, isn’t it? Does that mean—?

Impossible. The fledgling is firmly Wilbur’s, he can’t be yanked away just by a couple drops of blood.

But it was some blood that started this whole ordeal in the first place.

Wilbur frowns, sinking his fingernails into his palm. It grows slick and warm. Useless blood.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, the universe might agree with him. There’s a sudden knocking on Wilbur’s door. All three of them jump at the noise. Techno snores.

“The fuck is that?” Tommy asks.

“No clue…” Wilbur says, looking over his shoulder. Not that he can see his front door from here.

Grumbling about shitty houses and unsafe nests, Tommy stands and stomps off towards the door. Carefully, Phil seems to consider, but when there’s shouting at the door, he follows.

Wilbur stays put. He watches the fledgling. And considers.

Then he quickly bites his own wrist and shoves it against Techno’s mouth.

Whatever; if he has to share a fledgling, he’s going to stay at least partially his! No old cranky sires are going to steal his bond from him over some cruddy blood.

Techno seems disoriented, hardly able to drag himself back up to consciousness. But he does latch onto the cut with little urging. The poor thing really does seem starving, likely due in large part to the above discussed week delay in being fed. Wilbur feels guilty, though it’s mostly overshadowed by the sense of pride.

The messy bond within his chest feels warm.

With a squelch, Wilbur pulls his wrist back. Though the fledgling seems even more peeved off now than earlier. He hisses weakly, scratching Wilbur’s arm with his short nails.

“Hey, I didn’t even pinch you,” Wilbur complains.

The words must spark something within Techno. He shifts his hand and pinches the inside of Wilbur’s elbow hard.

“Hey!” Wilbur snatches his arm away, rubbing it.

Sleepily, Techno giggles at him, looking a little bit evil. It’s quite sweet.

“Your neighbor is threatening to call the police,” Phil says flatly, standing in the doorway to the room.

Wilbur jumps again, before scowling. Of course.

Phil walks over and sits beside Techno, making a shooing gesture at Wilbur. As though he wasn’t already going. Rolling his eyes, he stomps out of the room and reminds himself that his no murder plan is going to stay strong towards everybody. Life in prison for a vampire is ridiculously long, Wilbur doesn’t think he’d do particularly well there.

“Wilmington! I heard someone getting murdered—!” His neighbor starts yelling immediately.

Tommy also seems to be reminding himself about the whole life in prison debacle, considering his twitching eye. Though he’s likely got enough money to pay them off. Hopefully he doesn’t realize that and pin some murder on Wilbur. He keeps that thought firmly to himself.

“I just stepped on my dog’s paw by accident,” Wilbur says.

“Your dog—!” His neighbor yells, possibly more concerned now.

“He’s fine. I gave him a treat, he’s all better.”

“You shouldn’t bribe your children, you know,” His neighbor says intensely.

“Who said anything about children?” Wilbur asks.

“It creates a bad dynamic—”

“I’m talking about a dog!” Wilbur shouts.

A soft shout sounds from back in the nest, followed by a retching sound. Quickly, Wilbur physically shoves his neighbor out of his doorway, before slamming the door shut on him. Then he practically sprints back into the room.

And by practically, he means actually. He actually sprints back to the room.

Techno is sitting up, though thoroughly slouched over. The more important part of the scene is that he is wracking with jerks as dark blood spills out of his mouth, directly into Phil’s lap. Said man is half hugging the puking fledgling.

“The fuck happened?” Tommy hisses, stomping over with twitching hands.

“Well, he groaned and then started throwing up,” Phil says, holding back the strands of pink hair with one hand.

As though corroborating the story, Techno retches out more globs of black.

Forcing himself to break from the stunned feeling, Wilbur steps into the nest and sets a hand upon the fledgling’s back. Carefully, he rubs a circle. It seems like Techno considers puking on Wilbur’s lap too, but instead he whines and collapses into Phil’s arm.

“He was better after the sire blood,” Tommy gripes, hands on his hips. “How did he get sick?”

“Who can say,” Phil says evasively, stopping Techno from falling into his puddle of sick.

Wilbur hums in nervous agreement. A single sweat drop on his forehead.

Angrily, Tommy yanks the dirty blankets away. It’s actually a little bit impressive, very magician doing a table trick-esque. Though more stomping. Magician-tap dance combo routine, then.

“What did you do?” Tommy demands.

“You’re the one that fed him. Maybe it was too much,” Wilbur says, not at all defensively.

Tommy squints more, so hard that he blinks.

“Yes, I fed him a normal amount. Did one of you feed him more with your gross blood?” Tommy grits out.

For a scant second, Wilbur and Phil meet eyes. The man looks as guilty as a thief with no hands. Wilbur hopes his own face is slightly better. He doubts it.

“No,” Phil and Wilbur say at the same time.

“I can’t believe you two wretched, good for nothing, cunt-asses!” Tommy yells.

The exploding teenager makes both of them flinch back, just a tad. Techno simply convulses, still too unwell to properly move. Though Tommy plucks up the fledgling into his own arms, holding him protectively.

“You’re terrible sires! Only to be expected from the worst of the worst,” Tommy points at Phil, ”And a literal shit child!” He points at Wilbur.

“Shit child?” Wilbur murmurs to himself.

“Shitty child!” Tommy yells. “I won’t let you rub off on my sick as fuck child, who shall carry the respect of my bloodline and two principalities on his shoulders mind you!”

The tirade has honestly gotten more confusing than intimidating at this point. Well, for everyone except for Techno. The fledgling is fidgeting within Tommy’s arms, face screwed up in fear and discomfort.

“Hey–” Wilbur tries to cut in.

“I’M NOT FINISHED!” Tommy bellows.

Nearly shaking the poor babe, Tommy really is truly just getting started.

“This STUPID situation had you two mooching off my sire bond with MY fledgling, and now you’re fucking him up! I should cut your heads off, consequences be damned, he would be BETTER OFF—!”

Luckily, Techno sees fit to cut him off.

With a spasm, the fledgling leans his head forward and retches. Blood drips with big wet plops across Tommy’s front and legs. Techno whimpers pathetically.

“You scared him into being sick,” Phil scolds.

“That was not me,” Tommy says, carefully setting the fledging on a blanket. He kicks away from Tommy quite damningly.

“Pretty sure it was,” Phil says flatly.

“Yeah, well, you did it first!” Tommy yells again.

With a whine, Techno retches again. Nothing comes up, but it makes Tommy zip his lips, physically slapping a hand over his mouth to silence it guiltily.

All of them are quiet as they watch the fledgling crawl to the center of the shitty nest, before collapsing. He curls around his center, looking sad and pathetic and droopy. Phil scratches the back of his head and Tommy presses the tips of his pointer fingers together.

Wow. It seems that Wilbur can not rely on the older vampires’ experience. Or his own logic. They are all kind of cooked.

Chapter Text

Tommy glances at his fledgling, watching closely as a faint wrinkle presses at his brow. It’s strange how his heart warms proudly at how notices the tiny cues in his fledgling without even trying. Tommy has hardly cared whether someone woke up or slept on forever in, like, a thousand years.

Fancy that.

Though the past few days have been thoroughly tempered by his unfortunate company. It’s just his luck that he stumbles into getting a fledgling accidentally, it turns out that it’s kind of sick as fuck, and then some right dickheads muck it up. If only he killed the gangly one quicker, perhaps his fledgling woulldn’t have quite felt it…

Too late now though. Any time that Tommy so much as does a little strangling, his fledgling pops up like he’s the one being hurt. And then clings to anyone but Tommy. Disgraceful.

It’s not the young fellow’s fault though; Techno, if certain parties are to be believed. Perhaps Tommy will rename his fledgling. Something bold and classic, like Sisinnius or Agricola… Tommy jr.

Smiling in delight, Tommy is so rudely pulled out of staring at the unconscious man by movement in the corner of his eye. That horrid old man.

Completely at fault, the both of the vampires are.

Though obviously that Wilbur guy couldn’t have had much more sway over this situation than the mice in the walls of his horrid squalor. Tommy hasn’t been in such poverty since he checked out that whole French head chopping commotion a few centuries back. Truly disgraceful. But he still deserves blame.

Face curling further, Techno turns slightly in the sad nest. Tommy leans forward from his rigid kneeling, trying to ascertain whether his fledgling is truly waking. The sooner the better for the guy to gain some robustness so they may ditch this joint. How long can it take for a fledgling to fledge anyway? A few centuries?

Although, if the heavy length of these few days have told him, that will be a very long snippet of time if he’s stuck with these people. Or at least stuck in this awful building.

A good sign regardless, Techno pries his washed out blue eyes open like an elderly cat de-spineing a rodent. Quite jerky and slow, slightly painful looking.

Probably, the fact that his fledgling looks like he’s been dropped on his head a few times will do good things for his constitution once he recovers. Gaining tolerance to harm and all that. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, stand a little taller, girl. And so forth.

Techno will end up as a very strong vampire indeed, according to that logic.

As though in a wave of agreement to the sentiment, his fledgling takes a short breath in while squinting around the dim room. Perhaps a bit too bright? They had to tape some hideous plaid sheets over the bedroom window to keep the light out. Because there’s not even enough rooms in this miniscule house to have interior rooms. Regardless, it makes the room brighter than it should be for a fledgling. But, that tolerance from suffering thing at least will help. Techno will surely grow to be a beast.

Very timely thought. His fledgling jerks about half an inch up, looking a tad startled. Then Tommy reaches out for him—annoyingly at the exact same time as the old crow and the weakling. The pink haired main startles for a second, stuck, right before he’s brushed by the vampires’ fingers.

Then he turns and scrambles towards the window, gasping and crying out in pain all the way.

His fledgling is shockingly quick, especially for how half of his movements send him slamming into the nest and then ground clumsily. In fact, Techno gets all the way over to the window, clawing at the sheets, before Tommy leaps out of the nest over towards him.

“Now, now, don’t get your hands all stuck up in that fabric, it’s synthetic,” Tommy scolds lightly, grabbing Techno around the ribcage.

His fledgling lets go of the curtains, falling slightly. And then starts shrieking.

It’s truly an impressive amount of noise leaving him. Tommy flinches back a tad, shocked by the suddenness.

With the tiny bit of give, Techno twists within Tommy’s hold, falling backwards even further like a slippery ermine. Tommy jerks forwards to grab him up again, but it just brings his face down to the perfect level.

To catch a kicking ankle to the face. The arch of the kick gets Techno onto his back on the floor, hissing up at him.

Tommy sets his palm on his cheek, blinking once. Then, he smiles and squeezes said cheek.

“That almost hurt a little,” Tommy says proudly, giggling.

“Oye, good move, Techno,” Phil says approvingly, snatching Techno up where he’s trying to slip away around the nest.

Like the useless sack he is, Wilbur is simply sulking by the door. As if Tommy would let his fledgling get that far.

Techno’s back to screaming now, trying to scratch up the old man’s face. But, his panic driven strength has obviously already evaporated, since he’s turning to little more than limp twitching rope. Still letting out pained noises as the panicked screaming fades.

The wide fearful expression drips to tight pain too. Tommy clicks and steps over, picking up his fledgling’s leg to help drop his whole body back into the nest. Phil rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment, just petting his pink hair.

Tommy coos at his fledgling, picking up his calloused, but otherwise far too delicate, fingers to squeeze. Drowned sounds escape the man, as he cringes at the discomfort.

“Did you injure him?” Wilbur asks as he walks back over to the nest.

“Obviously fucking not,” Tommy says roughly.

A sharp yelp of pain leaves his fledgling as he burrows into Phil’s chest. Tommy tries to crack his molars with the force of his grinding teeth.

Tommy pets upon the back of Techno’s hand, much like one would an indulgent cat. Then, he reluctantly lets out a short rumbling sound, forceful enough to reach the man even tucked in the arms of Phil.

Luckily, it has the desired effect. The pain and panic bleeds out of Techno, replaced by tired movements once more. It’s slightly relieving, though Tommy has to stop himself from ripping his fledgling back into his own arms. Phil can’t even properly calm the man and he still holds him. Utterly useless.

Techno turns his face into Phil’s collarbone, nuzzling sweetly. Tommy hates that old blond man.

After his fledgling seems to drift off, Tommy scoffs but decidedly does nothing that would rudely awaken him again. My, it is a difficult battle! But Tommy’s one of two non-bitches in this room. And the only one not basically an infant, so he uses all his will to hold back.

His strength astounds himself sometimes.

“Well, your shitty house almost burned my fledgling,” Tommy complains, because he isn’t a saint.

“It’s not—” Wilbur starts, before cutting off with grumbles. A successful interaction. Then he starts talking again. Damn. “He wouldn’t have burned before we got him back anyway.”

“You want to let him burn at all? Shit parenting,” Tommy gripes.

Sure, Tommy might actually believe that a little bit of sun might be good, you know, to toughen his fledgling up. But when Wilbur says it, it simply sounds wrong.

“I didn’t say that—”

“It really is shit parenting,” Phil agrees.

A dreadful thing. But Wilbur sighs in defeat, so it’s acceptable.

“Soon enough, this dump’s going to take an arm off the poor thing,” Tommy sniffs, sitting back. It brings him out of hand holding range with Techno, so he holds the pink fellow's knee instead.

Although Wilbur doesn’t have the strength to say anything, Tommy can tell from his anguished stare that he’s thinking something discreditory. Tommy points at him.

“Tetanus.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Wilbur protests.

“But you were thinking how you couldn’t ascertain with your feeble mind how a shitty building can lead to an unfortunate amputation,” Tommy says. “But, of course it’s obvious. Bet they didn’t even have fucking tetanus by the time you were born.”

“Tetanus still exists, it’s a bacteria—” Wilbur says.

“So is the Black Death, but I’m sure you’ve never seen that either.”

“The Black Death still exists too!”

“I wish,” Tommy scoffs. “You’d’n’t have survived it… frail bitch.”

“That doesn’t even—!”

“You know, I was thinking that he might still be so flighty and in pain because he hasn’t truly nestled in here,” Phil says, petting the man curled up in his arms.

“Hm? Can’t blame him,” Tommy says, turning away from Wilbur immediately.

“You can’t,” Phil nods in agreement. “But he likely will soon, and then he’ll be attached to here and shit.”

“Ah, chance a move, should we?” Tommy asks, perking up at the thought.

It would be for the best. This place is so crumbly and impoverished, half the reason his fledgling must cry upon waking is that he thinks himself born to shitty poor sires. And while that is true about the other two, Tommy won’t let them pull his fledgling down to their stations.

“I agree,” Tommy says, though no one has said anything since. He does agree with himself, so it sits well. “A little palace in Liechtenstein would be nice. Or at least fucking acceptable.”

Now Wilbur scoffs. The man with a walk-up in a second rate city though. That says it fucking all.

“That’s across the ocean,” Wilbur says.

“I know fucking geo-graphy. I invented half the map,” Tommy snaps back.

“No you didn’t,” Phil mumbles distastefully.

“You do not have the right—”

“Look, even if he hasn’t fully nested here, he will still not do well with a long trip. That’s why we came here to begin with,” Phil says. Surprisingly logical. Who know the man had it in him.

“Fine. I’ve got a small place in Canada.”

Only seven bedrooms, but at least enough that a couple don’t have windows.

“Still too far. I’ve got a place a few hours away from here. Surrounded by a couple miles of forest, fuck ton more safe than here though. And nicer,” Phil says.

The beanpole almost seems like he’s actually going to disagree, but then that annoying neighbor that Wilbur had to hit over the head until he forgot that Tommy tried to kill him a little bit after he kept showing up groans annoyingly through the wall, and that shuts him up. Good.

“I suppose it’s better than nothing. Shockingly,” Tommy says.

“It’s about evening. Should we leave soon?” Phil asks, sitting up with Techno carefully.

Tommy hums in agreement, deciding whether he should try to grab his fledgling away to carry him. It’s only right.

“You guys have some fancy cars then. I don’t think a two-seater sports car will work well, though,” Wilbur says.

Tommy opens his mouth on instinct to snap back, but then he surprisingly has to close it. Because he doesn’t have a car here. Or on this side of the country, really. A glance at Phil shows that the man is looking towards him.

“You two seriously don’t have cars?” Wilbur asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not here! Some of us were busy actually prioritizing our fledgling,” Tommy snaps back.

“You left him behind a dumpster,” Wilbur drones.

“In front of a dumpster, you fuckhead.”

“Shit sire,” Phil mumbles.

The heat of the second sun graces Tommy’s cheek. Oh to do unto that horrible old man what he deserves…

“I have a car. I guess we’re taking my shitty thing. Again,”  Wilbur says.

“How you’ve even acquired a car, fucking suspicious. But I suppose we’ll have to make do,” Tommy says.

“I bought it. With my hard earned money—” Wilbur starts.

“Poor.”

“Broke.”

“ —and I even have a license! Doubt either of you fuckasses bothered!”

“Obviously not, no one tells me what I do,” Tommy scowls.

With a shrug, Phil stands with Techno draped in his arms. Tommy lost his chance to snatch him up. Damn that Wilbur fuck.

“Lead the way, Oliver,” Phil says.

“That’s not even a good pun,” Wilbur grumbles, starting out of the room.

“It’s an allegory, bitch!” Tommy says.

“More of a metaphor, really,” Phil says.

“Watch yourself, peas and rice," Tommy says.

“Now that’s a better one,” Wilbur sighs, grabbing up a set of keys and tossing a bag over his shoulder.

They follow the brunette out of the crumbling hazard of a building, Tommy taking up the rear so that there’s at least a modicum of protection around his fledgling. Though if any sort of threat came from the front, he doesn’t expect Wilbur would be any help aside from acting as a physical barrier, perhaps as strong as a couple sheets of paper.

Scoffing at the thought, Tommy almost misses the opportunity to scoff as they finally reach Wilbur’s car and he takes in the state of the thing. It’s fucking tragic. Less rustic and more rust. Probably an early 2000s model, truly the height of depravity.

“Couldn’t have found one any closer to the invention of the wheel?” Tommy asks harshly.

“It literally still has manufacturer’s insurance, I bought it less than a decade ago,” Wilbur says.

That line simply earns a scornful shake of the head.

Regardless, there are unfortunately no better cars at their disposal, and there are no horse and buggies about for Tommy to kill the rider and nab, so he’s forced to open the back door and wave his fledgling in. Though he glares at Phil as the man places Techno into the death trap. Because the old fuck is the one doing it, so he’s the most to blame. Other than Wilbur.

“It’s good that the poor lad is used to sleeping in dumpsters,” Phil says, carefully tucking the completely dead weight man onto the back seats.

With a terrible noise, Wilbur cranks the engine to life. Not too different from the noises he usually makes.

Carefully, Tommy chucks a few blankets in over his fledgling before jamming himself into the open seat. Or, he tries to, anyway. Phil had sat down, perhaps a millisecond before, due to him neglecting the blanket needs of his poor child.

The two of them are elbow to elbow. Or more like elbow to spleen, digging in quite intently and trying to push out. Tommy grabs a chunk of Phil’s hair, making the man hiss.

“My lord,” Wilbur groans.

Then, the gangly bitch shoves his foot to the peddle, sending the car jolting forwards, before quickly break checking.

The momentum sends Tommy flying out of the still open car door, skidding across the pavement face first. He ends up rolling even further than the car made it, staring with unimpressed eyes into the windshield. 

It also gives him a good view of Techno flying off of the backseats, smacking into the backs of the driver's seat. Luckily, he only bounces head first into the ground, and there’s hardly any brains left within him to worry about anyway. When he recovers in a century or two, no one's head will compare from how strong it's had to grow. Phil quickly pulls Techno off of the ground and wraps a seat belt around his still sleeping form.

Wilbur presses down on the horn for a long few seconds as Tommy lays there. Still preferable to his insufferable voice.

Primly, Tommy stands up and dusts off his clothes. Which takes off more than just some dust, considering that his suit top has been torn top to bottom by the fall. It was truly too gaudy for the neighborhood anyway. Riding in such a low tier car in a suit jacket makes him look like a dickhead.

Tommy leans over and plucks up a rock off of the ground while walking back over to the car. He throws it directly at Phil’s head.

Unluckily, the old man slams the door shut right before it can hit him. The window cracks like a spiderweb, but doesn’t shatter.

“Cheap ass plastic glass,” Tommy says, sliding into the passenger seat.

Wilbur’s head thunks onto the steering wheel, horn screaming for him.

—

The drive out of the city is silent for the first few hours, bar the two times that Wilbur tries to turn on the radio. He needs a new radio now.

Well, silent aside from the slowly picking up noises from the back. Quiet, but distinct, pained sounds from the fledgling. He’s fussing like a little human with an appendix slowly swelling to the point of popping. Something, something, why do people have organs with no purpose other than getting infected. Tommy makes a reminder to write that down, it’d go good in a book in three hundred years when a continent gets wiped out through hubris.

But right, his perfect fledgling. Currently tying himself into a manger knot.

The pitiful attempts at cooing Techno back to sleep from Phil are obviously doing nothing, forcing Tommy to turn around in his seat more and more, staring intently. That old bag does a good job at ignoring him, or at least pretending to. But the center console of Wilbur’s car starts to shake, bound to crack soon with how it’s folding beneath Tommy’s hand. And half of his weight.

“I need to stop for gas soon. Does Techno need anything?” Wilbur says, looking at the maps on his phone.

“Your car is already breaking down?” Tommy complains.

“No? It was full when we left, it just uses gas—”

“He definitely needs something. Namely, a permanent nest. But some blood might help him knock out till we get there,” Phil pipes up.

Tommy groans, though he agrees that it would be a good idea. It’s been hard to get his fledgling to keep blood down, so very likely he’s withering away.

“You couldn’t have had a proper house closer to here, could you have?” Tommy snarks, since there’s nothing else to agree with.

“Around this shit city? Fuck no. There’s…” Phil trails off blatantly glancing at Wilbur. “Certain types here.”

Wilbur slams on the turn signal to pull off into a gas station that is likely only appropriate for vagabonds to use. Techno’s definitely not stepping out of the car here. Might catch a disease or a taste for the roguish brokes.

“Go get the gas, I can feed him,” Tommy says as the car stops.

Wilbur doesn’t quite protest, but Phil does. Literally stabbing a palm out into the front seats. Tommy flicks it away. But unfortunately, the old hag swipes it away too quickly to make contact.

“Too slow, bitch,” Phil gloats. Tommy will get him next time. “But also, he definitely can’t drink more sire blood right now, it’s making him sick.”

“What? That’s what fledglings eat, and I should know, since he’s my fledgling,” Tommy says.

“He can’t keep it down right now,” Phil says.

“It’s true, he might starve or something. Should we try human blood?” Wilbur asks.

“If you’d have just let him only drink my good, non-dirty blood, then this wouldn’t have happened—!” Tommy starts to shout.

Phil slams open the car door, tucking Techno back into the blankets before setting off towards the building. Rude. There’s really no point arguing further with this half a toothpick, though.

“Get the gas,” Tommy says, crawling over the console into the backseat.

To all that is good, Wilbur gets out of the car without a second guess. The reeking scent of gasoline wafts into the carriage. Gods, Tommy can not wait for this disgusting class of transportation to get phased out. Perhaps they’ll go back to horses. They were stinky, but they were cool…

A tiny whine pearls upwards, pulling Tommy’s attention downwards.

His fledgling’s face is scrunched up, pale in a step too far to just be suave vampire shic. Tommy rubs his fingers through the man’s hairline, wrinkling his own nose at the sheen of sweat that clings to him. Fledglings are kind of gross.

“Oh, if you were anyone else’s little one, it’d be annoying, but I’m sure you’re just absorbing my radical kick-ass-ness. It’s a heavy crown to bear, but you’ll learn to stomp unruly peasants in time,” Tommy soothes, petting him regardless.

As much as the agonized guy can, he leans into Tommy’s hand. Tommy should just make this simpler…

Phil yanks the car door open before Tommy can do anything he wouldn’t regret. A lump that smells like Axe body spray and a locker room is tossed onto the lip of the door, Phil cracking his ancient, in the shitty way, neck. A body of a man, at least completely dead, though that is hardly an improvement.

A judgemental, disgusted noise leaves Tommy. Then he makes sure it’s on his face too when he looks at Phil.

“Oye, he was the only one wandered off in the woods who hadn’t been drinking,” Phil says, kicking the body a tad closer.

Tepid blood wafts up now too, not super strong, but obviously there. Enough for Tommy to make out the shitty watery quality of it, not a tad rich or properly metallic. It might be just as fucking worthwhile to feed his fledgling water. Or Wilbur’s blood!

“Hell no,” Tommy says, trying to kick the body out.

Phil kicks the body back in. Roughly, they go back and forth, stirring up the fleshy scents some more as the body flops around. Similarly, his fledgling starts to go more floppy too, squirming at the faint jostling. Tommy glares and groans before letting the ugly corpse rest there, if only to not shake up Techno further.

“He needs to eat,” Phil says.

“Yeah, but ideally not from a fucking cesspool. That will make him more sick!”

“It’s quite literally better than nothing,” Phil rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I’ll be certain to brew your coffee with arsenic instead of water, since it’s better than nothing,” Tommy mocks.

“Oh, be mature,” Phil says. “We don’t drink coffee, we’re vampires.”

“Exactly—”

“Guys, as far as we know, Techno’s only kept human blood down, right? The registration office practically said as much. Let’s go with that for now and then—” Wilbur is cut off by Phil.

“Not now, you stripling. For now, let’s just go with what we have and then we can get him on something proper later, once he’s feeling better.”

As Wilbur is groaning and garbling about, Tommy deliberates in his head. It just isn’t right. Surely they wouldn’t have to do this sort of thing if it was just Tommy. He’d actually be able to take care of his fledgling properly. These shitbags are ruining his fledgling.

“It’s your fault that—”

A wobble runs through Techno as he turns over, propped messily on his hand. Tommy raises a hand to pet him again, but the pink head jerks forwards before he can.

Techno sinks his teeth into the flesh of the body.

“Oh, well,” Phil says, snorting.

“No, that’s filthy! Drop it, fledgling!” Tommy yells.

When he reaches for the gnawing boy, he earns a mighty sounding growl. Well, more like one that a cat who’s snapped up a chicken leg would growl. A fledgling cat. Fresh from the cradle.

Quite sweet, but Tommy still tries to brush the suspicious man’s upper arm from Techno’s mouth.

“Obviously he’s hungry, come on man. Don’t starve him,” Wilbur says.

“If he wants it, let him have it,” Phil says, stepping closer with a scowl.

The angry looks on the crooked blokes’ faces aren’t exactly persuasive, but his fledgling slips a whine into his growling. So Tommy sighs. He can’t just let his fledgling slobber over a gross guy all sad-like, it’s too tragic.

Tommy leans forward and cuts through the man’s jugular and carotid artery. Sloppily, Techno detaches, leaving behind tiny pricks in the flesh, and lunges over to the bleeding throat.

Rolling his eyes, Tommy helps hold Techno up to his food as he drinks.

“Aww, the precious,” Phil coos, crouching so he can see Techno’s face better.

Said face is smeared with blood and saliva, scrunched in concentration as he tries to drink while also chewing. It is admittedly, very cute. Though Phil is distasteful when he pulls out his phone and takes some pictures.

“Don’t post the murder on your instagram,” Wilbur says.

“Stop talking about stupid shit no one on earth has ever heard of,” Phil scoffs.

“It’s literally the biggest—”

When Techno gags a little, having had well enough of the crud, Tommy jams his thumb into the crook of his jaw. Teeth successfully pried apart, Tommy drags him backwards, and kicks the body out for good. His fledgling growls, biting him a few times, before growing limp agan.

“Go post your murder somewhere it won’t be found, how about that, bitches?” Tommy says.

“Fine. Snoopy, you help me,” Phil says, hoisting up the slightly lighter body.

“Am I snoopy? Why fucking even— never mind, let me give Techno a clean shirt and then I’ll come help,” Wilbur says.

Notably, Techno is covered in a slimy layer of crimson. He looks like some kind of murder scene! And not a classy one.

After scrounging around the back of the car, the black haired man returns with a slightly oversized and washed out t-shirt. There's some sort of logo on the front and a picture of a man with shoulder length unbrushed hair and a delinquent look about him. Some sort of American singer or otherwise dubious vessel of teen influence, Tommy would bet. 

“You're going to sway him into smoking and exposing his ankles,” Tommy says distastefully.

“We’re vampires, smoking doesn’t do anything,” Wilbur rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s fucking lame. Everyone knows that vaping is in right now,” Tommy rolls his eyes right back.

When Techno, blinking unevenly and swaying, tries to lick at the blood on his shirt, Tommy doesn’t stop Wilbur from helping him change into the clean shirt. Plus, it’s funny to see Techno try to bite someone else. Once the guy can actually support his own head, he’ll be a menace. 

Terribly, Tommy can feel how the clean, comfortable clothes and full stomach soothes his fledgling. Obvious now, part of Tommy’s tension in his jaw came from the feeling in the sire bond mirrored from Techno. Warm comfort is blotting out the space now. It feels like the urge to purr.

Eyeing Wilbur until he pets Techno head and walks off to help bury the body, Tommy carefully tugs the blankets into a slightly more proper nest. As much as it can be, crammed in a car.

Techno doesn’t. He flops back down with a fluff of messy pink hair and happy baby vampire vibes.

The sight alone makes Tommy smile, moving his smoothing gestures over to the quickly snoozing face. He wicks away the last smudges of blood on Techno's skin. It’s on the edge of perfect.

Except: the smell.

Not the remnants of the gross human, those are fading well enough, and the blood overpowered it. Contentment is usually paired with subpar blood taste, it’s part of the nostalgia. 

No, it’s the other vampires.

Even if vampires smell far less strongly than humans, thank all that’s good and holy next to cleanly, it’s still obvious when one has been rolling about. The hand-me-down blankets and shirt and hands rubbed over skin. Tommy’s nose wrinkles as he tries to keep his emotions throttled away from his fledgling’s bond. But it’s fucking difficult, for more reasons than just being new to it.

Tommy doesn’t care about the stupid vampire lackey association and their rules around fledglings. Or that apparently the other two vampires have mucked something up within Techno’s head enough that he sees them as sires.

He should just grab Techno and fucking go.

It wouldn’t be too hard, even if Phil and Wilbur would find out immediately. And sure, Phil is a damn crick in his neck, but Tommy was taken down by the man once before and he won’t let it happen again. It simply can not be allowed.

Phil isn’t that old compared to Tommy. And even if he’s more powerful than most vampires around his age, Tommy still knows he outshines him significantly. The other one isn’t even a concern.

It’s Tommy’s fledgling. His.

Likely reflecting his inexperience on not sending his emotions directly into his fledgling’s head, Techno’s face scrunches up. He appears slightly disgruntled.

Techno peeks his eyes open before Tommy can act on his near decision.

The pale blue eyes are hazy, pupils still improperly sized. Then he just stares straight at Tommy’s face until he smiles awkwardly down at him. His fledgling’s nose wrinkles more at the sight.

“How are you—” Tommy starts.

“Why’re you… in my car?” Techno asks, voice smearing together.

“What?” Tommy asks.

“My car… You are…” Techno’s eyes drift off and he’s silent for so long that Tommy thinks he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then he strikes when the iron’s frigid. “A vandal.”

“I am not a vandal!” Tommy says, slightly offended. “And this is not your car. I’ll buy you a Cadillac if you really want to slum around, not this fucking rust casket.”

A bit of drool drips out of the side of Techno’s open mouth, but he still seems judgy. Shit, this guy’s got daggers.

“You don’t look like a rich child, you look—” Techno hiccups. “Broke.”

“Hey! Did those cuntbags drop you and give you a concussion while they were fucking up my turning of you?” Tommy frowns severely.

If anything, that is the first thing to make Techno perk up.

“Phil and Wilbur?”

“Wha—”

The distinct feeling of vampires being before him returns. He sighs deeply, looking up as Phil almost manages to appear out of the shadows and Wilbur trips onto the parking lot. The limpdick’s covered in dirt.

A pleased hum leaves Techno as he struggles to turn over. He’s wrapped himself in the blankets and also seems to have trouble moving his abdomen, but he drags himself closer somehow. 

Again, Tommy sighs. He should have run off with him when he had the chance…

With a cry of success, Techni grabs the closest parts of Phil and Wilbur, before yanking on them with shocking strength. Both of them are surprised enough that they fall over the lip of the door and sprawl everywhere. Tommy bites his lip to not hiss, scooching until his back hits the opposite car door, pulling Techno along.

His fledgling decided on a conga line. He brings the others.

The backseat is absolutely overstuffed with vampires. It’s all elbows and knees and ugly mugs. Well, two of the last one. Blankets try to strangle every single person within, especially Techno, as the man squirms about. Phil has to tear a sheet that wrapped around Techno’s neck like a baby turtle meeting their plastic-y end.

Finally broken free, Techno sprawls to his full length and turns to liquid over their laps. All of their laps. They’re all three pinned by a smiling, proud, purring fledgling.

Three matching coos fill the air, met with a purposeful ignorance rivaling the height of the cold war. There’s nothing to do but reach out and pet the possibly brain damaged fool. He only revels in it more, filling up the sire bonds with so much light that it feels like midday, despite the empty, black sky.

Tommy needs to sort out how to make his fledgling truly his, without these baby ruining dickheads. But this is too good to deny right now, despite the company. 

For now.

Chapter Text

The house is just as Phil left it, some odd years ago. Which is to say, tucked too far into the woods for any human spawn to bother breaking into. All the better, no humans about. Just as it should be when he’s got a fledgling now.

Phil never really expected to have himself a fledgling. He’d surely have a better place ready if he did, and less shady vampires skulking around. Better vampires, at the least.

Techno shifts within Tommy’s arms, obviously uncomfortable. Probably because that spoiled brat is all bones and sharp edges. Not exactly made to cuddle precious little things.

Yet, Techno wants him.

Phil sighs forlornly, but climbs out of the old rust bucket they call a car. He can’t bear to withhold anything that the fledgling truly wants, regardless of how it would be for the better. The fledgling makes that terrible little sad face, like someone’s nicked his ice cream cone. Cute, but also heart wrenching.

“Let me make sure no one’s fucked my shit up,” Phil says.

“Are you that worried about your things?” Tommy asks, sounding haughty.

Phil rolls his eyes, kicking the car door shut behind him. It dents a little around the edge. Paper, that thing is.

“Worried that someone might have gotten in somehow and thus would be near the little one,” Phil says slowly.

Luckily, there’s no back talk to that.

The place reeks of dust and long unaired rooms. Though they will continue to be unaired, since he’s not exactly going to be tossing windows open with a fledgling inside. That seems like a good way to end up with a pile of dust instead of a fledgling. And while Phil would love and support his dust son, not nearly as fun as the living, breathing, snoring one.

Carefully, he stalks through the rooms of the house, examining every one with a close eye. There are a few areas where the dust is shifted or a vase is askew, which he glares at intently. It seems likely that nothing bigger than a mouse has snuck inside, but the idea alone sets his teeth on edge.

He’s still glaring when he doubles back on a second loop and finds Tommy standing in his living room, Techno in his arms, and Wilbur standing almost beside him.

“Why did you bring the fledgling inside?” Phil asks angrily, waving his cane at him.

“It’s getting early. And also you were taking forever,” Tommy says.

“What if someone had broken in or some shit?” Phil asks.

“What? Your house is so decrepit someone could?” Tommy asks, looking around.

“It’s not exactly a castle with a moat around it,” Phil admits.

Looking slightly like a fish who has flopped his way on land, Wilbur looks around too. Well, obviously for some types of people, even a Holiday Inn would stun. Hopefully not his fledgling, at least when he grows well enough to travel to better places.

Phil drifts closer, holding a hand out toward his fledgling’s face. The barred teeth from the vampire holding him tries to stir to life a mixture of anger and fear within Phil, both of which he stomps down on. The first because he doesn’t want to bother Techno through the bond, and the second because it is frankly stupid. Vampire power scaling is kind of a fucking scam.

Plus, Phil proved pretty thoroughly that he can outclass Tommy if he has to.

“Is it safe, then?” Wilbur asks.

“Yes, yes,” Phil says, “There’s a room fit for a nest this way.”

“We shall see,” Tommy grumbles, but at least he follows behind.

The room at the center of the house is dark enough, and big enough for all of them to be inside without coming close to touching. Which is better than otherwise, if it must be. And considering how Techno turns towards Tommy, grabbing onto his shirt, it must be. Painful as a knife as it may be.

Phil would probably take the knife over it, actually. What’s a little knifing?

“I thought you said it was a nest room?” Tommy asks. Or judges, is a better verb.

“I said it’d be good for a nest, not that it fucking is one already,” Phil says. “I’m not a toddler like either of you, I don’t need a nest everywhere I go.”

He doesn’t mention that it’s a little sad to lay in a nest without his wife. It makes him feel lonely.

“I am older than you,” Tommy growls.

As though sensing the unease, Techno shifts in the lanky apparent teen’s arms, shoving lightly at him.

“Might want to act like it,” Phil says, hiding his amusement.

“Well, do you have any bedding at least?” Wilbur asks.

“Of course, I’m not fucking destitute,” Phil says. “Go get some things from the hall closets.”

At the very least, Wilbur does as he’s told most of the time, with minimal lip. The same can’t be said about the haughty blond, still holding the now gangling away fledgling. It looks like a pouting child holding a fucking slinky. Or a cat gone liquid, trying to slip away.

Tommy keeps holding on with a straight face, grappling the fledgling.

“You could help too, you know?” Phil says with judgement, walking into the room and setting about arranging sheets on the very large mattresses on top of the low platform. “Not something you know much about, huh mate?”

“Oye, fuck you, you—”

Tommy’s growling is cut off by Techno whining.

At the same time, the man kicks his legs in an attempt to escape the arms around him even more. With an furiously and stupidly furrowed face, Tommy struggles to keep him in his arms, until the fledgling falls as limp as a shoelace.

Phil levels him with a flat look. “Stop upsetting the baby.”

“I’m not upsetting him, you are,” Tommy says. “And don’t call him such a weak nickname.”

“How is it weak? I turned him like two weeks ago, that’s objectively an infant.”

“Yeah, but don’t encourage that behavior. Encourage him to be tough and strong, not a piddly little loser.”

At the same time as the final statement, Wilbur walks through the door. Oh, how coincidence likes to play jokes. The brunette sets a large pile of folded blankets upon the mattress.

“Is someone going to put Techno in the nest before he breaks his spine?” Wilbur asks, looking at Techno’s near backbend with a raised eyebrow.

“Not this shitty thing. Go get more blankets,” Tommy says.

Wilbur sighs but obeys.

“He can be weak for a little while. I can protect him if anything happens, I’m not a shit sire,” Phil says pointedly. “So if he’s just a sleepy little sparling, then that’s all the better.”

When Phil bends over to get a better look at Techno’s face, the fledgling appears to be unconscious, with his eyes half open, and drooling towards his forehead due to the upside down angle. Phil chuckles and coos in adoration. How sweet.

Wilbur walks back in then, footsteps making Techno twitch his eyes closed. Rude.

At least there’s another tall pile of blankets. Nearly enough for a proper nest. Though maybe a few more would be nice. Techno is quite prone to falling, and while hopefully his skull is thick, any padding could be useful.

“Fucking hell, put the poor guy down, you’re going to hurt him,” Wilbur says, pointing at the unmade nest.

“Excuse you, I would never hurt my fledgling!” Tommy says.

The man also makes a move to raise both of his arms in exacerbation. Unfortunately, they are full of extremely limp and unbalanced fledgling, so Techno slips from his grip quite immediately.

The ancient teen’s reflexes try to do some work to catch the falling dead weight, but instead his knee just jerks up and smacks into Techno. He bounces off of it, and then smacks into the ground. All of them stare at the splayed out fledgling, before glaring at Tommy.

“Eh, he’s fine,” Tommy says, crouching and patting Techno’s head.

Wilbur sighs. “Great, whatever. Let’s just set up the nest so that Techno can settle in.”

Although Phil rolls his eyes at the words, he does turn to the platform and grabs a blanket to start arranging the nest with Wilbur. Tommy steps over Techno to join them. Though, as Phil works to create a strong barrier around the outside, to prevent too much more flopping out, he realizes something unsurprising, but nonetheless damning.

The two vampires are shit at building a nest!

Now Phil can hardly even blame Wilbur, though he does a small but appropriate amount, because the guy seems like he hasn’t seen a single appropriate example in his entire un-life. After all, his sire obviously was no one of class or wealth. But Tommy at least plays at station so highly that he should have the gall to know how to build a proper fucking nest.

As subtly as he can, Phil fixes the sloppy edges from the others.

Then, when they re-sloppy it, he unsubtly fixes it.

“You’re fucking it up! You want him to be able to fucking sleep, don’t you?” Tommy gripes.

“Uh, yeah? Sleep with a pillow under his head instead of his feet. Are you trying to make him faint from blood pooling in his skull?” Wilbur snaps, chucking a pillow down.

“You pass out when there’s no blood in your head, not-genuis,” Tommy says.

“Saying not-genuis ruins the insult!” Wilbur shouts. “And it’s about the oxygen getting to the brain, not the blood!”

“Um, I’m pretty if there’s no blood in someone’s head but there is oxygen, they die. Not-not-not genius,” Tommy says.

“How would the oxygen get there?!”

“The air!”

Phil grabs the bottom of the sheets before yanking all of them right off of the mattress. It’s ruined. It’s wretched. Better to start from scratch then let his fledgling go anywhere near that loveless burrow.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Tommy and Wilbur turn and shout at the exact same time. Huh, maybe they are more similar than Phil thunk.

“Building a nest that doesn’t suck ass,” Phil says, kicking the last pillow off of the bed.

“Oh, you motherfucker—!”

“You old cuntbag—!”

Hoisting his cane in his hand, Phil swings it up and down in front of the bed, preventing anyone from chucking their horrid blankets on top. All the while, he hisses at the louder and louder insults chucked at his head. It’s not long before he cracks and starts spitting back.

“ —and if your mother had ever loved you, she’d have chopped your hands off to prevent this fucking monstrosi—!”

A happy, adorable, tiny squeak pierces the air, cutting off their long winded and intense argument.

The three of them turn towards the noise, half expecting Techno to be cowering in upset due to their arguing and anger. Though, the worry was for naught.

That worry.

Techno is splayed out in a haphazard, but obviously purposeful, bundle of blankets and sheets. The darling man is cuddling down into the horrific mess of blankets, looking so cozy that Phil could die. A violent cringe pulls on his face as he watches, one hand clutching his chest.

It’s obvious that the two others are having similar realizations.

Their fledgling sucks ass at building nests.

And yet, they apparently took far too long arguing that he went to the effort of doing it himself. The utterly poor and untalented darling. 

With another happy, proud, little eep, Techno holds out a wobbly hand in their direction. As though the limb is attached to strings within Phil’s chest, he reaches out for it immediately. And gets swiftly yanked down into the “nest.”

His knee, elbow, and chin immediately bang into unpadded parts of the floor. It genuinely nearly winds Phil. By the time his brain is settled back into place, Wilbur and Tommy have been yanked down too, seemingly similarly beat up by the harsh surface.

Then, like a sleepy little cat, Techno curls up around the bent askew sire limbs. And starts purring like a broken, skipping motor. Tiny motor. Baby motor.

Phil pets his patch of fledgling that he can reach while his liver is being jabbed into. 

It’s just too darling. He closes his eyes in shame and pride.

In the several hours of laying in a jenga pile with the star of Phil’s mind and soul, and two guys he wishes would be shredded in mulch, he reflects on the perfect stupidity of the situation. What he wouldn’t give for it to be Kristin here instead. She’d probably have their fledgling all cozied up in the center of an ancient, but beautiful, crypt. Learning only the best of vampire behaviors and being doted to death for an entire century.

Looking upon Techno’s finally happily sleeping face, he hopes that maybe one day it can still happen. Some way, somehow.

After Techno drifts off enough to count as a venom induced coma by most medical organizations, the three vampire sires pull themselves up and silently build up the nest around the baby vampire. None of them can bring themselves to destroy anything that the fledgling built, so it ends up terribly lumpy and unsupportive, not to mention that it’s on the ground.  

But it’s slightly better than before. By some measures.

When Techno rolls over, he kicks and sends a pillow flying out of the nest. It bounces off of the wall into the back of Wilbur’s head. Phil and Tommy coo in approval.

“Jesus— Yeah, yeah. Can we figure out what we’re going to be feeding Techno before he starves,” Wilbur says, moodily.

“Please don’t tell me that you’re a monotheist? You know, that’s what’s wrong with kids these days,” Tommy complains.

“How fucking old are you?” Wilbur asks, squishing the air in his hands.

“Old enough to actually have a fledgling and raise it right,” Tommy says snobbily.

Phil snorts. “You couldn’t even raise a measly empire right.”

Something audibly cracks in Tommy’s neck.

“I would have if some sad, bored, nosy old dickhead didn’t get involved,” Tommy says.

The anger radiating out of the vampire is nearly enough to make even Phil feel faint instinctively. But he shoves it down and raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought it would matter. I was turned well after you, mate,” Phil says, cracking a smile.

When Tommy growls menacingly, Wilbur flaps a hand before him, covering Techno’s ears.

“The fledgling! Don’t wake him up with your stupid beef.”

“It is not ‘beef,’” Tommy seethes. “Nor is it measly. If the coward had shown his face around me before he stole my fucking fledgling, I’d have made him wish for death.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “Not your fledgling. Only. Thank all that’s mighty for that.”

A pillow tears below Tommy’s hands as he clenches them into fists. 

“Shit, what bullshit did you two even get up to? And stop starting fights about it over the literally fledgling,” Wilbur says, head leaning back into the wall like he’s exhausted. Lame ass.

“Tell him to unraze my palace first!” Tommy yells.

“That palace was tacky and under guarded, you can’t blame me for it,” Phil says. “Maybe if you didn’t ban every vampire in the empire and push all of us out with literal flames, there’d have been more protection. And we wouldn’t have had so much flammable ammo to use.”

“I just kicked out the shitbag vampires. Like you,” Tommy says. “Couldn’t have fucking vagabonds.”

“Should’ve done better then, mate.”

“Stop calling me that! We are not compatriots of any sort!”

While Phil snickers, Wilbur looks back and forth between the pair of them. Truly, gawking like a peasant that’s wandered into a ballroom full of royals and nobility. He even has that dying of cholera look about him.

“You two got into literal wars with each other… And you hate me just as much as each other?!”

“No one said just as much,” Tommy says, eyes flickering over the brunette.

“Oh good, I’m hated a little less,” Wilbur says, false relief in his voice.

“No one said less…” Tommy mutters.

“Wha—!”

“It was hardly a war. I didn’t even need a real army, I just roused up a few cities, and it was a real quick weekend of it,” Phil says, petting his fledgling’s ankle.

“You bitch—”

“And regardless, you’ve slighted me just as much,” Phil says, looking up with a deadened expression.

Wilbur stiffens, the air of a mouse wanting to flee about him. Well, if Phil’s the one with the sharp teeth and claws here… Perhaps cats have the right idea.

“The fuck— The first time we met, you tore my spleen out!” Wilbur shouts.

“That was not the first time we met,” Phil says firmly.

“Uh, yeah it was? Because I distinctly remember thinking ‘What the fuck, this random narbo attacking me?’” Wilbur seethes.

“Narbo?” Tommy asks, disgust obvious on his face.

“It was the 80s.” Wilbur shrugs.

Reason enough to hate a guy, but it’s an unfortunate fact that Wilbur has done far, far worse to him. A slight that he can never overcome, not in a million years. Perhaps he could even forgive Tommy before him, unimaginable as it is…

“You truly deserved far worse than even that,” Phil says darkly.

“Yeah, you said that back then, too. I remember because it was between lobe one and lobe two of my spleen.” Wilbur rolls his eyes. “But you never said what the hell I did to get on your shit list!”

Phil scoffs, face downturned so that his hair hangs around it. From behind the curtain, he chuckles a few times, sour as a bee’s knees. On account of the lemon juice in the cocktail.

“Buddy, you’re lucky I don’t want to get blood on my fledgling…”

“What? What could I possibly have done to piss you off so badly?” Wilbur asks, almost sounding sincere in his confusion.

As his disgust builds, Phil shakes his head. The gall of this man. To do what he did, and then not even acknowledge it.

To not even remember it!

Some people’s depravity knows no bounds. Phil feels sick and he peels his lips back to show it, every over sharpened tooth on display. 

Until finally, the skin splits.

“You bumped into me at a party so that I spilled ketchup all over myself!” Phil says, pointing menacingly at the evil man. “Right in front of my wife!”

The silence that pulls out, mournful and heavy, is nearly appropriate for the vileness bubbling within Phil. He’ll never live down that night. Now any time his wife sees ketchup, she chuckles and asks if he remembers that party! Diner dates have been completely ruined!

“... Are you fucking KIDDING ME?!” Wilbur absolutely bellows, making the windows all the way outside the room shake.

Techno snorts in his sleep, rolling over onto his face. Phil pokes his with the toe of his shoe until he rolls back over.

“Quiet, you’re going to wake him up,” Phil scolds.

“You, you— You maimed me, and continue to send me fucking hate mail on postcards from all the places you visit… for that?” Wilbur asks, wheezing in his attempt to stay quiet.

“Obviously,” Phil says.

“Why were you even eating ketchup? We’re vampires!” Wilbur convulses.

“Uh, classic vampire pretending that ketchup is blood joke? Don’t got a sense of humor, do you, mate?” Phil asks judgementally.

This guy…

Perhaps truly having been enlightened on that classic joke, Wilbur laughs. His amusement is strained and breathy. He even sets his head into his hands.

Quite rude, not even an apology. Phil should have took his liver too.

“Why do you hate me, huh? You tripped over my shoelace? I spilled a fucking souffle on your poodle?!” Wilbur says, pointing at Tommy.

Tommy scoffs where he’s lounged down on his elbow at some point.

“Nah. You’re just poor.”

Phil hums in acknowledgement. Wilbur falls face into the blankets, screaming like a stuck pig. No one bothers poking him with their shoe to stop him from suffocating.

The baby rolls over, away from Wilbur. Phil coos in approval.

“He really will need something to eat again soon, though. He kept down the human blood well, but there’s no one around to grab for him,” Phil says, petting his ankle again.

“Sire blood, obviously. He’s recovered enough, he needs to switch to it,” Tommy says. “Should’ve been on it since the beginning.”

“He’s hardly recovered,” Phil says, looking at the limp lump of fledgling. “We should have something around in case he still needs human blood. It’s all that we know for sure he can eat.”

While Tommy grumbles, Wilbur peels his face out of the blankets. Though it seems like he’s face planted onto a spot that was basically just open ground. His forehead is slightly red.

“Let’s just buy a food delivery and grab the driver. Some soup would probably do him good.”

“Soup? Hell no, he needs to get on a proper diet already,” Tommy says.

“It’s more pleasant to eat a bit of human food at the beginning. It’s an easier transition,” Wilbur argues.

“He doesn’t need easy, he needs what will make him the strongest. That’s sire blood,” Tommy says.

“Come off it, you must know that’s a myth. Nothing can control how strong vampires are, it’s basically just age,” Phil comments.

Tommy scoffs. “Hardly. That’s why this generation is so soft. It’s needlessly attached to humanity.”

“Generation of vampires?” Wilbur asks derisively.

“I don’t know. The last thousand years or some shit,” Tommy says. “All of you are useless.”

“Alright, no. I care more about my fledgling being as comfortable as possible. He deserves it after being abandoned for literal fucking days,” Wilbur says. “I’m not going to make his suffer through vomiting and pain just for your archaic superiority complex.”

“It’s not a complex if I am just superior,” Tommy says blithely.

Phil snorts absently, rolling his eyes.

“And! That’s why he needs to be set straight already. Who knows what he got into in that alleyway,” Tommy says. “I’m not letting my fledgling be ruined and weak.”

“Well, he’s not just your fledgling,” Wilbur says, setting his jaw against the near certain terror at facing the ancient teen menace.

“You dickweed. You’d better learn better than to fuck with my fledgling—” Tommy growls.

“He’s my fledgling too!” Wilbur shouts right back.

The palpable hate zinging through the air must grow too oppressive, since finally, Techno’s face squishes up. With an annoyed whine, his eyes flutter open, heavily looking around. Upset pulls at his lips, even as Tommy and Wilbur fall quiet, looking down at the fussing fledgling.

“Techno—”

Said Techno turns to Wilbur and hisses at him, horribly adorable and unintimidating. His canines are so dull and short. Phil can’t help but giggle. It reminds him of an angry kitten stuck in a peanut butter jar.

Tommy sets a hand on Techno’s shoulder. The fledgling swings around uncoordinated, sinking his teeth into Tommy’s wrist bone.

The blond’s eyebrows shoot up, before petting the growling fledgling. He looks disappointed when Techno releases his jaw and shoves his arms away with a “hmph.” He flops back down into the blankets like a worm.

“Aw, you’re upsetting the darling babe,” Phil croons.

“Stop calling him that!” Tommy shouts.

With a thoroughly muffled hiss, Techno squirms and claws his way over to Phil. He sinks his fingernails into his thighs, dragging himself closer. Then, he curls up right across the limbs, clutching close to his stomach.

Phil smiles widely, every sharpened tooth on the display. Carefully, he runs his fingers through the messy pink hair.

“My fledgling.”

—

Curled around his fledgling, and half of Wilbur’s leg unfortunately, Phil’s ears twitch. An uncomfortable feeling crests over him, making him tighten his grip around his fledgling protectively.

Something is close by.

Someone.

Eyes cracking open, Phil glares sharply through the dark. He can feel his pupils pull even tighter, aching with the force behind them. Laid around the blankets and pillows is Wilbur and Tommy, splayed uselessly. And Techno of course, curled up with his hands below his chin and hair over his face.

Phil caresses his temple, careful along his gentle skull.

It kills him to have to sit up and peel away from his fledgling, especially when his stubby fingernails try to hold onto him for a few seconds more. Phil coos quietly, before stepping away. Then, very quickly he slips out of the room and closes it behind him.

There’s pain in leaving his fledgling behind, but he has to deal with whoever is stupid enough to stomp on his territory. And hopefully the two vampires he left behind can be a meat shield if nothing more, if something gets in.

Not that it should. Phil joints creak as he squeezes his fists.

As he creeps to the front of his house, he can hear footsteps ambling up his drive to his door. He almost didn’t smell the cheap gasoline over Wilbur’s car stink, but the idling vehicle is audible from here.

Silently, Phil turns the doorknob and opens the door a crack. Instead of going through it, he stalks around to the side of the house and slips out one of the windows.

By looping around, he’s able to see the figure walk over to the porch. A human, obvious even from this far away. They’re looking up at Phil’s house with palpable surprise, muttering quietly as Phil slinks closer and closer.

“The fuck?” The guy mumbles, pushing the front door the rest of the way open. “Uh, hello—?”

The second that the man steps over the entryway, Phil closes the distance between them in two strides, winding his fist back all the way. Then, just as the guy turns towards him, he slams it into his face.

With a large “WHUMP,” the human flies through the air, not even having time to pinwheel with the force of the momentum. The body crashes into a wall, making the entire house rattle. The millisecond of impact, much like a water ballon, the body explodes into a shower. A red water ballon. A shower of blood.

The human is obliterated to sprays of blood, marring the front room. 

Phil dusts his hands off.

“What the fuck, Phil!”

Turning his head so fast that his neck creaks, Phil takes in Wilbur, standing in the hallway doorway. And now splashed in blood from the pulverized body. It drips down around him as his hands shake in disgust.

“He snuck onto my land,” Phil growls.

“It’s the food delivery guy! He was bringing soup!” Wilbur shouts, taking half a step closer before seeming to think better of it. “How the hell are we supposed to feed Techno his blood, now? Scoop it off the fucking ground?”

Oh, oops. That was a plan, wasn’t it? Phil blinks at the wet stain on the wall and floor, making everything reek of iron and skin.

Definitely not appropriate for a fledgling to eat. Not his fledgling, anyway.

“Well, false alarm then." Phil shrugs. “Clean that up, won’t you? Don’t want Techno getting all riled up and shit.”

Phil scoots around the smudgy mess, leaving Wilbur behind, groaning in pain. The bag that the man was holding is discarded nearby, flung onto the floor. He wrinkles his nose, zipping it open.

Sitting inside, shook up but still sealed, is a bowl of soup. Still warm.

Phil smiles, humming. At least the poor thing won’t go completely hungry!

“Techno, look what I brought you!” Phil sings after skipping back to the nest room.

He peels open the lid, propping Techno’s wobbly form up on the wall. With a gurgle, Techno peels his own eyes apart, looking about as misty as chicken noodle. When Phil shows him the bowl, he blinks unevenly, seemingly not comprehending.

“The fuck are you feeding him?” Tommy asks, sounding peeved.

Ignoring him, Phil scoops up some of the soup on a plastic spoon. Then, he shoves it into Techno’s half open mouth.

The soup does actually seem to awaken him a little bit, since he closes his mouth and grabs the spoon’s handle. Phil lets him take it, watching with a smile. Slowly, Techno pulls the spoon out of his mouth, swallowing heavily.

“I prefer tomato.”

Like a sack of potatoes, Techno drops forward, unconscious. 

Directly into the bowl of soup.

Chapter Text

“ —the one who lost the food, so you have to go get more!”

Techno’s face scrunches up, ears aching around the loud noise. It’s kind of like someone trying to whisper, but still yelling. Whisper yelling. Hissing…

It hurts.

He curdles into himself further, a tearing noise escaping from his lungs. Something must have struck him between the ribs, smashed his breastbone, and embedded it all in his lungs. It’s the only explanation. What is called when that happens to the lungs, and then the hissing? The hissing, the hissing…

Fingers set upon his face, pulling his head up. The motion sends his brain sinking straight down, splattering into the nest. Not good, all his soft things and safety. Brain goo is so sticky, it gets stuck under his nails.

His mouth waters at the thought, a bit escaping from the corner of his lips. Luckily, it does not stop the hands from pulling him close enough to press a warm, solid forehead against his pounding one.

The second that they touch, the mess clears enough for Techno to recognize his sire. Obvious, and really obvious from just the hands, but the fuzz is so much.

No, the fuzz is from his sire. Stuffing him full of cotton, helping stop up his torn open arteries. They’re leaking into his chest cavity. Only his sire can save him—

The hands lower him back down.

Techno tries to protest, to grab back and strike out at the horrid cause of his pain and dread. His heart struggles beneath the strain of it, more than any life threatening situation in the past has caused. The fight and the flight, they both scream out within him, no longer stifled by the cotton fluff.

His hands do not twitch around a weapon or a fist, instead embedding themselves in bedding. Which his face promptly follows, shoved into.

He whines, forceless and empty.

Something pings as wrong, far, far away. The part that should be able to categorize injuries in chest cavities and sprout forth his own creation of injuries far sooner than any tiny sounds. But that hardly matters. Not over the end of the world.

His sire leaving him all alone.

It’s freezing, sharp edged and violent. It hurts and it hurts. The pain grips his stomach, his jaw, something far deeper. There’s a little ball of twine within him, fraying and pitiful. A kitten is currently shredding it with ferocious bitty claws.

Techno whines harder at the kitten.

“Hey, we’re getting you some food now, okay?”

Someone grabs him and pulls him—face first and out of the smothering blankets—towards them. There seems to be no strain behind the actions, which is odd since they’re an obvious stringbean. So bony as they half-hug Techno, splayed in their lap.

The kitten bites the line, a wobble goes through it. Techno pries his eyes open.

Oh right, other sire.

And then, a fuzzy blond head pops up and glares at him too. Not the blond one. The blond one. There are…

“See? It’s alright, fledgling,” The first one—second one? says.

Techno thinks they have names, he’s heard them a few times. Shouted right into his ears, basically, a bunch. Like they’re trying to help get the names all stuck in there for him. How nice.

His chest warms and he shoves himself against the sire before him. They respond immediately by petting his head, squeezing around his shoulders. Five bazillion blankets, on the inside. A hum trickles out of him.

“Why don’t you go and see if Phil has a brush around this place? Fix up his hair so it’s not so messy,” The sire holding him says. 

“You go do it if you want it done, bitch.”

Techno focuses hard on the voices and the edges of the faces peeking down at him. On the blurry blobs of color smeared memories, shiver worthy oscillation between warm and freezing cold. His eyes blink closed in his harsh squint.

“Don’t you talk about him being presentable or some shit all the time?” Wilbur says. Techno is near certain.

Then Wilbur’s fingers start scratching his scalp and he’s certain that it feels really nice. His legs and arms stretch out languidly. One of his feet knocks into something soft and distinctly stomach shaped.

“Oof.” Hands wrap around his ankle, pushing it slightly away, but then petting it too. Tommy, this one, continues: “Hey, I’m not vain, I don’t care how my fledgling looks.”

“You literally are pretentious about the freaking purity of blood that he drinks and how strong that will make him,” Wilbur says.

“It’s called caring about his health and well-being. Like any good sire would,” Tommy shoots back.

Frowning, Techno stretches his leg out again. It sinks into Tommy’s abdomen. He muffles the noise this time and doesn’t push him away, but pokes lightly until it inches away from his liver.

Techno is almost satisfied, until the sharp voices continue.

“It’s called you’re a fucking elitist,” Wilbur barbs.

“It’s called, you’re a loser ass broke cuntbag,” Tommy says primly.

The warmth in his chest turns to cinnamon, spicy, and then burning. The oil leaks from the fragile growth within his chest, spreading throughout him. When the discomfort starts to evaporate, it leaves behind cold and pain.

Quietly, Techno whines and starts squirming in the hold around him. Where—where is the other sire? He would make it better.

“And now you’re upsetting him,” Tommy growls.

The sickly fingers wrap around his supposed to be kicking—but mostly flailing—legs. The yank on him, until he slides free from the lap that he was already halfway out of. But now that he’s fully out of it, that makes the aching void even worse.

He hisses in a way that drags the burning up his throat, but it gets smothered by a pile of blankets. And, someone petting his head.

“There, there. Don’t let that mean little crone scare you."

“You were scaring him too,” Wilbur mutters.

“Yeah? Well who’s arguing now and continuing it, huh?”

“You too now!”

The hissing in his throat bubbles and pops, slightly wet. It turns into a sputtering whimper.

“...Sire?” Techno murmurs. 

The air hardly passes his lips, but even that is barely out before it becomes sharply quiet. Hands seem to close around the throbbing in his chest, squeezing gently. And, belatedly, he realizes that the hands are on his arms and head too. Soft coos pull him outwards more, attentive faces and noises and responses right over him.

Slowly, Techno peels his eyes apart once more. The faint light is achy in the back of his skull, turning the world to strange haze. The blobs above his head rumble. Fingers over his brain and the wet parts of his chest.

“His first words,” Tommy whispers, hands clasping for a moment. “And he was asking for me, awww.”

“He looked like he was begging his sire to explode,” Wilbur mutters. “And he could literally talk properly like a month ago, it’s definitely not his first word.”

“First word that matters, human life don’t count,” Tommy says. Then, the strange pointy fellow that is fun to kick leans closer. His face also looks kickable. “Isn’t that right, my fledgling?”

Despite all logic and up and down, sideways, and left and right… Coziness starts to blot away the star of pain and cold and alone. At the questioning prodding at his cheek, he flops his head over in thought.

“Pneumothorax,” Techno slurs.

The feeling of pride that floods him at the word is so intense and bewildering that his whole body goes liquid under it. He shoves his face further against the pillow, pleased at the bubbles. He almost wants to laugh.

His sire lets out a confused noise, which isn’t the correct one. But then his hands start petting his head, through his hair, and it doesn’t matter.

“What did he say? Nematoad?” Tommy asks.

“Not nematoad, obviously,” Wilbur says.

“Then what do you think he said?” Tommy asks.

“Pneumonia?” Wilbur says.

“Pneumonia isn’t a bad disease. Quite classical,” Tommy nods proudly, patting the top of Techno’s head.

Wilbur shrugs and pats Techno’s elbow.

His hands are refusing to close around the blanket or move much in general. But that doesn’t make him give up at pulling at the soft nest around him. It’s very comfy, like maybe it can fill the gaping hole in his chest, that while warmer now, could still use to be stuffed full of pillows.

When that’s less successful, he turns over and burrows in with his face. Right as he gets his head under a blanket, it’s pulled away and the back of his neck is grabbed and pulled upwards. He gasps, head clearing from darkness slightly as the oxygen sparks embers to life. But when he’s set back down, he rolls back over.

Fingers pull on locks of his hair, occasionally pulling him up and trying to yank the blanket out of his mouth. It’s kind of rude, he’s trying to get cozy, oxygen hardly matters. But the petting is also cozy, so it’s not bad.

In fact, when his face is burrowed deeply in the sheets and the hands are carding through his hair, it’s almost like being enveloped by clouds. Or cotton candy. Sugar spun around in burning hot air so that it is clotted to his skull and eyes and brain. Fluffy and dissolving under his tongue.

The cotton sinks into his throat. Nearly choking up, a weird, uncontrollable rumbling rises out of him. He clutches onto the hand rubbing behind his ear, hugging the arm awkwardly to his chest.

“Well, can you get a brush now?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy sighs. “Fine, but only cause he seems to like it.”

The vibrations sliding out of his lungs cease as he finally tries to roll over on his own. It takes a few tries, having to kick a little bit to get over. His legs are all wrapped up in blankets, making it hard to move much. Or maybe the blankets around his bones and joints.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try and keep these crazy people from clawing up your head too much,” Wilbur says quietly. “Somehow…”

Pupils struggling, the scene before Techno seems to shean as though seen through bubbles. The rainbow lattice from the soap drenches everything in the color. Like he can be washed down the drain along with the soft foam and warm water.

Techno’s nose scrunches up before he sneezes in his sire’s face.

Wilbur flinches back, face cringing hard. He wipes off his face with his sleeve, black hair falling in his eyes.

“I’m blaming that on the others’ venom,” Wilbur says, sighing.

Techno hums and pushes his face into Wilbur’s knee. It is very bony and uncomfortable. But it makes his internal chest wound weep in a nice way. Good blood shoved out of a wound. Like when all the infection is pushed out and fresh blood can flow.

His sire responds immediately, pulling his head onto a pillow on his lap. It is less bony. That’s good too.

There’s a thump behind him, but the part of him that should flinch isn’t close enough to the surface to react. And he’s rewarded when he kicks backwards, he swipes around an ankle and knocks whoever it is to the ground. They curse as they hit the nest.

Tommy, very obviously by the squawk.

“Did you get the hairbrush?” Wilbur asks placidly, smiling in approval at Techno’s kicking.

“Fuck, hell—” There’s a sound similar to a feral dog loose in a bedding store. When Techno opens his eyes again to see what’s happening, a pillow smacks roughly into his face. The back of his head knocks into Wilbur’s rib cage from the force of the blow. “Ah! Great going, Wilbur!”

“You’re the one that punted a pillow directly into his nose!” Wilbur hisses back.

“Yeah, but— It was your fault!” Tommy hisses back.

Techno’s upper arms are grabbed onto and he’s pulled upwards. His neck cricks all the way backwards like a wilted flower stem, but it’s shoved back upright by a firm palm. Something warm trickles out of his nose, right over his lips. He licks them.

Tastes like iron and buttered pancakes.

“Heyyy, do you want your hair brushed, fledgling?” Tommy leans forward and scrubs the blood off of his face while Techno can literally feel Wilbur’s glower in his chest. But Tommy simply bares his teeth at Wilbur once and it’s quickly cut off.

“Give it to me,” Wilbur sighs, waving his hand out before Techno.

He watches slightly mesmerized as the fingers trail through the air. Like jets leaving behind chem trails, or perhaps butterfly fluttering.

Focus pulls on Techno’s face as he painstakingly raises his hand and then slaps it down on the gesturing palm. It hits like a solid high five, before just laying there. Nice.

“Aw, thanks Techno,” Wilbur says, squeezing his hand and holding it to his chest, eyes seeming full of warmth and joy.

Not the purpose. Techno tries to tug his hand free, but it does not budge. At least the bony hands are warm. Another drop of blood drips into his lips as Tommy wipes it away.

“You got the brush, didn’t you?” Wilbur asks, swinging their joined hands.

“Yeah, yeah, you useless fool.” Tommy picks something up, making a move as though he’s going to chuck it.

“Don’t throw it! You’re going to hit him again, you asshole!” Wilbur shouts, shielding Techno’s head with his arms.

“I’m not going to fucking hit him, you asshole,” Tommy scoffs back. “I would never.”

“You literally do it all the time,” Wilbur says.

“Nuh-uh,” Tommy says eloquently.

Though, he does lower his arm back down, making a move like he’s going to set it on the bedding. Only, at the last second he swipes his arm upwards, as though bowling through the air.

“Down low!” Tommy shouts.

The brush goes soaring out of his hands, truly faster than the naked eye could see. Why’s it called the naked eye? That’s kinda gross and inappropriate. Though he guesses the eye is clothed when it’s closed. That must be why the words are so similar.

Techno blinks sluggishly, lifting his hands up before his face. They ache as the brush’s handle knocks into them, but it moves no further. He looks down at the brush with a blink. 

Huh.

“You fucking horrible sire,” Wilbur hisses.

“He caught it. Good practice.” Tommy shrugs. “Good job, fledgling!”

Techno’s chest lightens at the praise. He moves to chuck the brush back, but it falls limply into the blankets two inches in front of him. Everyone stares down at it.

“A little less good,” Tommy says.

Techno falls face first towards the pillows. No more oxygen.

“Hey, no.” Wilbur yanks him back upright. “Don’t listen to the assholes.”

“I’m just keeping it real, no need to coddle him,” Tommy says.

A sad noise falls out of Techno. He wishes for more blood to flow out of his heart. All over the sires’ shoes…

“Ugh, fine, fine,” Tommy says.

The blond leans closer and pats Techno’s shoulder. Looking down at it, Techno head and chest are full of contrasting feelings. It makes everything turn to steam, clouding up within and with-out and with-somewhere else probably. There’s a lot of liquid within the human body to boil.

Techno slaps Tommy’s hand where it’s on his shoulder. It makes a loud noise of skin on skin. 

And then his hand goes limp and stays there.

“Awww, no hard feelings against his favorite sire,” Tommy coos.

Foiled again.

“Okay, hairbrush time,” Wilbur says flatly.

He plucks up the brush off the bedding, maneuvering Techno so that he’s sitting before him better. All of his stained and tangled hair is pulled behind him, smoothed down. Though the light pressure is enough for his jelly waist muscle to list forwards. Back to the blankets, hooray.

Before he can hit them and get a mouthful, his forehead is grabbed from the front and pushed back up. Tommy lowers his hands and keeps them holding onto Techno’s shoulders, squeezing his pointy little nails in. But the touch is soothing, when he can’t even bury himself beneath the pillows and blanket. Though he’d like to do that too…

A tug on his hair pulls that thought from his mind. Up there to the ceiling. Hey, look up there. There’s actually not much too see, Techno’s eyes are too blurry to be able to make it out that far away. Has he finally spent too long staring at his phone?

But Wilbur carefully readjusts his head by pushing on his jaw and more gently begins brushing through his hair. Once the worst of the knots are gone, it quickly begins to feel nice, just like all the petting and goop.

Techno tries to lean back against his sire, limbs limp with comfort. But the hands in front of him keep him up. He frowns, but then realizes that that is also his sire. He leans forwards instead.

“Your hair is very blotchy. Nutrient deficiency, I’m certain,” Tommy says. His voice vibrates through Techno from where he’s leaning against his front.

“It’s hair dye,” Wilbur says, voice flat.

“Who would dye their hair splotchy pink, blonde, brown, and whatever strange color is mixed up in there?” Tommy asks. Kinda mean. Pink is hard to keep good.

The brush scratches at his scalp then, lulling him out of trying to take a chomp or kick. Plus, then Tommy might back off, and the sire is very warm, if too bony too. Everyone is so bony. Except other sire. Where’s he gone?

Again, those thoughts are smoothed away by the brushing.

“Obviously he just hasn't kept it up recently,” Wilbur says.

“Oh, dear,” Tommy says, suddenly sounding like a shocked Victorian child. Then, like a proper robber baron: “The signs of poorness. Good thing I’m nipping that bud now.”

Wilbur sighs, but silently keeps brushing Techno’s hair. It is frankly extremely tranquilizing. Getting all but hugged by one sire and having his hair brushed through comfortingly by another.

The uncontrollable and odd little rumbles creak out of his chest once more, but he doesn’t have enough mind to be bothered. Encouraged by Techno’s content noises, Wilbur keeps brushing long after his hair is neat and tangle free. 

Luckily, no one makes a move to break the moment. Even when his sire puts down the brush and begins plaiting his hair, something familiar in the foggiest, deepest recesses of his memory, the feeling of security stays wrapped between them. Tommy holds him carefully, offering near inaudible rumbling that turns his bones to goo, and Wilbur keeps petting his hair and neck even after it’s braided.

It’s almost perfect. All of Techno feels whole and safe and warm… Except for one little thing.

A corner of his chest, tucked inside and feeling chafed, lonely, chucked and abandoned in the cold, cold, cold—

Bang!

Everyone in the room jolts and the hairbrush goes flying into the ceiling. Huh, Techno can see up there. He’s fallen onto his back in the kerfuffle, and he watches the brush tumble up, and then start rocketing right back down.

Towards his face.

Right as Techno gains all the strength and power and focus to pinch his eyes shut, something snatches through the air right above him. It is a hand! And it catches the brush. Nice.

“Careful with the baby.”

Phil steps closer, out of his slightly contorted position he had gotten into in order to catch the hairbrush. The sire glances over the brush, raising an eyebrow at the probably familiar green jeweled handle, before he tosses it safely out of reach. 

A noise—chuff?—leaves Techno’s mouth as he swipes his legs around Phil’s ankles. The vampire’s knees buckle a bit, and he crumples over beside Techno in the nest. Landing elbow first on Wilbur, who lets out a pained choke. Another happy noise leaves Techno as he cuddles close.

Now it’s perfect.

“Yup, gotta look out for those legs,” Tommy says, amused.

“Good legs,” Phil notes, struggling to sit up a bit, but sounding happy.

“Better elbows,” Wilbur groans, not moving from where he’s holding his gallbladder.

All the better, keeping everyone finally close enough to press their hands over the weak candles that they put in his heart to keep the flames warm and alive. A proper, rolling, absolutely strange purr leaves Techno. All his sires relax and though slightly stiff where they touch each other, they reach out to him.

Perfect.

Bang.

This sound is far more muffled, so no one quite jumps up or jolts. But Phil does sit up like he’s forgotten the stove on. Techno hopes it’s tomato soup. 

“Ah, shit, I didn’t tie up dinner,” Phil says.

“The fuck? There’s just a guy in here?!” Tommy hisses, bolting up.

Techno whines. Nooooo. This is not worth tomato soup.

“He was unconscious. I must not have hit his head hard enough, but I wanted to keep him alive,” Phil says, shrugging.

“Ugh, useless again,” Tommy sighs, standing. 

Techno reaches for him but misses by about several feet and also literally his hand raising more than a singular inch. Phil coos and scoops him up, nearly cradling him. This isn’t as good as in the nest between his sires!

But then the sire pets his neck and he relaxes reluctantly, cheek pressed to his collarbone.

“Are you hungry?” Phil asks.

“No tomato soup!” Techno growls.

“Don’t check the fridge,” Phil murmurs to Tommy, covering his mouth.

Nooooo. Foiled again! He wanted the soup! Techno goes boneless in protest and also because all of his joints and muscles have a weird burn-y exhaustion in them.

“Come on, I found a clean looking guy full of blood, just for you,” Phil says kindly, moving as though to stand.

Techno’s face scrunches in disgust and displeasure. And dis-annoying situation! He tries his kicking skill again, but Tommy’s internal organs are all out of reach, so it’s a failure. The world is bad and evil.

Then Phil starts carrying him right out of the nest room completely and his anger blots away to dizziness and apprehension. It's not safe...

A hand wraps around Techno's, where it’s hanging limply. Wilbur sends him a smile, squeezing it soothingly. It does little for the uncomfortable simmering within.

“Aha, motherfucker!” Tommy’s voice rises through the house, before a loud crashing noise and a scream.

“Whoops, we’d better hurry before that idiot kills all the blood,” Phil says.

“You literally did that the other day,” Wilbur says.

“Shut up,” Phil chirps.

They round the corner, and Techno has to pinch his eyes shut at the light creeping in through the curtains and the cracks under the door. It’s so bright.

“I know, darling. But you don’t want to mess up the nest with gross people blood,” Phil says comfortingly.

Techno does not agree, but he’s too busy shying away from the open space and light to care. He sinks his fingernails into Wilbur’s hand and Phil’s shirt respectively. The thought of letting the sires away from him here is far, far worse than even just a few minutes before. He just wants them and the nest. Everything else is death.

“Got him,” Tommy says, walking back over.

When Techno peeks at him, he’s got a huge lump over his shoulders. Squinting further, and as a waft of ticklish breeze that smells of skin and metal hits him, he realizes it’s a body. 

Techno's mouth starts to water at the smell and he realizes that it’s blood, blood, blood. And that’s all that matters, blotting out any traces of hesitant feelings and very far off morals.

A strained whine leaves his mouth.

“Might as well feed him now,” Tommy sighs. “Were you just going to give it to him whole?”

“Obviously not.” Phil rolls his eyes. “Grab a knife.”

Tommy walks off, bringing the blood, blood, blood with him, and Techno whines louder. His mouth hurts. Saliva escapes the corners of his lips as he tries to strain his jaw into fixing whatever horrid emptiness is filling his mouth and stomach.

“Hush, hush.” Phil pats his back, but it does little for the writhing within.

“He’s in pain. We should give him a little real food to help too,” Wilbur says, though Techno hardly hears it.

“I brought some.” Phil shrugs.

The sire starts carrying him somewhere else and he nearly hisses at the prospect. But Phil just lowers himself down onto a chair, and thus Techno goes too. Finally, after eternity, Tommy starts dragging the blood, blood, blood back to him. He cries out for it when Tommy holds up a knife.

Phil reaches out for the body or the knife or the blood, Techno doesn’t know. All he knows is the uncontrollable urge as he jolts forwards and sinks his teeth into the sire’s wrist.

“Ah. Do you want my blood?” Phil asks, voice far away.

Techno’s teeth dent the skin, but no matter how he grinds his jaw or bites down, no blood wells up. He whines and growls and hisses, all muffled into the wrist.

Suddenly, the limb is yanked out of his reach, jaw left empty.

“Not his blood!” Tommy scolds, shoving Phil’s arm out of reach.

“Hey, you dickhead, the fuck are you doing?” Phil shakes Tommy off. “I thought you wanted him to have sire blood.”

“Not your’s,” Tommy scoffs.

Techno hardly cares about the harsh words about now, straining to try and get at the faintly reeking lump. His insides are already being destroyed, so what can the strange warping connections do to him worse? The hunger within him seems to be tearing him apart. Not just across his stomach either, his entire being screams with it. He needs, he needs—

Hissing as much as he can, Techno shoves at Phil’s face while dragging his fingernails down it. The stubby nails barely even redden the skin, but at the very least, Phil responds.

“Alright, alright, darling. Food for you now,” Phil says.

And then, blessedly, the knife yanks across the body-lump’s throat. The air instantly fills with so much metal that he thinks he’s been shot in the head with a slug of lead. It’d probably be comparable. But, the blood isn't his, much to his tear-wringing joy.

Techno jerks forwards as Phil drags the blood, blood, blood towards him. Sloppily, the second his mouth meets the throat, he bites down with all his might.

Thick and hot blood floods his mouth.

It’s revolting, the taste. So iron-y and acidic and noxious. He nearly gags, but that just lets the blood creep down his throat. The fact that he’s swallowing desperately helps with that too.

Techno bites down harder, mournful at the drops of blood that escape his mouth, but refusing to release the ones that don’t.

It’s only after the haze begins to lift and the bloody taste starts to seep back to him, nausea inducing, that he can recognize Tommy kneeled before him, helping him to drink the blood, and Phil behind him, still holding him up. He bites tighter, jaw and throat aching.

“Are you done?” Phil asks.

A small noise escapes Techno, though he doubts he could ever release the food from his mouth. Despite it being sickening, it is also the only thing keeping him from the sucking void within him.

But, Tommy leans forwards and starts pulling at the body anyway.

Techno opens his mouth enough to whine, and that’s all it takes. Tommy yanks the food out of his reach, blood spilling down wastefully.

Looking down at it, Techno opens his mouth to whine pitifully some more, a kitten whose fish stick has been stolen. Before he can though, he chokes and coughs, and then spits forwards in confusion. And watches as pearly chunks of white join the mess.

“What’s the matter?” Phil asks immediately, holding him upright better.

Techno’s tongue searches the inside of his mouth, pressing against his teeth. With a sickening crunch, one pushes free and falls out of his mouth too.

“Is it—?” Tommy questions, picking up the shard of bone and cleaning it of blood with his thumb.

“What’s happening?” Wilbur calls from all the way across the kitchen.

The remaining sire walks over, carrying a pot of steaming liquid. Techno looks up, slightly dazed and pained and confused. Only for Tommy to smile wide and Phil to squeeze him from behind.

“His human teeth are falling out!” Tommy says cheerfully, holding up his literal tooth.

The three other teeth in his lap and the gaps where his canine teeth are supposed to be do support the fact. The fact that, that… Techno collapses in on himself as much as he can while being supported on all sides, overwhelmed by the bones falling out of his face. Perhaps he would puke, but then he would lose all the blood. Not acceptable.

Wilbur for his part looks very surprised, so much so that he drops the pot he was holding in his hands and clasps them together. The brunette sire cheers encouragingly as he walks closer, red soup spreading across the floor.

Techno closes his eyes on it mournfully. Truly horrid.

None of the sires seem to share the negativity.

“Nice job, mate! Becoming a real vampire already,” Phil coos, hugging him close.

“That’s pretty early, you’re already a strong little fledgling,” Tommy praises.

“Good job, Techno!” Wilbur cheers.

It's as though a sunny sunshine has creeped into the room to fill it with light and joy. And it doesn't even burn his eyes like the real stuff. The fake heat of venom induced love is all the brighter and kinder. Which seems utterly and purely correct within Techno's mind.

The confusion, fear, and mourning fades as all three vampire sires squeeze him happily. The gaps in his mouth feel wrong, like the end of one of those nightmares where, well, teeth fall out. But somehow the happy sounds and hugs and petting and strange sounds that turn his head to goo wipe that away. No more nightmares in the daytime.

Sticky with blood and mouth too empty, Techno grabs as much of his sires as he can and purrs shakily.