Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Pain.

 Agony.

 Suffering.

 These are his fate. Unescapable, unshakeable, unavoidable. Tommy is destined by the gods to shed only tears of desperation and sadness, to only bleed crimson drops of his life.

 It wasn't always this way. Once upon a time, Tommy had a loving family. Two brothers who teased him and pushed him around but loved him nonetheless. A father with marvelous obsidian wings that spanned wide enough to cover his entire family in their feathery comfort. A mother who held important power in her hands and strove to always use it for good.

 But every fairytale has a dark twist, an unhappy ending, a progression to the villain's side of the story. Tommy's mother was forced into a realm in which she could never return to her family, a pact made with her fellow deities to ensure the balance of the universe. Tommy's father was heartbroken and retreated to his room for days on end until Tommy forgot what the feeling of his embraces felt like. Tommy's brothers reacted in equally dissimilar ways. Wilbur, the eldest of the three, became sharper, hitting Tommy with words and fists alike, leaving bruises on his skin and in his mind that their father never saw and that their other brother elected to ignore. Technoblade, that very brother, retreated into himself, silencing his words and dedicating himself to hunting and sparring alone in the backyard or reading in the solitude of his bedroom.

 Tommy was left alone with the abuse of a brother, someone whom he trusted with his life, until months later, when their father began coming out of his room, lingering in the house itself, dragging his fingers along the spots where his wife and their mother had stood or touched so long ago. But to Tommy, his father was unrecognizable to him, and when Tommy's own onyx wings grew in a year later, Tommy never imprinted. A fact that broke his father's heart and set in stone how fractured their family truly was.

 When Wilbur began packing one day to leave their house full of warm, frigid, and distant memories behind, Tommy packed his own bag. Together, they left, putting aside their differences, to escape the house that was no longer home and hadn't been for over two years.

 Never did Tommy fully forgive Wilbur, but part of him always wanted to. But as they established and built the hot dog van, created the nation of L'Manberg from the ground up, Tommy saw that Wilbur was no longer his brother. Despite the blood that ran between them and the desperation Tommy felt at trying to cling to his familial ties, Wilbur proved himself to never again be the same boy Tommy grew up with and loved. Power and loss had changed Wilbur, made him more possessive, greedy, and self-absorbed to the point of self-ruin.

 And when the time came, Wilbur made the wrong choice and destroyed all of Tommy's hard work along with him.

 Pain.

 Agony.

 Suffering.

 Family should never make the members of their tight-knit community feel such distraught, and part of Tommy blames part of his misfortune on his Mother, even though he knows she had little control over what the other deities desired, despite being a goddess herself. Mostly, Tommy blames two people, though, for his miserable life: Wilbur, his own brother, and Dream, the man who had it out for Tommy since they first met those few years ago.

 Dream… just the name— no the word itself, makes Tommy's limbs lock up, the blood flowing through his veins freeze, and the breath in his lungs tremble. Especially now, as Tommy sits trembling in the unforgiving cold of the bleak landscape that is his Exile, with threats of Dream's unpredictable visits looming ever-present in his hopeless future.

 Long ago did Tommy give up on wishing, futilely hoping that someone would come to his rescue. To finally see past Dream's convoluted lies and tales of falsities, and save Tommy from the ill treatment that it is apparent no one but Dream is aware of. At this point, Tommy himself can't even see the difference between the truth and the carefully crafted words that Dream tells him. What's worse is that Tommy believes it all, whether it's fact or fiction, Tommy scarfs it down like the starving worm that he is, devouring anything that could possibly keep him satiated. He's desperate for attention and connection, and the small instances of warmth that Dream shows him that seemingly overshadow the burns and cuts Tommy has also received from him.

 And Tommy, deep down in the small part of his heart that he has managed to protect from the wars and betrayals and injuries, knows it. He's just too far gone to see.

 "Tommy."

 His own name comes to him as if blown in by the wind that guides the waves and chills his bones every day and night. It indeed sends shivers down his spine, because it wasn't the wind that spoke his name.

 Hesitantly, Tommy peeks over his wings, which are as dirty as the ground Tommy sleeps on, which he is using to conserve what little warmth he manages to keep against the cold breeze. There, not far from Tommy, is the man-monster himself, the devil to Tommy's hell, and the warden to Tommy's prison, but also… Tommy's sole companion now that Ghostbur and Friend left him alone. He's… Tommy's friend, because why else would he be the only one who visits? Why else would he give Tommy food and hugs sometimes? Why else would he tell Tommy to be better and show him how?

 Bracing for the frigid air, Tommy unfurls his wings, wincing at how they crack and ache from being curled up around Tommy for so long. "Dream!" Tommy's voice cracks from disuse and the dry air. Winter is quickly arriving, rolling in like a dark oncoming storm, casting away the beauty of autumn with the bareness of December. "You're back!" Tommy stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping over his ratty shoes as he rises off the ground. Dream was only gone for a few days, but Tommy felt his absence strongly. Not having anyone to talk to makes Tommy feel as if he's alone in this entire world, which perhaps he is, because in Exile, nothing other than himself and the occasional rabbit lives in the quiet.

 Dream nods as he walks over to Tommy, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "Indeed, I am. I see you haven't done much around here in the meantime," he says bluntly as he looks around the small "camp" Tommy has set up. It consists of a roughly constructed tent made of a thin sheet full of holes that does nothing to combat the daily wind and nightly chill, and a few chopped logs arranged around an unlit firepit. Tommy hasn't had the strength to collect more wood and flint to light it since the cold set in, making his joints and wings lock up.

 A flare of embarrassment and shame rises in Tommy at Dream's words. If Tommy was capable of doing more than shivering violently for what feels like hours at a time, he may have collected supplies or started a fire. "Sorry," Tommy mumbles as he stops in front of Dream, feeling like a tiny child rather than the tall, lanky teenager that towers over the intimidatingly familiar man in front of him.

 Dream smiles at Tommy. "Don't be, Tommy. I know you can't help it." Dream's eyes scan Tommy up and down, lingering on Tommy's messy wings, the midnight black feathers lying in disarray and threatening to fall to the unforgiving ground. "You're a mess, aren't you?" Dream scoffs disapprovingly, reaching out and flicking a loose feather away. Tommy's wing twitches, and he watches the dark feather float to the ground like a leaf dropping from its branch.

 "Sorry," Tommy says again, not knowing how else to respond. A wave of self-consciousness cascades over him with icy precision, washing away the joy he felt at Dream's return and replacing it with disgust at his unwashed and dirty state. "The water's too cold." Tommy glances at the sparkling cerulean lake in the distance. Not yet frozen over, the water is still too frigid for Tommy. The cold in Exile is worse than anywhere Tommy has been before. Even the wintry weather from back home, before Tommy left with Wilbur, didn't compare to the hollow, biting spirit of the cold here away from the warmth and friends Tommy had grown accustomed to.

 "Excuses," Dream mutters under his breath. Tommy shrinks under his piercing gaze, his wings pressing against his back as Tommy instinctively tries to make his body as small as possible, to escape the judgment he can never escape. But at least Dream is talking to him, paying attention to Tommy, sparing him glances and words alike.

 "H-How have you been?" Tommy tries to change the subject, make small talk, and return to Dream's good side. Maybe then Dream will bring Tommy another blanket or food like he occasionally has done in the past. Or maybe he'll stay longer without taking the measly collection of supplies Tommy has somehow managed to gather despite the all-consuming desire to simply curl up on the nearly frozen ground and give up, returning to the dirt and the worms like Tommy is destined to.

 Dream chuckles, the sounds deep and rich, coming from Dream's armored chest. "I've been good, Tommy. Better than you, it seems. But don't pretend to forget you know the routine," Dream admonishes. He points to a hole in the distance, a little way away from Tommy's camp. "Everything in the hole."

 Tommy looks at Dream, knowing that he expects Tommy to follow the order. And what else can Tommy do but obey? Without even thinking, Tommy's feet guide him over to the hole, Dream keeping pace with him as they walk over. He knows what will come next, the explosion, the fire, but Tommy trusts Dream nonetheless. Dream just wants to help Tommy become the best he can be, to improve. It's his duty as Tommy's friend to help him become more independent and self-reliant as much as it is to punish Tommy for slacking off these past few days.

 Silently, as no words are needed anymore, Tommy drops his wooden pickaxe, small collection of rocks, and the one apple he managed to find into the hole. Weeks, if not months ago, Tommy would have had far more to relinquish to Dream's mercy, but now, he owns practically nothing other than the tattered clothes clinging to his body.

 Wasting no time, Dream reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter, springing a flame easily to life with one flick of his thumb. With his other hand, he pulls out a single stick of dynamite and lights it before tossing it into the hole carelessly, without a second thought. Such a normal occurrence this is for Dream, destroying any progress Tommy makes, but it's for his benefit.

 The explosion is small, but the force of it still sends Tommy to his knees at the edge of the crater, heat licking at his exposed skin. Feathers and hair singed slightly, small rocks digging into his bare knees and shins, Tommy sits on the ground, numbly watching as his few possessions catch fire and burn within mere instants.

 "Tommy," Dream's cold voice echoes out across the empty landscape. Tommy looks up at his friend, who now looms over him, appearing as a giant might to an ant and staring down just as mightily so. "You're not hiding anything again, are you?" Tommy shakes his head no. He had already learned his lesson when he dared hide materials away from Dream's routine check-ins, and he isn't going to lie to his friend once again. Amusement and content gather at the edge of Dream's mouth, his lips curling into a pointed smirk. "Good. Wouldn't want this to become even more complicated, would we?" Again, Tommy shakes his head, and Dream nods, ending the matter.

 Tommy looks back down at the pit in front of him, wondering for a brief moment just how exactly he got to this moment in time, alone with a man who is both enemy and friend. It took a while, Tommy realizes, beginning truly, all those years ago when Tommy first came here beside Wilbur. When they both immediately began working against Dream, his plans, his friends, and his legacy, turning Tommy and his compatriots into a ragtag army and Dream into the villain that would serve to haunt the rest of Tommy's narrative. It was their fault Dream became so bitter, wasn't it?

 A hand plants itself in Tommy's dirtied and unwashed blonde hair, not yanking or tearing, but carding through the oily and clumpy locks. Tommy can't help but sink into the kind touch, embracing the only source of affection and comfort that brings itself willingly to the shores of Tommy's misery and banishment. Another hand soon starts sliding over Tommy's wings, and an instinct flares in Tommy's mind, screaming at him not to trust such a hand near his precious limbs. But Tommy pushes the voice down, ignoring how similar it sounds to his own, and hesitantly leans back into the equally unfamiliar and all too familiar touch.

 Behind him, Dream smiles down at Tommy, watching at the blonde trusts him so blindly with his wings, something any and all avians are protective of. Dream pinches a feather between his fingers and rubs it, watching at Tommy stiffens then sags back, as if he and Dream usually do this. With a smirk, Dream tugs the obsidian feather out. Tommy winces and flinches, but does not draw away. The smile gracing Dream's face grows.

 "You know, Tommy," Dream says casually, "I like you better broken. Makes you much more… cooperative," Dream lets go of the feather, one that is about as big as his forearm, and watches it drift to the cold ground. It reminds Dream of Tommy's father, a man who has both irritated Dream and aided him in his plans. A man who has not expressed much concern in his youngest son since Tommy's exile.

 Dream returns his gaze to Tommy, whose shoulders are tight now, the anxiety rolling off of him in palpable waves, but Dream can see through the cloud of worry. Past the veil is the trust he so carefully crafted in Tommy, all the walls he forcefully broke down, and the warmth and presence he replaced them with. There's still some rubble left blocking some of Dream's efforts, but with a little more time and blows, Tommy will be Dream's and only Dream's.

 The man clad in armor pinches off another feather, then pulls another without any sense of remorse.

- - - - -

 Agony.

 Suffering.

 Remorse.

 These were what he felt on a daily basis. Phil was destined to hurt after his wife was called back into her godly realm, and he was left alone. But Phil wasn't alone, and it took him far too long to remember the three gifts his wife had left him.

 By the time he did, it was too late.

 Wilbur was angry and rebellious; he didn't forgive Phil for leaving them when they had just lost their mother. Even if their father was lost in the darkness of his grief, his sons were wallowing in their own, as well.

 Technoblade was distant, speaking to no one but himself in the solitude of his bedroom behind a closed door that muffled whatever words he whispered to himself. He, like his father, retreated into himself, lingering on the edges of thoughts and vision, but never fully appearing.

 Tommy, though, his reaction was possibly the worst and most heartbreaking for Phil to experience. His blue eyes that shone so brightly when Kristin was around were dampened with sadness and pain. They looked so similar to Phil's own, but whenever Tommy looked at him, it was as if he didn't recognize Phil. Tommy never again sank into Phil's hugs or let him run his calloused hand through his gold curls. Neither did he play with Wilbur nor read with Technoblade. All at once, the relationship each member of the family had with the others was ruined, seemingly beyond repair, and Phil couldn't tell whether the reason was his response to Kristin's absence or her departure.

 Then, years later, Wilbur and Tommy left, too, and Phil felt as if his world was crumbling even more. He understood their reasons for wanting to escape, but no father wishes their children to go, especially not after such a monumental fuck-up that he had never been able to repair after years. Nevertheless, Phil let them leave, something he wasn't given a choice about when Kristin was called away.

 Surprisingly, though, Technoblade stayed for a while longer. He and Phil awkwardly occupied the house together, struggling to not bump into each other and engage in brief conversation. However, after a while, they began to warm up to each other, more like roommates than father and son. Years of regret and guilt on Phil's part and Technoblade's deep hidden loneliness helped repair Phil's relationship with one of his sons, and when the other two called Technoblade away to help in their affairs, Phil didn't fear him leaving. Phil knew Technoblade would return.

 When Phil traveled to L'Manberg at the request of Technoblade, who spoke of insanity on Wilbur's part, he never expected to murder his son or partake in the end of a government. Wilbur forgave him in the end, it so seemed, but Tommy… Tommy looked at Phil with horror and betrayal, and Phil just knew that he would never be able to fully heal the harms he had dealt to his youngest.

 It is a truth as sharp and unforgiving as the cold Phil trudges through. Holding his cloak closed against the merciless wind with one hand and clutching the reins of his horse in the other, Phil walks through a forest that isn't located too far from the Arctic, where Phil had traveled from. He's been hunting all day, storing up for when a blizzard inevitably hits, leaving him and his son stranded in their remote cabin. This forest, so far, has provided Phil with only a couple of apples. No wild animals in sight, even though they should still be preparing for the oncoming winter.

 Phil continues forth, blinded by the hope that a cow or pig will suddenly wander across his path, but nothing other than a clearing appears. The sudden plain isn't too large— Phil can see across it to where the woods continue— and there is a lake to one side of it, the likely frigid water churning in the breeze.

 As Phil turns, surveying the area, hoping to see an animal that made this journey worth it, otherwise, he'll only be returning with the few rabbits and chickens he caught previously, he freezes in place. There, halfway across the field to his right, is a tent. If it can be called one. The battered sheet flaps loosely in the wind, barely a gust away from ripping off the supports entirely. And in front of the tent, not inside, is an indiscernible, huddled figure, clutching itself for warmth.

 Concerned, Phil wastes no time in hurrying towards the person, practically dragging his tired horse along. In only a minute, Phil reaches their camp, consisting only of the tent, a few log stools, and an unlit fire.

 "Hey," Phil speaks, his voice seeming too loud for the space, "are you alri-" His voice dies. Lost to either the wind or his throat, whisked away before they can emerge or be heard. Because the figure, trembling from cold or pain or both, is none other than Phil's youngest son.

 Tommy.

 Tommy and what's left of his wings.

 Curled around him, Tommy's wings that looked so similar to Phil's own— another similarity that the two of them painfully shared— are not only crooked and bent, broken in ways that can't be obtained by falling, but also plucked to the point of bleeding, leaving only a couple of odd patches of obsidian feathers left among the blood. A few feathers lay fallen around Tommy, but otherwise, Phil doesn't know where the rest of them went. What could have done this? An animal? Tommy himself? That option makes bile rise from Phil's gut, burning his throat.

 At the sound of Phil's voice, Tommy slowly lifts his head, turning around, confused as he searches for a voice he swears he hasn't heard before. When his washed-out blue eyes land on Phil, Tommy stills, staring at his father with only faint recognition that mostly stems from the massive wings hanging from Phil's back.

 "Phil?" Tommy whispers, his voice hoarse and quiet, barely discernible from the wind rustling the nearby tree branches.

 Phil, not Dad. When was the last time Tommy called Phil Dad? Shaking the thought away, Phil focuses back in on the moment, gazing sadly at the dried tear stains on Tommy's sunken cheeks, the trembling shoulders and wings, and the dirtied clothes and skin. "What… happened to you, Tommy? Your wings-" Phil's voice breaks.

 Tommy is in worse shape than Phil has ever seen him, but the sight and state of Tommy's wings have Phil reeling the most. Phil may have been in the room when Tommy's wings burst from his back in a shower of panic and blood, but he was also a reason his youngest son and sole heir of his wings, never imprinted. That doesn't mean Phil doesn't understand the importance of wings, though, to an avian. They are a pair of their prized possessions, a symbol of freedom and independence. For them to be broken so badly leaves Tommy stranded like a baby bird, unable to fly, let alone make it off the ground.

 Tommy spares a quick glance down at his wings. "He said it was necessary," Tommy rasps, as if that explains the entire situation to Phil.

 "Who did, Tommy?" Phil questions with increasing worry.

 "Dream," Tommy states bluntly.

 Phil stares at Tommy like he is the one unable to recognize a member of his own family, his own flesh and blood. Tommy returns the unblinking look, and Phil realizes with dawning horror just how much Tommy has changed over the years. No longer is there the boisterous, stubborn, and charismatic son Phil had to chase around the house to throw and wrestle into bed every night.

 Tears sting Phil's eyes, and he quickly blinks them away, not wanting to break down right now. Not when Tommy is so obviously in need of help. "Did you let him do this?" Phil asks, his pitch rising in desperate hope.

 "He said it was necessary," Tommy repeats.

 A flare of anger rises in Phil's chest. He takes a few steps toward Tommy, who doesn't react, just stares tiredly up at Phil. Closer now, Phil can see just how extreme Tommy has lost weight, as well as the blue tint to his lips and purple remnants of bruises gracing his skin. "Tommy, this wasn't necessary at all. He broke you." Phil struggles to keep his voice even.

 "Dream was helping me. He's my friend," Tommy states with a straight face.

 Phil looks at his son with blatant disbelief. "Friend? Tommy, he has ruined your life so much! And friends don't hurt other friends, let alone break their fucking wings!" Phil's own wings flare slightly, the feathers roughly in suppressed anger. Tommy doesn't respond; he just keeps looking at Phil to the point that the two of them are suspended in silence, waiting for the web to be cut by one of their voices snapping the string. Phil shatters the quiet with a decision that may be rash, but is right. "Come on, I'm taking you home, Tommy."

 At this, Tommy begins to look worried, a hint of anxiety clouds his eyes. "I can't leave. I'm exiled. And Dream will be worried when he comes back," Tommy glances around at the bleak landscape, as if he expects Dream to suddenly manifest right there before them.

 "Fuck Dream. You're leaving. End of discussion," Phil states, his restraint to yell and swear violently hanging intact by a weak thread. He offers a hand to Tommy, who doesn't take it, then grabs Tommy by the armpits and lifts him up to his feet. Tommy is far too light, even for someone as strong as Phil, but instead of lingering on the thought of what that means, Phil swings Tommy into his arms and carries him baby style over to his horse.

 "Wait, Phil-" Tommy protests, beginning to squirm in Phil's hold, but then cries out in pain as he moves his wings.

 "Shit, stay still." Phil holds Tommy firmer, trying not to bring his son anymore pain or discomfort.

 But Tommy doesn't stop squirming, even as it grinds his broken bones agonizingly together. "No! I can't leave! I can't leave!" Tommy rants, panic setting in over him.

 Not wanting to have Tommy fling himself out of his arms, Phil lowers them both to the ground, the cold surface immediately bleeding through the fabric of his pants, chilling his knees. The moment Phil sets Tommy on the dying grass, the young blonde tries to scramble away, but Phil grasps his flailing arms and pins them down to his sides, holding Tommy mostly still.

 "Tommy," Phil raises his voice, trying to catch his son's attention. "Tommy!" Frantic, faded blue eyes lock onto Phil's bright ones, the color of a sea on a spring day. Phil takes a deep breath, calming his nerves and urging his voice to come out even and calm. "You can't stay here anymore. I am taking you home, and I'm going to clean you up and bandage your wings."

 Tommy shakes his head emphatically. "No, no, no," he mutters, his eyes distant, as if considering some horrid future if he were to accompany his father away from Exile.

 "Yes, Tommy. Yes. I won't…" Phil swallows the lump in his throat. "I won't fail you again."

 "He won't be happy. He'll be sad I left him," Tommy rambles, not hearing Phil's words, his sincerity.

 Phil sighs, his patience running thin. Once again, he lifts Tommy into his arms, careful of his broken wings and thin body, all of Tommy's bones as brittle as the feathers he lost. Immediately, Tommy tries to struggle again, but his movements are sluggish and weak. All of his energy is gone, and the only thing Tommy is able to do is accept his fate, allowing Phil to carry him over to his horse and somehow manage to get them both on. Tommy being still the entire time, limp in Phil's hold, is somehow more unsettling than his unnerving stubbornness to stay in the bleak and cold landscape of Exile.

 "Ready?" Phil asks, looking down at Tommy, who is propped carefully in front of Phil on the horse in a position so his weak form will not crumple or fall off the horse while riding. Tommy does not answer; his gaze is locked steadily on an indeterminable point in the distance, paying no more attention to the real world.

 Phil nods as if Tommy answered him, and snaps the reins, digging his heels into the horse's sides, and sending the steed galloping forward at a fast but comfortable pace.

 Soon, the father and son leave behind the barren meadow and woods that marked the miserable Exile Tommy was subjected to, and that Phil once again was too late to save him from. Phil can only hope that he can make up for his transgressions and help Tommy heal, both physically and mentally. Because if the wings are a sign, it shows that whatever— or rather whoever— did it caused more damage than what's on the surface.every word left unspoken, Phil's mind supplies agonizing sentences to mull over in quiet contemplation.

Chapter Text

 The ride through the Arctic feels just as frigid as the wind blowing off the lake in Exile. Cold breezes whip Phil's cloak around, his wings pressing close against him to not catch a chill, and flurries of beautiful yet dastardly snow fall upon him and the bundle in his arms.

 Tommy has not moved or muttered anything coherent in what feels to be hours. Only occasionally has he mumbled nonsense under his breath or whimpered in pain from his wings and the relentless jostling of the horse. Tommy's wings rest on Phil's legs, spread out just enough to stay warm against the Arctic climate and not be crushed further during the journey.

 It has been a silent yet loud travel, as for every word left unspoken, Phil's mind supplies agonizing sentences to mull over in quiet contemplation.

 As if a mercy, though, to Phil's troubles and Tommy's morbidly wounded state, a familiar sight appears on the snowy horizon. Among the white plains lies the warm glow of a log cabin built long ago and home to none other than Phil and his other son, Technoblade. Tommy has not stepped foots into this house in years. Not since he walked out of it, denouncing the building bursting with memories as no longer his home with each step he took away from the front door.

 Phil snaps the reins and digs his heels slightly firmer into the horse's sides, urging the animal to bring them to the house quicker. Phil isn't sure how much time Tommy has left or how the boy has survived with the pain of broken wings for so long.

 And horribly, Phil has no idea how long Tommy was sitting there, outside a dilapidated tent on the unforgiving ground, living with the agony of fractured bones.

 Within fifteen minutes, Phil disembarks his horse in the stables of the cabin, carefully maneuvering Tommy off the horse's back and onto a soft pile of hay that he can lie on while Phil attends to the horse. Tommy's blue eyes stare blankly off into the distance, and if it wasn't for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the outline of ribs peeking through his dirty shirt, Phil would have thought Tommy was dead. That he had carried a corpse this far.

 When Phil finishes taking the saddle and other riding gear off the horse and sets the carcasses of the few animals he caught in a nearby barrel to get to later, he turns back to his son, who remains unresponsive atop the pile of hay. It's almost as if he is a piece of straw himself, with how thin he is and how his hair camouflages into it. Phil fears that if the wind blew through the stables, Tommy would be swept away by the freeze, fluttering erratically like a dry, brittle leaf at the end of autumn.

Phil exhales, watching his breath condense in fog in the air before him. He can already tell that tonight, and perhaps the many surely to follow, will be long and arduous.

 With the utmost care, Phil wraps his arms around his son, holding Tommy close as he lifts his frail body up. Propping Tommy's head against his shoulder, Phil looks sadly down at his lost and broken son, who was only a toddler the last time Phil held him like this.

 "I'm so sorry, Tommy," Phil whispers, his voice breaking slightly. He lightly kisses the top of Tommy's matted down curls, not caring about how dirty the gold is. "I got you now."

 Braving the cold once again, Phil quickly hurries through the snow to the cabin's front door. The sun is setting, and when Phil awkwardly manages to push the door open, the beams of dark orange and pink cascade across the wooden floor inside, illuminating the peaceful and cozy interior. Slamming the door shut behind him, Phil doesn't take off his boots like he usually would before treading into the living room. He'll take care of the snow he's tracking in later, even if it's messily melted by then. Right now, all that matters is Tommy.

 Gently, Phil lowers Tommy onto the plush couch. He throws a nearby blanket over his son's small frame before grabbing a few other quilts and pillows, wrapping Tommy in their warmth, and propping his delicate limbs up on the cushions.

 Footsteps echo from down the hall, bouncing over the wooden floors and plaster walls holding picture frames of times and young faces long ago. The moment Phil takes a step back from Tommy, surveying the cocoon he's practically swaddled his son in, the owner of such footfalls emerges from the hallway.

 "Phil? I expected you back an hour ago. Where's your haul?" Technoblade asks, peering at Phil from behind his glasses, the book he must have been reading still clutched in his hand to his side.

 The blonde in question freezes, his mind screeching to a sudden halt. So busy with getting Tommy out of Exile, Phil hadn't considered Technoblade's reaction to Tommy, nor how to breach the subject of the youngest sibling's abrupt return. Neither of them left on the best foot with the other. Betrayal on both sides that tested the strength and bond of their brotherhood. Bombs and withers that destroyed more than just a nation.

 "Um, well," Phil runs a hand through his messy, wind-swept blonde hair. He looks anywhere but at his son's curious eyes. "I uh… found something that distracted me," he finishes lamely, downplaying the severity of the situation and Tommy's condition immensely.

 Technoblade looks at Phil curiously, hearing the uncertainty and secrecy in Phil's voice immediately, a byproduct of having lived with each other for so long. He raises an eyebrow at Phil. "You didn't bring another stray polar bear home, did you?"

 Phil can't help but chuckle. "No, no, I didn't. I… brought someone else."

 "Someone?"

 Phil motions towards the sofa, stepping back so Technoblade can move forward and see the limp, motionless form of his younger brother, smothered by blankets and pillows atop the couch. Technoblade cautiously moves forward, as if worried that whatever or whoever Phil brought home would jump out and attack him. When his eyes land on Tommy, the dirtied blonde hair, open but distant, faded blue eyes, and the too skinny body that's barely visible beneath the quilts, down, and various fabrics, Technoblade flinches back. Everyone who hasn't seen Technoblade as anything other than a hardened soldier would be surprised by such a response, but Phil knows that his son, under his scars and layers of defense, has the emotions of any other man. And right now, with Tommy in his living room, they are raw.

 "Phil," the word is practically a growl. "What is he doing here?" Technoblade's red eyes glare at Phil, sharp as daggers or the sword he tends to like one of his pets.

 "I found him while I was out," Phil explains calmly. He doesn't allow himself to react to Technoblade's anger. "I must have stumbled across his Exile because he was there, and it was terrible, Techno," Phil's voice wavers at the memory of only an hour or so ago. "It was cold and bleak, and Tommy was on the ground. Dirty a-and broken," tears swim in Phil's eyes as he looks at Technoblade. "His wings, Tech. His wings. Dream plucked and broke his wings."

 Technoblade's anger dissipates, and in its place rises disbelief. "What?" he whispers.

 "Tommy said he did it because it 'was necessary' and that he was helping Tommy. Tommy thinks they're friends, Techno. He didn't want to leave because Dream would be worried, but he was scared. Tommy was scared of what would happen to the point he's been dissociating since I put him on the horse." Phil runs a trembling hand through his hair. "I wanted to save him, Techno, to make up for not being there before, but I was already too late again."

 Technoblade quickly walks over to Phil and gently eases his hand down, away from where it's tugging at Phil's golden hair. He holds his father's hand in his own calloused and scarred one. "It's not your fault, Phil. Not this. We… we didn't know what was happening in Exile. Dream has everyone fooled, and while we could have seen the signs, we didn't. That's on us, sure, but it's on everyone. Mostly Dream." Technoblade mutters, rambling in circles, trying to justify his own guilt for not having realized how his occasional ally was torturing his own brother. "Phil… I know I don't get along with Tommy, but I… I never wanted this for him. Maybe a couple punches every so often, but… never this. You know that, right?" Technoblade looks at his father like he once did as a child, begging not to get in trouble for staying outside for too long or accidentally breaking a cup.

 "Oh, Tech, I know," Phil hugs his son. Technoblade hesitates for a moment, but then sinks into the embrace. "I know."

 The hug is peaceful and heart-warming, something that both of them needed. But the moment is interrupted by a raspy voice.

 "Where am I?"

 Technoblade and Phil shoot apart as if struck by lightning, and the two instantly kneel down next to the couch, looking at the blonde whose eyes finally have a little more light to them.

 "Technoblade?" Tommy asks, his voice wavering in and out from disuse. He looks around with visible confusion. "Am I… in your house?"

 Technoblade nods, going back to his usual stoic appearance. "You are. Phil found you and brought you back here."

 Tommy's eyes flicker over to Phil, and Phil can see when the recollection of memories begins returning to Tommy's tired brain because he immediately tries to sit up. "I have to go back!"

 Phil puts a gentle hand on Tommy's chest to keep him from rising. "No, you are not," he says sternly. "Never again."

 "But Dream will be worried. He'll start looking for me and think I left him!" Tommy futilely keeps trying to sit up, but he's too weak to overpower Phil.

 "Technically, you did leave," Technoblade points out.

 "Not willingly. You… you kidnapped me!" Tommy accuses Phil.

 Phil chuckles. "You're my son, Tommy. I don't know if that counts as kidnapping if I'm just bringing you home."

 "This isn't my home," Tommy deadpans. "My home got blown up. Twice."

 Phil and Technoblade both pause, going silent as Tommy finally relents and sinks back into the couch, instinctively cuddling into the blankets and pillows that surround him. They stare at Tommy for a moment, a boy that they thought they knew, but realize harbors such differences than they expected years of separation to carry.

 Technoblade clears his throat. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit and boil some water for tea," he states before rising and walking out of the living room.

 Silence descends between Phil and Tommy, odd for Phil now since Tommy is awake and capable of carrying on a conversation. "Are you warm enough?" Phil asks, breaking the tension between them.

 Tommy nods and doesn't admit that this is the warmest he's been since leaving for Exile. Phil sees the truth, though, in how Tommy's lips and the tips of his fingers are no longer fully blue.

 "Good," Phil trails off. "Um, are you in any pain?" Tommy doesn't respond and actively avoids eye contact with Phil. "Tommy, are you hurting?"

 "No," Tommy whispers under his breath.

 Phil sighs. "I know you're lying."

 "Then why ask?" Tommy retorts weakly, as if he's tired of arguing. "Can I please go back? I want to go back."

 "I know you don't want to, Tommy, not really."

 "I need to go back."

 "Why?"

 "Because Dream will be worried. I can't just leave him. He'll be sad."

 "I don't think he will, Tommy. People who beat children won't be sad or worried that you're gone. They'll be worried about who they'll tell the truth to."

 "I'm not a kid."

 "You're my kid."

 The silence reigns over the two blondes once again, and Phil opens his mouth, hoping to say more, but Technoblade returns with the first-aid kit.

 "Water should be done in a few minutes," he grumbles as he sets the kit down and starts emptying the contents. Painkillers, cleaning alcohol, gauze, medical tape, bandages, scissors, and a variety of other medicines and salves are packed into the box, plenty to treat Tommy's wings and any other injuries he may have.

 Phil nods at Technoblade. "Thank you, Techno." He looks to Tommy. "Tommy, we're going to have to take the blankets and turn you over to treat your wings."

 "My wings? They're fine."

 Phil bristles slightly. "They are not. At all."

 "Dream says that they need to be that way. Because we're not allowed to fly."

 "Whether we're allowed to fly or not doesn't mean Dream has any right to desecrate your wings. Doesn't it hurt you?" Phil's voice breaks slightly. "The pain of losing your feathers and not being able to use your wings? Doesn't it hurt?"

 Tommy looks away and doesn't answer, telling Phil everything he needs to know.

 Phil quickly blinks away the tears that once again gather in his eyes. Gently, he begins unwrapping Tommy from the blankets and pillows that he had smothered his son in. Tommy struggles briefly, but he's too weak to keep annoying Phil, so he relents, making the effort easier for Phil. When Tommy's body and ratty clothes are exposed, Technoblade inhales sharply, seeing for the first time just how skinny Tommy is.

 "Tommy, we're going to have to take your shirt off. We'll get you a clean one after," Phil tells his son.

 "It's my favorite shirt, though."

 "I'll clean it as best as I can," Phil promises, and Tommy nods slightly.

 Gently, Phil sits Tommy up and maneuvers Tommy out of his shirt, his limbs too fragile and weak to really move on their own. Technoblade quickly retrieves a bucket of clean water, a sponge, and a towel so they can wash the grime off of Tommy's marred skin.

 When Phil manages to finally get the shirt off, he and Technoblade both recoil in shock and disgust. Now on full display, Tommy's wings look worse than before. Broken, the limbs hang at odd angles, and the random patches of a few feathers make it seem as if Tommy was caught in a storm or fell rather than felt the "help" of a man who couldn't care less about Tommy's well-being.

 But the wings aren't the only horror hidden by cloth.

 Wounds, who knows how old, litter Tommy's skin. Bruises of a rainbow of colors— fresh red, deep purple and blue, sick green, and pale yellow— cover his sides and ribs, burns both old and new line the insides of his arms, and cuts of varying sizes, closed by clotted blood, paint his arms, back, and chest. Dried blood and dirt are smeared over the injuries and mercifully unmarked skin alike. It's obvious none of the wounds were ever treated, never given a chance to heal, before more arrived soon after.

 "Tommy…" Phil murmurs. "Did… did Dream do these to you, too?"

 "I messed up. I make mistakes. I'm too loud or talk too much. He tells me what's wrong with me and helps me fix it. He's my friend, my best friend, my only friend." Tommy rambles, his finger tapping erratically on his lap. "Without him, I'd be dead, and no one would care."

 "That's not true, Tommy," Technoblade says.

 "Isn't it?" Tommy doesn't look at his brother when he says it.

 Silently, Phil dips the sponge into the water and begins washing Tommy. The blonde shivers, and Phil hesitates before gently dragging the wet sponge over Tommy's delicate skin. A couple of the more recent wounds reopen, and when they do, Technoblade swoops in with the towel and a bandage, drying the skin before wrapping the wound. He applies burn cream to Tommy's burns, too, before wrapping them also in bandages.

 When Tommy is clean enough— Phil knows that he'll have to wash his hair and the rest of his body when he's stronger— Phil begins on Tommy's wings. With the utmost care, Phil cleans the blood and gore from Tommy's wings, sadly removing some feathers that cling on desperately. He pours some of the cleaning alcohol onto Tommy's wings, causing Tommy to flinch violently, nearly pulling out of Phil's loose grasp if Technoblade didn't stop him.

 "Shit, sorry," Phil mutters under his breath. Phil resumes carefully, conscious of every single one of his movements and every breath from Tommy.

 After what feels like an eternity, but is likely only an hour or so, Tommy's wings are wrapped and set. Bandages cover nearly Tommy's entire upper body, as well as his knees, shins, and feet, which were covered in more burns, scraps, bruises, and frostbite. Technoblade tosses the bloodied gauze into the fire and throws the dirtied towels into the sink to wash with Tommy's shirt while he makes tea for him and Phil and broth for Tommy. Phil, meanwhile, cleans up the rest of the first aid materials.

 "Why are you doing this?" Tommy's small voice speaks up.

 Phil looks up at Tommy, whose been once again be swallowed by comfortable blankets and pillows. although this time propped up so there is less weight on his wings. "What do you mean?"

 "Why are you helping me?"

 "Why wouldn't I? You're my son, and anyone in their right mind would help you if they found you in the state I did," Phil reasons calmly, trying not to show how much Tommy's question caught him off guard.

 Tommy shakes his head. "Only Dream cares about me."

 "That's not true," Phil snaps. Tommy flinches slightly, and Phil apologizes. "I care, Tommy. Technoblade cares. Your friends in L'Manberg care. Ghostbur and Tubbo miss you—"

 "Tubbo doesn't miss me. He's the one who put me in Exile," Tommy interrupts bitterly.

 "Tommy, Dream put Tubbo up to it. Tubbo may be at fault, but he's still a victim."

 Tommy laughs, but it's hollow and weak, like he's just breathing heavily. "A victim, sure…Wait, are you going to give me back to Tubbo? Watch as he puts me in Exile again? Just bring me back to Dream, Phil. Please." Tommy looks at Phil with desperate eyes, and Phil sees just how deluded Tommy is by Dream's "care".

 Phil reaches out and lays a hand on the blanket covering Tommy's knee. "Tommy, I am not giving you back to anyone. Neither is Techno. You're… you're my son, and I'm going to take care of you."

 Tommy stares at Phil for a while, searching Phil's blue eyes with his own washed out ones, turning Phil inside out for the truth that he doesn't believe he's being told. "Why couldn't you be my dad years ago?" Tommy asks.

 A clatter sounds from the kitchen, and Phil spares a glance to see a glimpse of Technoblade cleaning up the shards of a now broken mug he must have dropped. Seems like he had heard Tommy's question. Knowing Technoblade can handle a shattered glass— and likely listening in on the conversation for Phil's answer— Phil turns back to Tommy who hasn't taken his haunted eyes off of Phil.

 "I… I was in a rough place. Kristin left, and I… I felt like my world had broken," Phil admits, guilt and lingering sadness weighing heavily on his heart. "I can never be sorry enough for ignoring you three for so long, and I can never apologize enough for failing as a father. But I am. I am so sorry that I failed you, Tommy. Just as I am sorry I failed Wilbur and Techno. I try everyday to make up for something I can never change, but as you've proven, I'm failing even now, too." Phil looks deep into Tommy's eyes. "You don't have to forgive me. Just let me help you. Please."

 "Dream won't be happy," Tommy whispers, looking out the living room window.

 "I don't really care," Phil says truthfully. "You don't see it, Tommy, but Dream isn't the good guy. He's hurt you, reduced you to this. No one who does that to someone if their friend."

 "I don't believe you."

 Phil takes a breath. "You don't have to, at least not right now. Just give us a chance is all."

 Tommy doesn't answer or look at his father, instead, he stares intently out the window, watching as the sun sinks below the horizon, turning the sky deep shades of pink and orange. As Technoblade walks in with two mugs and a bowl balanced carefully in his hands, Tommy whispers.

 "It's warm here."