Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house of the Sleepy Bois Coven used to be absolutely filled with magic. Runes and spells carved into every wooden beam, deep blues painted over the walls with trims of gold and silver. Anyone could feel it the second they walked through the door—the magic spun through the air and danced through fingertips, always accompanied with a chuckle or laugh.

The house doesn’t do that anymore. And it’s all Tommy’s fault.

Tommy walks down the wooden steps with clenching fingers. Today is going to go awful, he just knows it, because every day has gone awful after the incident. After that damned, stupid fucking spell. Things are just…different. A bad different. No matter how much he tries to fix things.

Wilbur and Phil are both witches—Tommy and Techno are both familiars. Magic is meant to be imbued in their fucking blood—it’s in their literal nature!

Wilbur doesn’t have magic anymore. Neither does Tommy. Or—they do, but it’s fucking locked away.

The house feels dull now. Subdued. It’s completely dim as Tommy finally makes it downstairs.

Not completely quiet, though. Techno calls out, “Tommy,” from the sitting room, and Tommy enters with the same trepidation he came downstairs with.

When Tommy walks in, both Techno and Wilbur are seated on the floor. Techno motions for Tommy to sit across from Wil.

“What’s all this?” Tommy asks, a bit nervous as he kneels to the ground.

“Magic,” Wilbur says, tone unreadable, “to help us get our own magic back.”

“Meditation,” Techno corrects, “that might unblock your magic.”

Tommy frowns. “Is that how it works? We can defeat this powerful spell by sitting down and humming at each other? By doing a little yoga?”

Wilbur’s mouth pulls. “Tommy,” he says, tone tired. “Just do it.”

Geez, Tommy thinks bitterly, even though shame begins to crawl up his neck like small bugs. Just a joke, Wil…

Techno pulls out a piece of dark chalk. “Close your eyes,” he instructs the both of them, beginning to draw on the wooden floor. “Listen.”

Scrunching his nose, Tommy pinches his eyes shut. He plans on keeping them closed, really, he does, but Techno is taking fucking forever. He said to listen, but all he can hear is the damn chalk. He slips a single eye open, then starts to giggle as he observes the shapes on the ground. “Hey, Wil, it kind of looks like Techno’s drawn—”

“Shh,” Wilbur mutters, eyes still shut. “Tommy. Participate.”

Wilbur’s rejection hits Tommy’s chest like a heavy stone. The shame crawls all the way to Tommy’s face.

“Fine,” Tommy mutters, eyes slipping closed once more. “Prick.”

The sound of Techno’s chalk starts up once more. Finally, Techno begins to speak.

“Each of you have a well of magic in your core. You are familiar with how it feels. Even now, out of reach, you still have it. It’s still within. Think of your own magic. Focus on where it resides.”

Tommy closes his eyes extra hard, trying to imagine his magic. He tries to envision himself reaching hands into his own chest, or maybe his stomach. There should be a spark, or a bubbling, or…or something like that…

Tommy doesn’t feel anything. There’s nothing at all. Not even a remnant of what was once there. “Te—”

“Shh.”

Alright, fuck you then, Tommy thinks. But maybe Wilbur doesn’t feel anything either. Maybe ‘nothing’ is what it’s supposed to feel like.

The sound of chalk resumes. “You are familiar with your own magic. You are also familiar with one another’s.” A hand touches Tommy’s wrist and he flinches back in surprise, but Techno continues to guide his hands outward. Then Wilbur’s hands come outward. Eyes still closed, Tommy feels as Techno guides their hands so their hands lay together at the palms, fingers pressed against each other's veins. “Your magics are mirrors. Complements. Different, but adjacent. You do not depend on one another. You lend. You borrow. Try to push your own magic forward. Try to find each other’s magic.”

Tommy grips Wilbur’s wrist and tries to do just that.

Wilbur’s magic always feels smooth, like the fur of a slick cat. It’s cool like a breeze, and it does not spark or bubble as much as it swirls. When Tommy pushes his own magic outwards towards it, it ripples like water.

Now, Tommy tries to push himself into that cool pool of water once more. He tries to focus on a slight chill, or a dancing wind.

There’s nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

He tries, and tries, and tries for even fucking longer. He tries for so long that eventually, Techno sighs, and the sound of chalk resumes.

“You can let go,” he instructs, and both of them release each other’s hands.

Wilbur makes a frustrated sound, so Tommy risks peeking an eye open again. Wilbur’s brought a hand up to his face, pushing underneath his glasses to rub at his eyes. “It didn’t work.”

“It’s only the first time,” Techno rumbles.

Wilbur grumbles under his breath. His eyes are open, so Tommy takes it as the okay to fully open his.

Intricate drawings lie between where Wilbur and Tommy sit. Circles and swirls and overlapping shapes, spread across the entirety of the space.

Tommy snatches the chalk and quickly draws a small, vulgar doodle. “Wil, look, look,” Tommy prompts, looking up at Wilbur with a mischievous grin.

When Wilbur looks down, he doesn’t laugh. His face pulls in weary disdain. “Tommy.”

It’s one word, but it’s scolding enough. Tommy looks away and tries to ignore the heat in his cheeks.

Without any further words, Wilbur stands and walks towards the kitchen. Tommy, ever his familiar, even without magic, trails at his heels.

Phil is in the kitchen, putting a kettle over the stovetop, but Wilbur doesn’t urge him to the sitting room. He grumbles a greeting to Phil before grabbing a chair and dropping at the table.

“Wil?” Tommy prompts. “Are you going to do your readings today?”

“Already have.”

Oh. He hadn’t even called Tommy down for it. Sure, Tommy doesn’t have magic to help with them anymore, but still…

“What about mine?” Tommy asks.

Wilbur drags a hand over his face. His eyes glare at the table below him. When he mutters, it’s laced with a tired heat. “You don’t listen to them anyway.”

“Wilbur,” Phil scolds, but the tension in the room has already become sharp.

“I was trying to help,” Tommy argues, because fuck that, that’s unfair! “If I wasn’t there—”

“If you weren’t there, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Wilbur argues back. “I told you to stay home, Tommy, you—”

“Alright,” Phil says, tone stern. “Drop it. Both of you. What’s done is done.”

Wilbur’s jaw tightens, and Tommy clenches his fist, but both stay silent.

Fuck it, it’s fine. Tommy doesn’t even need a reading. His card would just say, Wilbur is going to be a bitch. He doesn’t need tarot to know that one.

They stay silent as Phil continues to shuffle around the kitchen, as the kettle screams, as Phil pours steaming water into cups and dips pouches of tea leaves into them.

“Alright,” the winged man eventually says, turning and placing the cups onto the table. “Drink up. Both of you.”

The mug is hot as Tommy brings it to his wrinkled nose. It smells…strong. Very bitter. Tommy may not be shifted into his familiar form right now—a raccoon, and a perfectly nice one, at that, not grubby, thank you very much—but the smell practically brings an annoyed chitter right out of him.

“Phil,” he says, “this smells awful.”

Phil shrugs, and a hand rubs against his nose. “It’s meant to be magic inducing. The raspberries are supposed to invoke your magical core. If it works, it should send that magic rushing from your core to the rest of your body.”

“It’ll heal us?” Tommy asks, skeptical as the smell still attacks his nose.

Phil’s mouth tugs downward. “It’s not…likely. Not on its own, anyway, and not today, but maybe in time…with Techno’s mediation, I’m hoping they’ll work together and eventually…” he trails off, waving his hands listlessly.

Great. So it’ll only maybe heal them.

Tommy’s entire being recoils as he smells the tea once more. Gods, this is going to be bad. Terrible. The worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Tommy,” Wilbur calls, and when Tommy looks over he looks tired. Not desperate, not yet—more hopeless. “Please just drink it.”

His witch asks, and Tommy doesn’t have it in him to upset him.

The tea goes down with sparks down Tommy’s throat. He almost wants to gag it all back up, just to get the taste of poison berries off of his tongue, but if he threw up he’d have to taste it again, so he pinches his nose and digs claws into his jeans and tries to think good thoughts.

Thoughts like getting his magic back, or his witch loving him again.

Wilbur, fully human and not part-raccoon-boy, drinks the tea with only a slight wrinkle of his brow. When he’s done, he places his mug on the table with twisted lips.

There’s a moment, two.

“Feel any different?” Phil asks, taking the empty mugs.

Tommy doesn’t. Tommy just feels the same emptiness that he did before.

Wilbur’s face lours, and Tommy knows it’s the same for him.

Phil’s wings droop in disappointment. “Alright. That’s alright, mates, we’ll keep trying. We’ll figure something out.”

We’ll figure something out—but not today, apparently. Wilbur leaves to go up the stairs, but the shame—crawling, writhing, burning—welds Tommy’s feet to the ground. He watches Wilbur’s back as he leaves, and wishes he 

The truth is, Wilbur was right.

Tommy wasn’t supposed to be there that day.

Wilbur had done his tarot readings that morning, the same way he always does. Tommy, body in the shape of a small raccoon, had curled up by Wilbur’s side, their magic already intertwined as Wilbur shuffled his tarot cards for Techno.

Tommy’s always loved watching Wilbur do readings. His fingers are long and nimble, shifting and cascading cards with ease. His eyes stay half-lidded behind his thin-wire glasses. “Split,” he’ll say, and whoever is on Wilbur’s right will split the deck with their left hand, bringing the bottom to the top. The cards are a deep blue with pale white accents, and when Wilbur flips the top one up, Tommy always leans forward to see what intricate design has been printed on the other side.

That morning had been no different. Tommy had already shifted, watching eagerly as Wilbur did Techno’s reading. “How will Techno fare on our trip?” Wilbur had asked the deck, before shuffling and having Techno split.

Wilbur drew the card and placed it in front of them. They all leaned in to look at it.

It was The Fool, upside down so his head was facing them.

Wilbur frowned. “Recklessness. Risky decisions.”

Techno shrugged, but Wilbur rolled his shoulders back. “Alright. Let’s do some fixing, then.” Wilbur held out his palms, and blue, flickering light began to cascade out of them. Like a painting made of light, a chart of stars formed above Wilbur’s hands. “Hm.” He squinted his eyes, letting them flicker over each of the stars. “What if we…” Wilbur raised one of his hands, pointing his fingers against one of the stars and gently pushing it to the left. It’s only a centimeter or two, but Wilbur had taken a look at his work and nodded. “That should do it. Let’s see…”

Again, Wilbur took his deck. “How will Techno fare on this trip?” Wilbur asked again, before going through his entire routine. This time, when Techno’s card was drawn, it was The Chariot, standing upright: a card for confidence, control, victory.

“Good,” Wilbur had breathed. “Phil next?”

The ability to actively change the future isn’t something just any witch could do—just Wilbur, as far as Tommy knows. Because Wilbur prepared his cards once more, Techno rose with a strong grunt, and Phil sat and ruffled his large wings. They’re all special, the three of them—blessed by the Goddess of Death herself. Phil had received sleek wings, sprouting right between his own shoulder blades. Techno had received a powerful strength. And Wilbur had received the ability to change the future.

Tommy hasn’t been blessed, not yet. He was only found about a year ago.

Tommy always hoped he’d get something just as cool as the rest of them. Maybe he’d grow big wings, just like Phil. Only bigger! Or maybe he’d get the power to destroy shit with his mind. Or maybe he’d be able to turn invisible, or run as fast as light! Or—or—

Wilbur has always assured him that something amazing would come. He just had to wait.

Personally, Tommy was getting tired of waiting. What was taking her so long?

“Hm. Not great, Phil.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t need to, mate. You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

“No, I will,” Wilbur murmured, alighting his hands once more.

Maybe Tommy just hadn’t proven himself. Really, what had he done to earn a blessing? Wilbur had done all of the hard work, taking Tommy in from the woods and giving him a home. Tommy hadn’t quite done anything, yet.

The thought had festered in Tommy’s mind for the rest of the readings. Even as Wilbur finished shifting Phil’s future, slumping as exhaustion began to wash over his body.

When Wilbur had done his own reading, the card wasn’t great, either. But Wilbur was tired enough that he could only shift his future a little, just slightly.

“Two of Cups,” Wilbur murmured, staring down at the reversed card. “We’ll have tension, then. Something must be going wrong out there…”

“You could always stay home if you’re worried about it,” Phil had said, but Wilbur waved him off.

“No, no. I’ll be fine. It’s better than it was before. I’m more worried about you two, than anything.” Wilbur nudged an elbow at Tommy. “Your turn.”

When Wilbur had flipped Tommy’s card over, he winced.

It was the reversed card of The Wheel.

“Bad luck,” Wilbur had murmured, frowning down at it. “I don’t have enough energy left in me to change it, Tommy.”

Tommy had chittered, swiftly turning from raccoon back to boy. “I’ll stick by Techno, then,” he had said decidedly.

Wilbur frowned even deeper. “No, Tommy. I’d feel better if you stayed home.”

“What?” Tommy had exclaimed, “But that’s bullshit!”

“Not when all of our cards have been poor,” Wilbur said. “Something is going to happen out there. Something you shouldn’t be there for.”

Tommy had yelled and complained and argued, but Wilbur hadn’t changed his mind. Tommy was to stay home, while the others would get to go out and have the time of their lives, exploring and adventuring and apparently slaying down several bad guys.

But that hadn’t been enough for Tommy.

Bad luck, sure. So Tommy might take a hard fall, or maybe get caught the moment he sneaks after them. Nothing that wouldn’t be amended by Tommy’s immense bravery and dedication.

Or so he had thought.

By the time Tommy had caught up, they were already in battle. Figures dressed in all black, slinging magic wildly towards his coven.

Hunters. Witches and wizards determined to take the Goddess of Death’s blessings for themselves.

When one of the wizards began to form an angry spell in his hands, spinning to fling his arms towards Wilbur, Tommy hadn’t hesitated. He had reached out towards Wilbur’s magic, pushing as much forward as he could as he jumped in front of the spell—

It was as if lava had poured down their bond. Both Tommy and Wilbur went down with a scream, desperately trying to cut their bond, but it was too late.

By the time the lava cooled, and all the hunters were taken down, there was no magic to be called upon. As if the lave had turned to bedrock right in their core. As if all of their magic was hidden away behind unbreakable stone.

“Tommy,” Wilbur had gritted, jaw tight and eyes hard with anger. “What did you do?”

Bad luck, the card had said. Bad luck.

Tommy hadn’t proved himself. Tommy had embarrassed himself, Tommy had ruined Wilbur’s magic.

The walk home was silent. Tommy wished Wilbur had the powers to change the past, instead.

Now, Wilbur doesn’t have any powers at all.

When Tommy walks downstairs several days after the incident, Wilbur has already started a reading. He shuffles his deck with low brows and shaded eyes. Tommy watches his back.

“Split,” Wilbur murmurs, and Techno, sitting cross legged next to him, reaches over and cuts the deck roughly in half.

Wilbur’s shoulders tense, and Tommy walks close enough behind to see the cards.

“The Three of Wands,” Wilbur mutters. It’s upside down. “You’re not going to make much progress today. There’s going to be obstacles, or—or delays, of some sort.” Wilbur picks up the card with tense hands, and Techno has to frown at him over his tusks.

“We’ll be alright,” Techno says, standing from his spot. “I’ll forage instead. We’ve been needing a few things, anyway.”

Wilbur’s eyes shade even more as he huffs out a breath of air, glaring somberly at the card. “I wish I could help,” he mutters. “You wanted to go mining today.”

Techno shrugs. “Eh. It doesn’t matter. It’ll all get done one way or another.”

Techno turns, nodding in greeting towards Tommy. For a second, Tommy thinks he might get lucky—if Techno is going out to forage, surely, he’ll want to leave sooner, rather than later.

Maybe Techno has forgotten all about their stupid mediation for today. They’ve been doing it for ages, every day since it all went down, and Tommy is getting sick of closing his eyes and acting like it’s doing anything. Maybe Techno is so focused on his hunt that he’ll—

“Tommy. With me.”

Damn it. Fuck it all.

“For meditation again?” Tommy asks weakly, scampering after him.

Techno shrugs. “Sort of.” He doesn’t elaborate. Not even when they pass their spot in the usual sitting room, instead walking still as Techno goes to the closet to grab his pouch.

“Get dressed,” Techno instructs. “You’re foraging too.”

An uncomfortable tug makes its way to Tommy’s chest. “I don’t have magic,” Tommy reminds him weakly. “I can’t really forage, anymore.” Not as good, anyway, not as expertly as when he’s in his raccoon-shape. Tommy’s shifted form has a sharp nose and quick fingers—not to mention an elevated sense of taste. He can sniff out the ripest of berries and the best of mushrooms, picking them up with grubby hands and itching fingers.

Really, Tommy is better at almost everything while shifted. As a raccoon, it’s easy for Tommy to run circles around enemies, lending his magic outwards and biting the ankles of any evil-doers. As a human? Well, maybe if he had his magic, he’d be fine. But he doesn’t. He’s about as useless as the next guy.

“That’s fine,” Techno rumbles. “Get dressed.”

Gods. Fuck this. This is going to suck.

Begrudgingly, Tommy heads upstairs to change into a new shirt and some trousers. He grabs his shawl last second, unused to having to use it. But he doesn’t have fur to keep him warm anymore. Just his skin.

As Techno and Tommy head out, Tommy falls in line behind Techno. Techno, decidedly not stuck in his own magic, soon shifts into a large hog. His snout presses low to the ground, sniffing as he saunters down the grassy pathways.

“You know,” Tommy says bitterly, kicking up dirt as he watches Techno hard at work. “This feels a bit mocking. A bit rude, some may say.”

Techno, the literal pig, does not say anything. The bastard.

“Why am I even out here?” Tommy complains, stepping over the root of a tree and promptly tripping over a stone. “You know I can’t forage on my own, and if you’re a pig, I can’t even talk to you. It’s like—”

The hog stops, turning to Tommy with a dry glare.

Right. Silence. Fantastic.

Tommy follows after with burning cheeks. He tries to pretend it’s just the chill in the air.

Finally, Techno brings them both to a berry bush. It’s filled with raspberries, just like the ones in the tea that Tommy has been choking down, and he cringes.

“Are these good ones or bad ones?” Tommy asks, getting to his knees and leaning forward. “I can’t smell them.”

Techno snorts, but he gives no sign of an answer. Just looks up at Tommy with dark eyes.

“Techno, come on, man. You’re the pig, here. Tell me which ones to get.”

Techno snorts again, leaning his snout forward to nudge at Tommy’s hands.

Right. Okay. Right. Magic. The magic he doesn’t have. The magic that Techno wants him to find.

“Techno, seriously,” Tommy scowls, taking his hands away from Techno and rubbing them together. “I can’t do it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Techno grunts and shakes his head before finally shifting back into his human form. “We need to reconnect you with your magic,” Techno says, as if that explains anything that he didn’t already know. “You and Wilbur both have studies of magic that focus on the universe. The Earth. Wilbur’s divination brings him closer to the world. As his familiar, yours will too.” He motions towards the bush. “Tell me if they’re ripe.”

Tommy’s nose wrinkles. Fuck. His first test. He leans closer, ready to get a good look, but Techno pushes him back up. “Without looking.”

“What?” Tommy exclaims.

“Close your eyes.”

“I don’t have to close my eyes, prick, I get what you’re asking—”

“Close them.”

Tommy glares harshly before sighing dramatically, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Oh my gods, fine. Prime. Fuckin’…annoying prick,” Tommy finishes in a low mutter.

Either Techno doesn’t hear him, or Techno doesn’t care, because he doesn’t say anything to scold Tommy. “Try to push your magic outward. See if you can connect with the soil, the roots.”

What Tommy can see is that this is the stupidest shit ever. Still, he squeezes his eyes and desperately tries to feel any sort of connection.

Soil? He thinks, pushing his thoughts from his fingertips to the dirt. Roots? I guess? Please tell me if these berries are ready or not. Just…send me a sign. Like a bird. Or a fucking acorn, or some shit.

Nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t.

“Tommy?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tommy stutters, shifting from where he sits. “They’re, uh—they’re good! All good, all set, I bet. The ripest shit you’ve ever seen. Just so…so…”

Techno doesn’t respond. Tommy squints one of his eyes open.

Fuck. Techno’s face is just as unreadable as usual.

“They’re not,” Techno grunts.

Fuck.

Face still solemn, Techno rises. “Let’s go. We’ll try again.”

And godsdamn, does Tommy try again. He tries, and tries, and tries. He walks through the woods with a sweeping gaze, desperately trying to find some sort of mushroom, a ripe bush, hell, even a cool stone by this point.

He doesn’t. He can’t. Techno and Tommy come home empty handed, and Wilbur’s reading was still true.

Techno doesn’t say anything as they unload their empty packs. The shame burns in Tommy’s cheeks, only made worse when Wilbur comes from down the hall.

“Did it work?” He asks, and the hesitation in his tone is clear to everyone. “Were you able to find something?”

Techno grunts, shaking his head.

No. They didn’t. Tommy didn’t, Techno didn’t.

Wilbur’s magic is gone, and outrunning misfortune is fucking impossible.

Techno doesn’t say he’s disappointed—he doesn’t have to, because he doesn’t say anything. His gaze is stern and he packs away his stuff in silence. He leaves soon, only stopping to pat Wilbur’s shoulder. Sorry , it says, and the motion is humiliating, shameful. Sorry that your magic is gone. Sorry that Tommy is a failure. Sorry that we’re all destined to be doomed, and there is nothing we can do about it.

Wilbur watches Techno go with a forlorn glance. Then his gaze turns back to Tommy, and it evens out.

Tommy watches nervously. “Wil—” he starts, but Wilbur puts up one of his hands.

“It’s fine,” he rasps, shaking his head. “It’s fine.” Wilbur turns away, and Tommy knows it’s a lie. “We’ll figure it out.”

When Wilbur leaves, Tommy goes right into the kitchen.

Tommy’s not good at making tea. The water is scorching hot, the flavor too bitter, the tea burning his tongue with every single sip.

Tommy drinks one cup, then another. Anything to get his magic back. Anything to even try.

When Tommy awakes, the sky is still a looming grey. He walks down the steps, dread already washing over him with every heartbeat. It’s been almost a month now, and they’re still stuck. Any optimism has withered and decayed. Desperation is one of the only things left. That, and Tommy’s dread, which only worsens as he reaches the bottom of the steps.

“Please, Phil, please,” Wilbur pleads. When Tommy pokes his head in, he’s gripping onto Phil’s arm. “I don’t want you going out. Anything could happen to you out there. If something bad happens—and something bad will happen, Phil, we both see the card—”

“Wilbur,” Phil soothes, bringing up a hand to pat at Wilbur’s. “It’ll be alright, mate. I know the risks.”

“Yeah, so do I, and I’m telling you it’s not worth it.”

“This could be the key to getting your magic back, Wil,” Phil says, and Tommy can feel his blood freeze in his veins. “If I can find this pearl, I should be able to unblock your magic. Yours and Tommy’s, Wilbur. It’s worth it. Not having it is ruining you both, you’ve both been absolutely miserable.”

“I’ll be more miserable if something happens to you. Seriously, Phil, I don’t—”

“Wil. It is okay . You’re being dramatic. I’ll be alright, yeah? It’s not like it’s telling me I’m going to die or something.”

“It could be. It very well could be—”

“I’ll have Techno with me. Techno’s reading had been alright, hadn’t it?”

A beat of silence.

“Phil…”

“Wilbur. I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry, mate, seriously.” Phil brings Wilbur into a hug. Yearning almost dozes Tommy over—has he gotten a hug, since his magic disappeared? Since everything went to waste?

“Where?” Tommy asks, finally walking through the doorway. “Are we coming with?”

Phil frowns. “No, mate. Just Techno and I. The trek is going to be hard, and without magic I’m a bit nervous you’ll…”

Ruin shit, Tommy silently finishes for him. Just like last time .

“Wilbur will be home, too,” Phil continues, as if that makes it much better. “So you won’t be by yourself.”

Techno enters the room then, cloak already draped along his shoulders.

“Techno,” Wilbur argues, stumbling over himself to trail after the man. “You’re really still letting Phil go? He could get hurt out there, something serious could happen—”

“It won’t.”

“Wh—what do you mean, it won’t? We all just saw that it will—”

“It won’t,” Techno gruffs, tugging on his boots. “I’ll watch him, Wil. He’ll be alright.”

Wilbur throws his hands in the air. “Oh, for fucks sake.”

Any amount of arguing proves to be for nothing. Phil and Techno still go, leaving behind Wilbur’s worries and Tommy’s shame.

“Fuck,” Wilbur mutters. He turns to Tommy with shaded eyes. “I guess we just…wait.”

The hours tick by slowly. Wilbur stays on the sofa. His guitar lies across his lap, but he doesn’t play it. He just stares at the door aimlessly.

Tommy stays with him. Typically, when Wilbur is this anxious, Tommy would shift and curl into his chest, focusing on his heartbeat and lending magic to soothe him.

He can’t do that now. He’s not sure Wilbur would want him to anyway.

The sun has almost sunk in the sky by the time the doorknob finally starts to twist. Wilbur is on his feet in an instant, rushing forward to open the door. “Phil!” He cries out, and Tommy’s heart sinks to his chest as Phil and Techno walk in.

They’re both absolutely soaked. Water drips from their hair and hangs from their clothes. Their shoes squelch as they enter the door.

They both look like shit, but Phil, hanging off of Techno’s shoulder, manages to look worse. Water drips from his hair and form as he shivers. Hell, the man limps into the room, putting his weight against Techno as he flashes Wilbur a weak smile. “Hey, Wil,” he greets, going willingly as Wilbur pulls him into the sitting room.

“Gods, I knew it.” Wilbur is rambling, hands coming together as he frets over Phil. “I knew it. I told you something bad was going to happen, I told you. You shouldn’t have gone, Phil, you shouldn’t have. I told you it was dangerous, I told you—”

“Yes, yes, you told me,” Phil says, waving Wilbur off. “I’m fine, Wil, seriously. I’m just cold.”

“His ankle’s sprained,” Techno outs, and he stares at Phil with a level-head as the man glares up at him. “No point in lyin’ to him, Phil. He’d find out anyway.”

“I absolutely would,” Wilbur mutters, quickly crossing the house to grab towels.

Tommy watches with a sinking heart from the corner of the room. Phil shivers almost violently, even when Wilbur comes back and begins to layer towel after towel on top of him. Techno comes back in a different pair of clothes, carrying a small bag of ice. He leans down to unlace Phil’s boot.

“Can I help?” Tommy asks weakly, leaning forward. “Is there anything I can do?”

Phil scoffs. “I’m fine. These two are just worry-warts—”

“You fell off a crumbling cliff into the ocean,” Techno deadpans. It’s said like a joke, but frustration laces through his tone, and they all know it’s not. “I wouldn’t say that that’s fine.”

“Well, I’m fine now,” Phil grumbles. “At home, safe and warm. Perfectly alright.”

Techno frowns, but doesn’t bother pushing any further. “Tommy. Grab some tea.”

It’s a task that Tommy can finally do, so he scampers upward and towards the kitchen.

He’s far more careful with this tea than he was with his own. He pulls the kettle off the moment it begins to whistle, and he skips over the disgusting raspberry tea and puts in a peppermint instead. He adds some honey and stirs as well as he can. Giving it a test sip—it’s good, thank fuck, Tommy practically deflates in relief—he speeds back to the living room, tea almost sloshing over the sides in his haste—

Tommy stops as he enters. Wilbur is wrapped in Phil’s embrace, and Tommy suddenly feels like he’s walked in on something personal.

“Really, I’m alright, Wil,” Phil murmurs. His voice is gentle, soothing. It makes Tommy’s entire core ache. “It was just a stumble.”

“I could have stopped it,” Wilbur says weakly, voice muffled in Phil’s cloak. “I wish I could have stopped it.”

Phil sighs. The breath lands in Wilbur’s curls. “I know, mate, I know. It’s not your fault.”

No, it’s not. It’s not Wilbur’s fault.

It’s Tommy’s fault. Tommy’s got to find a way to fix things.

When Tommy walks in, he acts like he hasn’t been watching in secret. “So did you get the pearl?”

“No,” Techno rumbles. Frustration still clings to his tone, even as his face stays solid. “It wasn’t what we thought.”

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Phil sighs, immediately clutching shaking fingers around the warmth of the mug. “There was a guardian at the pearl’s cove.”

“Never a great sign,” Techno grumbles.

“No,” Phil breathes, taking a sip of the tea. “It’s not. Apparently, there have been several pearls throughout history. But each time one was used…”

“It fucked people up?” Tommy suggests weakly. His heart is beginning to sink into his stomach. If this pearl isn’t going to work, how is Tommy supposed to bring their magic back? Where is he supposed to go?

“The magic is too strong. It completely overtakes the user.”

It’s stupid—Tommy knows it’s stupid—but he can’t help the small flare of hope that sparks between his ribcage. “But it would bring the magic back still?”

“At the expense of one of you,” Techno rumbles. He raises his hand to flick at Tommy’s forehead. “Which we’re not doin’.”

“Fuck,” Wilbur mumbles, sinking into the couch and putting his face in his hands. “So we’re back to the start.”

“Essentially.”

Wilbur frowns. “And you both got hurt.”

“I didn’t,” Techno rumbles. “Just Phil.”

“And not badly,” Phil interjects, sending a light glare towards Techno. He places a soothing hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, mate. We can still explore plenty of other options. We just need to dig a little.”

The three continue to talk after that—Tommy couldn’t possibly say about what. He isn’t really paying attention.

Sure, the pearl sounds…dangerous. Certainly not great. But the people who had it before already had magic—maybe the additional magic was just too much to bare. But Tommy? Right now, Tommy doesn’t have any magic. Or, rather, he does, but it’s all stuck and shit. If Tommy was able to find the pearl, maybe…

“Hey.”

Tommy jumps. Wilbur is standing in front of him now, a small frown tugging at his lips. “Are you alright, Tommy?”

Wilbur can’t know about Tommy’s epic plan. Wilbur is dumb, and he won’t think it’s epic, but Tommy knows that it is. Or at least, it will be, once they both have their magic back, and everything is normal again. “Yeah,” he stutters quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine, Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s eyes droop as he looks at Tommy. He seems sad. He seems tired. “We’ll be alright, Toms,” he says gently, bringing him into a loose hug.

It’s the first hug that Tommy’s gotten since their magic was zapped away. Tommy doesn’t deserve it. Not yet, not until he fixes this. Tears bite at his eyes, and he clenches them shut to get rid of them. Wilbur’s chin is resting in his hair, and it takes every part of Tommy to not lean forward and hide his burning face in Wilbur’s chest.

It’s over too soon—it’s over not soon enough. Wilbur draws back, and Tommy can’t tell if his skin burns from yearning or shame.

When everyone drifts off to their respective bedrooms, Tommy crawls into his nest of blankets and stares at his ceiling.

The pearl could be dangerous. It must be, if it has a fucking guardian sticking around it.

But Tommy thinks of Wilbur’s fidgeting fingers, his soft cries, his trembling hands, and how it’s all his own fault.

It’s Tommy’s job to fix this. And fix this, he shall.

It takes a week for everyone to leave again. A long week of useless meditation, bitter tea, of forlorn glances and disappointed stares.

When Tommy comes down the stairs this morning, everyone is making a ruckus in the sitting room. Techno is putting together a large pack, Phil is tying his cloak while Wilbur ties his shoes.

“What’s going on?” Tommy asks wearily, voice still wrought with sleep.

“We’ve got a lead,” Phil explains distractedly, crossing to the kitchen to grab a few glass jars. “We’ve found someone who can hopefully open up Wilbur’s magic.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, finally stepping from the stairs into the downstairs. “Cool. Are we leaving right now?”

Everyone in the room falters. Phil stills from where he’s placing a potion into the pack, Techno’s hands slow on the zipper of his pack, and Wilbur’s eyes flick upward from his shoes to Tommy.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, and his voice is low, thick, and fuck, Tommy already knows what that means. “You’re going to stay here.”

Even expected, the words still catch like flames. “What?” Tommy cries. “Why? That doesn’t make any sense!”

When Phil steps forward, his hands are raised in a soothing motion. “Neither of you have magic, mate. If anything happens out there, you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself.”

“Bullshit. Wilbur’s going out there too, and he doesn’t have any magic! If anything, I’m a better fighter than him—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts, and shit. Tommy withers like a dead, drying plant, because Wilbur looks exhausted, and exasperated, and a little upset, and Tommy remembers how this all started in the first place. “You’re going to stay here. Seriously, this time. We can’t afford another slip like last time.”

The scorn burns in Tommy’s cheeks. Shame makes him fall silent, shifting to a silent corner of the room as everyone gets ready.

“We’ll be back tonight,” Techno rumbles, placing a quick hand on Tommy’s shoulder as he passes.

Phil slips through the door with Techno, but Wilbur falters once he reaches the doorframe. “Please, Tommy,” he says. “Don’t follow us this time. Promise me.”

His witch asks, and Tommy realizes that he won’t even be lying when he answers. “I promise, Wil.”

Wilbur sighs. “Alright. Thank you, Toms. If all goes well…”

We’ll have our magic back by tonight. Wilbur doesn’t say it, but Tommy knows that they’re both thinking it. Saying it out loud feels like jinxing it, so Wilbur lets it falter in the open air.

That’s alright. Wilbur slips through the door, and Tommy isn’t saying everything either.

This is his witch. Tommy owes him everything—not just because they share wells of magic, or because Tommy is supposed to be under his command. But Wilbur is the one who found him all those years ago, living in the woods and half-drowning in his survival instincts. Yet, for all the animal that Tommy had come home as—a boy, sure, but snarling and chittering and refusing real help—Wilbur had been there. Wilbur had given him food, a home, a coven, and Tommy truly, genuinely, owes him his life for it.

We’ll have our magic back by tonight, Wilbur had implied, but Tommy is doing more than just implying it. He’s going to make sure of it.

Giving it long enough that his coven will be long gone, Tommy scampers around the house. His old boots are pulled on and his shawl is tugged over his shoulders. It takes longer for Tommy to go through all of Phil’s old papers and Techno’s worn maps. Finally, Tommy finds what he’s looking for: a drawn path to the pearl. It’s a bit far—far enough that Tommy grimaces looking at it. He’s not sure how far this other wizard is, but hopefully further than Tommy’s pearl. If Techno said they’d be home by tonight, then Tommy will just make sure he’s home by this evening.

This shouldn’t be too hard , Tommy thinks to himself, out of the house and down the grassy mountainside. I’m practically an expert. We’ll have our magic back in no time.

It takes a few hours for Tommy to reach the large stony ravine. The stone path is jagged alongside the river. The ravine is absolutely towering, cliffs edging over crystal pools of water that run down the stone below. Tommy edges along nervously, chittering when the occasional small rock tumbles or kicks underneath his feet.

“Fuck,” Tommy mutters, dancing from foot to foot. “Shit. Damn it.”

Phil fell from this cliff, and he had wings.

At least Tommy knows it’s unstable. He won’t be caught off guard by the crumbling rock underneath his feet.

Tommy edges closer, closer, closer, to the edge of the cliffside.

The pearl should be down there somewhere. In some sort of cave.

There’s nothing left for Tommy to do, but…

“Oh,” Tommy whines, taking a few steps back. “This is going to suck.”

And it does. Tommy sprints off of the rocky terrain, springing outwards and into the air—

“Fuck!” Tommy screams, the entire way down.

Then he’s crashing into the solid water below.

There’s a moment in which Tommy can’t even move. He’s frozen underneath the bubbling stream. But fuck, the shock ends quickly, and Tommy is going to drown down here if he doesn’t get himself the fuck up now.

Tommy gasps for air the second he crests the water. The water is absolutely frigid. Tommy can feel his body begin to tense up, but he desperately thrashes until he’s reached the rocky shore of the cove.

“Holy shit,” Tommy gasps once he’s finally able to slam himself onto the stone floor. “Holy shit. Fuck. Prime.”

Still on his back, taking desperate breaths, Tommy tilts his chin upward, looking behind him.

The maps were accurate. Tommy wouldn’t know what to do if he had to get back in the water just to find the right cove—but it seems like he won’t have to. The cave along the river’s edge is long and deep. It’s darker the further in one goes, but the blue of the water reflects upward into the darkness, creating a small cavern of shimmering light. It’s completely empty, aside from a hunk of stone in the center of the cave. There—in the center of the stone, right where it divots into a bowl—sits a small, smooth pearl.

Still exhausted, and shivering from the cold of the water, Tommy manages to scramble upward.

The pearl shines against the iridescent light of the water. It’s about the size of a small bead, or maybe a fresh blueberry—Tommy could pick it up right now, with just two fingers. And he’s going to do just that.

Holding his breath, Tommy reaches out a trembling hand, ready to grab it and go—

“Man, three people in one week?”

Tommy jumps backward. He instinctively reaches for his magic, trying to tug it forward, and fuck, he doesn’t have that right now. Frantically, Tommy surveys the entrance of the cove.

At first, Tommy doesn’t see anything. He’s looking too high up; his gaze drops to the edge of the stream, and that’s when he sees it.

“You people just keep on coming!”

It’s a…man? Maybe a man? A merman, maybe, except for his face doesn’t look quite right for that, and gods, who the fuck is this person?

His face is normal enough, but where his arms are propped upward, Tommy can see that he doesn’t exactly have…elbows. Or natural arms. It’s as if his arms are wings, one solid hunk of muscle decked in white feathers. Tommy tries to glance further. He’s got feet, not a tail, but they’re…weird. All webbed ‘n shit.

“No need to be rude,” the weird duck-man scowls, “you got a staring problem or something? Huh?”

“No,” Tommy rushes to say, “no, of course not. Sorry, so sorry. Just, you look…”

The man raises a dry eyebrow. “What, you’ve never seen one of these before?” He raises one of his wing-arms upward.

“Not really,” Tommy mutters, before shaking his head. Fuck, he’s not here for random duck strangers right now. Decisively, Tommy turns back around, reaching out for the pearl once more—

“Hey, I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Tommy groans, rolling his eyes and whipping back around. “What, is that all you came here to say?”

The duck-man raises both of his wing-arms in a shrug. “Hey man, I’m just telling you! If you want to burn yourself alive or whatever, go ahead.”

That gets Tommy to pause. “Burn myself alive?” He asks nervously.

The duck-man shrugs again. “Happened to the first man who used the pearl. Had fire powers. Got into some stupid argument about the sun. Then he,” the man waves one of his wings, “you get it.”

Tommy sniffles, straightening. “Well, I don’t have fire powers. So I won’t have to worry about that shit.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, you’ll just have to worry about some other shit. Listen, if you want to steadily burn up, or turn into a zombie, or implode on yourself—”

“The fuck does that mean—”

“—then go ahead, man!”

“I will!” Tommy scowls, turning back to the pearl. “I will, I will go ahead.” He’s quick to snatch it into his fingers, but immediately cringes backward.

He waits for any sort of burning. He waits for his skin to start rotting, he waits to explode, or whatever it is the duck-man had said.

There’s…nothing. Nothing?

Nothing except for the sudden laughter from behind him.

“Alright, prick,” Tommy growls, whipping around and ignoring the rising heat in his cheeks. “You lied!”

The man laughs even harder. “What, you thought it was going to happen right now? And you still grabbed it!”

“You’re a right-bastard, you are! Stop fuckin’ laughing at me!”

“You should have seen yourself! You looked like you were going to shit yourself—”

“Shut up, man,” Tommy growls, willing his embarrassment to settle down. “How was I supposed to know it wouldn’t work right away?”

The man’s laughter trails off with hiccuping chuckles. “You don’t just hold it like that.”

“Well then, tell me how to do it already!”

When the man sighs, it echoes throughout the cavern. “You’ve got to ingest it.”

“Ingest it?” Tommy squints his eyes. “This isn’t another trick, is it?”

“I didn’t even trick you the first time,” the man points out. “You’re the one who thought it’d kill you right away.”

Fuck. Touché. “So I just swallow it?” Tommy asks skeptically. “I eat it, or something?”

The man shrugs.

Tommy scowls. “Aren’t you supposed to be the pearl’s guardian, or some shit?”

Another shrug. “Hey, I never said that. And I already warned you what would happen, the fuck else am I supposed to do?”

Touché, yet again. Shit.

“Well, if you are done being totally annoying,” Tommy says, looking down to stuff the pearl into his pouch. “Then I am going to—”

Tommy looks up, and there’s no one there. Just the bubbling edge of an empty stream.

“Motherfucker,” Tommy breathes, staring out at the water. “That absolute bastard!”

The trek out of the ravine is horrible. Phil’s got wings, he’s sure that Phil probably flew himself and Techno right out—but Tommy doesn’t have any of that. He’s just got himself, and a rope with a hook at the end.

“This’ll be worth it,” Tommy grits as he struggles to climb a wall of rock. His breath comes out in heavy pants. “You’ll get your magic back,” he breathes, “and everyone will love you, and you’ll be the coolest ever.”

Despite this being the worst journey of Tommy’s entire life, he still makes it back home before the sun has gone down. Tommy can’t slow now. It’s almost night, and that means his coven will be walking through the door any minute, now.

Tommy rushes to grab the kettle and a small pouch of raspberry-tea leaves. Tommy’s got to make sure he’s as ready for his magic as possible—even if it means drinking another cup of shitty-rasberry tea in order to “open his core,” or whatever the fuck Phil says.

As if it's a pill, Tommy places the pearl on his tongue. And, as if it’s bad medicine, Tommy takes a quick, large swig of the raspberry tea, cringing as he swallows it all down in one.

“Fuck , that’s awful,” Tommy gasps as he feels the pearl moving down his throat. “That’s just horrid, really.”

Horrid, sure, but done now. Tommy’s done it, Tommy’s eaten the pearl, and now he just…waits. He waits until—

There.

It’s as though a firework has begun sparkling in his gut. It sparks and simmers all the way up to Tommy’s chest, his legs, his fingers—

“Oh my gods,” Tommy breathes, because holy shit, this is it. This is his magic. It’s here, it’s here, and—

The door clicks open, and Tommy is off like a rocket.

“Wilbur!” Tommy shouts as his coven steps through the door. They don’t look too happy—Techno’s jaw is tight, and Phil’s face is slumped, and Wilbur’s brow is furrowed into a wrinkle, but fuck that, they’ll be happy in a moment! Tommy pushes past the older witch and his familiar, instead latching onto Wilbur’s arm and dragging him into the house.

“Tommy,” Wilbur sighs, “I’m not in the mood. Please let me—” Tommy gets to the center of the sitting room, right where they do their mediations, and pushes Wilbur to the ground. “Tommy!”

“Just wait, just wait a second,” Tommy rushes, falling to the ground in front of him and quickly sitting with his legs crossed.

This has to work. It has to. Magic and energy buzzes through Tommy’s veins and across his skin, like a plethora of stars erupting in every cell, freckle, mole.

Please work, Tommy begs in his mind, reaching out to clutch Wilbur’s wrists in his. Please, please, please…

“Seriously, Tommy, I’m tired. I don’t want to—”

Wilbur doesn’t get to finish. Tommy places his fingers against Wilbur’s veins and allows his magic to rush forward. It surges forward like a bubbling river, desperately seeking for Wilbur’s well of magic. It takes only a moment to get to it—only a moment before Tommy can feel smooth fur, cool brushes of air, the motion of a single droplet of water rippling throughout the steady pond of magic.

Tommy wills his magic to reach out, to grasp onto it with desperate, nimble fingers.

He grabs it—he pulls.

Finally—after weeks of absence, of nothing—Wilbur’s magic responds in kind. It feels as though Tommy’s been caught in a wide field, wind blowing through his hair as his fingertips brush the tall grass. It feels as though the fireplace has been started, and the flames flicker and dance in the same beat as Wilbur’s songs. It feels as though everything has finally clicked right back into place.

Wilbur gasps. A large, dramatic gasp, the kind that raises his chest and widens his eyes, gleaming behind the glass of his round spectacles.

Their magic sparks and swirls and dances where it connects, as if meeting with an old friend. Then it finally settles, like leaves that have finished tumbling with the wind.

The house is silent. Tommy and Wilbur look at each other, wide-eyed.

Then—

“Holy shit, Tommy!” Wilbur cheers, throwing his arms around him. “You’ve done it!”

“Done it?” Phil asks, and he peers forward to observe them both. “Your magic is back?”

“Yes!” Wilbur breathes, squeezing Tommy even tighter before drawing back. “I don’t understand! How?”

It worked. Holy shit, it worked, and fuck all the damn warnings that the duck-bitch had given him, because Tommy has never felt better in his life. “You know me,” Tommy crows proudly, “Just meditating ‘n shit. I am just so strong and powerful and balanced—”

“That’s it?” Techno rumbles, and Tommy falters in his boasting. Wilbur looks enthused, Phil just looks relieved, but Techno looks…cautious. Skeptical. “That’s all you did?”

Fuck. “Yup,” Tommy lies, fighting to keep the grin on his face. “I guess you know your shit, Techno.”

Techno continues to stare at him for a long moment—even as Phil begins to flitter around the room, and Wilbur lets go of Tommy to flex his fingers again and again.

Then—finally—Techno sighs. His face drops as he rubs at it. “I didn’t think it would actually work. Not this well.”

“Well it did, bitch!” Tommy yells, jumping up from the floor and barreling into Techno’s arm. “I’m just that cool!”

“Uh-huh.”

“And amazing, and awesome, and—”

A weight on Tommy’s back causes him to falter off. It’s Wilbur, leaning against his shoulder with a contented sigh. “Thank fuck, Tommy. You did well. Thank you. I’m glad you found a way to do it.”

The nerves from Techno’s earlier skepticism, from the duck man's earlier warnings, flick off with each word of Wilbur’s relief, praise. It was Tommy’s fault that this all happened in the first place, but now he’s fixed it. All by his fucking self. And as his coven heads to the kitchen to celebrate with honeyed tea and jam pastries, Tommy can’t bring himself to regret it for a single second.

For the first time in weeks, Tommy is excited to wake up. He shifts into his raccoon fur halfway down the stairs. Scampering on small hands and feet, Tommy finds his way to Wilbur’s seat of pillows and blankets, jumping on him from behind.

“Hey,” Wilbur laughs, grabbing Tommy and forcing him to settle against his side. “You want to fight? Huh? Huh?”

Tommy chitters and snarls playfully. They haven’t played in forever! It’s been so long since Tommy’s been able to slip into his second form.

Wilbur slips a hand over Tommy’s face and snout, forcing him into darkness. “Too bad. We’ve got stuff to do. Futures to read. Futures to change.” Wilbur grins. “About time.”

Phil is the one who sits next to Wilbur first. Techno stays on his side of the blankets, sitting opposite to everyone. Phil asks about his future—just for the day, just as he plans to forage—and Wilbur gets to work.

The cards shuffle and cascade in Wilbur’s masterful hands. They shift and dance and tumbles, and Wilbur never lets a single card fall. Finally, he’s satisfied, and he tilts the deck towards Phil. “Split.”

With his left hand, Phil splits the deck, placing the bottom on the top. Then Wilbur draws the top card, placing it on a small wooden table in front of them.

“Ah,” Phil sighs, leaning forward to look at the reversed card of The High Priestess. “Not great, then.”

“No,” Wilbur agrees. “For foraging, I’d say your intuition is likely to be shot. You’ll be missing a lot of information. About your surroundings, maybe, or possibly a new kind of plant?” Yeesh. Neither of those things sound great, but Wilbur doesn’t sound defeated. If anything, he sounds a little giddy. “Alright. You ready, Tommy? Maybe we should have practiced this a little before…”

Tommy chitters eagerly, hitting Wilbur’s arm with his tiny hand. They don’t need practice, they’ve got this. Tommy worked hard to get Wilbur’s powers back—what was the point of all that if Wilbur is too nervous to use it?

“Alright, alright,” Wilbur concedes, brushing a hand over Tommy’s head before holding his palms outward.

A spectacle of light and stars flickers and shines above Wilbur’s hands. He takes one of the hands, pointing a nimble finger towards one of the stars, and shifting it, just a millimeter—

Tommy opens his eyes.

Tommy…opens his eyes?

That’s weird. He doesn’t remember ever closing them.

And—not to mention—where the fuck is he? Or rather, how did he get here? He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, no longer shifted into his fur. Wilbur is there too, seated at the table as he scribbles into a notebook.

What the fuck?

“Wilbur,” Tommy tries, a bit awkward. “What the fuck?”

Wilbur hums, his eyes still on the book beneath him. “Hm?”

The floor beneath Tommy’s feet feels solid enough. The world around him seems real. His witch doesn’t seem too worried, but Tommy…Tommy can’t recall—

“Wilbur,” Tommy tries again, “Has anything…weird happened?”

Wilbur glances upward with furrowed brows. “Weird?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, “like…oh, I don’t know. Any…memory-fuckery, for you?”

A frown quickly pulls at Wilbur’s lips. “Memory-fuckery? Tommy, this doesn’t have anything to do with your magic earlier, does it?”

“No!” Fuck, maybe it does, but Wilbur is frowning, and worried, and Tommy can figure this out on his own, if it keeps Wilbur from being scared. “No, no, of course not. I…I just—”

Tommy doesn’t get to finish before the door opens behind him. Phil and Techno both lumber in, sullen faces and pinched brows occupying both of their faces.

“Phil, Techno,” Wilbur greets, rising from his seat to greet them. “Any luck with the foraging?”

Phil sighs, hanging his bag on a nearby hook. “Nothing. We’ll have to wait on some of those potions, mate.”

“Nothing?” God, Tommy’s head hurts. Why the fuck isn’t anyone making any sense? “You didn’t find anything at all?”

“Nothin’ useful,” Techno grumbles, brushing past Tommy to go into the kitchen.

Tommy frowns. Shit, maybe the pearl didn’t work after all. “But we used magic,” Tommy says, but he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t even know if they did. He remembers leaning against Wilbur’s side, he remembers Phil splitting the deck and receiving his reading, but Tommy…

Wilbur frowns again, deeper this time. “Tommy, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Tommy lies, because holy shit, how did Tommy get here? What happened after that spell? Why can’t Tommy just…

Hiding from Wilbur has always been impossible. Tommy could never do it for long, and now is apparently no different. Wilbur frowns and places his notebook on the table, reaching out towards Tommy with gentle hands—

Tommy blinks and flinches backward.

He’s…a raccoon. He’s a raccoon again, shifted, and as he catches his breath he realizes that he’s still tucked into Wilbur’s side. Wilbur, who’s got his magic star-chart projected in his hands, and is now staring down at Tommy with tugged lips.

Tommy is…back?

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, and it takes everything in Tommy not to startle again. “Everything alright?”

Shit, Tommy has no clue. What the fuck just happened? What the hell just…

Tommy nods, but not fast enough. Wilbur’s hands lower, and his brows pinch in the center. “Are you sure, Tommy?”

Wilbur looks weary, and tired, and this time Tommy nods as quickly as he can. Fuck, fuck, he can’t ruin this for him! He can’t ruin this for Wilbur, even though his head still lingers with a residual fog, and he still doesn’t know what the fuck happened to him.

Wilbur used his magic and Tommy…disappeared? Saw the future? Went to an alternate universe? He doesn’t know. Fuck, he doesn’t know. Damn it all.

Thankfully, Wilbur takes Tommy’s nod at face value. He picks up the cards, reshuffles them, and has Phil split the deck once more. This time, when he flips the top card, The Empress card stares back up at them.

“Good,” Wilbur sighs. “This is a sign of abundance and nourishment. Nurturing, and all that.” This is typically where Tommy would make a joke about Birdza and The card thinks you’re a mother, Phil, haha, but shock still has its grip over Tommy’s mouth.

“Your forage should go alright, now.” Wilbur says, relief flooding his tone, but none of that relief quite reaches Tommy. Tension and anxiety edges through Tommy’s magic and vibrates through his bloodstream.

That…vision…could have been a one-off. Maybe Tommy just…isn’t used to his magic yet! Maybe he really did need a practice round, and now that that’s out of the way, he’ll be good to use his magic completely consequence-free for the rest of time!

Tommy doesn’t know if he wants to find out.

But Techno replaces Phil and gets a similarly bad card, and Tommy’s not going to have a choice.

“Just a moment,” Wilbur murmurs, opening his palms and revealing another chart of stars. Tommy tenses, clutching onto Wilbur’s arm as Wilbur shifts one of the blips of light—

Tommy blinks.

His entire coven is in the kitchen, now. Wilbur and Phil sit at the table, going over a few old maps and speaking in quiet, gentle tones. Tommy is standing next to Techno at the counter.

Fuck. Tommy doesn’t remember how he got here. He doesn’t remember finishing the readings, he doesn’t remember anything past holding onto Wilbur’s arm for dear life.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Pass the peppers.”

Tommy flinches. Techno stands above a cutting board, slicing onions into small cubes.

Techno pauses. Looks up. “Tommy.”

Holy shit. Tommy blinks frantically in a desperate attempt to go back to normal. Does Techno realize that something is going on? Does he realize that Tommy is losing his fucking mind? He doesn’t remember anything, he feels foggy, he feels like a wisp of smoke that’s being threatened and pulled by the wind—

“Tommy.” Tommy flinches again. Techno raises a dry eyebrow. “The peppers.”

“Right,” Tommy breathes. “Right, yeah. Sorry, just…just too many—too many big thoughts, up in this brain.” Techno takes the peppers silently, and Tommy rambles over the panic in his chest. “Big, epic thoughts. Because I am so awesome. I am so awesome, and cool, and totally epic that I would never—”

A sharp hiss erupts from between Techno’s teeth. Tommy turns around just in time to see a flash of red dripping from Techno’s finger.

Techno mutters a curse under his breath, pressing a nearby rag against his wound.

“Holy shit, Techno,” Tommy exclaims. “Are you alright, man?”

Phil evidently hears Tommy’s concern, because he rises from the table. “Techno? Is everything alright, over there?”

“Just nicked myself,” Techno rumbles. Red is beginning to seep through the rag.

“Prime, Techno, that looks awful. Let me see it.”

From where he stands, Tommy can’t see the injury. He can, however, see Phil’s harsh wince. “Techno,” he exclaims, head rearing back. “How did you manage to cut yourself this badly?”

Techno shrugs, and though his face is still as solemn as ever, the tightness of his jaw gives him away. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine,” Phil huffs, wrapping the towel back around it. “Wil, grab a healing potion.”

“It’s that bad?” Wilbur leans forward. “Can I see it?”

“After you get the potion,” Phil says, waving him away.

Tommy isn’t sent to do anything—all he can do is stare.

It’s not bad. It’s not supposed to be. But the towel steadily grows more red, and Tommy just watches as it seeps through the cloth like slow ink.

“He’ll be alright, though?” Wilbur asks when he finally returns, a glistening red potion sloshing in its glass vial. “It’s not too terrible, is it?”

“Just let me see it,” Phil murmurs, taking the vial. Again, he peels back the cloth. Tommy still can’t see it, but he watches as his coven leans in and winces, as Phil uncorks the bottle and swishes it, as Techno tightens his jaw in preparation of what’s to come—

Tommy blinks.

He flinches from where he stands. Wilbur is across from him, putting back bundles of blankets and pillows.

Is he…back? Is he back to his own reality? It’s a little hard to say. His brain feels fuzzy.

When Wilbur looks up at Tommy, he frowns. “Are you sure you don’t want your reading done?” He asks. Tommy doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. He must have asked, somewhere between Tommy having his fucking fever dreams and right now. “We haven’t done yours in a while.”

“No,” Tommy says quickly, shaking his head in an effort to get rid of the fog. “It’s fine, man, promise. I’m just—I’m not used to using our magic, again, so…” Tommy waves a hand. “Tired ‘n shit, that’s all.”

Wilbur’s lips tug again. It feels like that’s all they do recently—the smiles from yesterday are proving to be a fluke. “Tired?” Wilbur asks, taking a step towards Tommy. “How? Are you feeling alright? You’re not feeling sick, are you?”

Fuck, Tommy doesn’t want it to be a fluke. He can’t have it be. “No, no, no,” Tommy jokes, shaking his head with a wide smile. “I never feel bad. I have only ever felt powerful, Wilbur, I have only ever felt strong and muscular—”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. This time, when his lips tug, they tug upward. “Alright, child. Leave, then, if you’re too powerful for a tarot reading—”

“I am! I am! My card would simply say Tommy is so strong and powerful, and Wilbur is a bitch—”

“It would not say that, and you know it.”

“You know it,” Tommy grumbles as Wilbur finishes picking up his doodads. Then Tommy is left behind as Wilbur exits the room.

Holy shit. What the fuck is happening? What the hell is going on?

A bit frantically, Tommy surveys the room he’s in.

It looks normal. It feels normal. Tommy’s head still feels a bit…off, but the world doesn’t feel unusual. It’s…real. Probably. Possibly.

But Tommy can’t be sure. Not yet.

With uncertain steps, Tommy makes his way to the kitchen. Phil is in there, packing the same green bag he had returned with empty during one of Tommy’s…dreams. Hallucinations? Visions.

“You’re leaving?” Tommy asks weakly.

“Got to forage, mate. We need to restock on a potion or two, and Wilbur wanted to experiment with a new recipe.”

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes, nodding his head repeatedly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Obviously.”

Shit. Tommy doesn’t know what this means. What any of it means, and it’s not exactly like he can ask.

Hey, you know that pearl that you said was a terrible idea and we should all forget about? I went to get it anyway, and now I’m seeing a bunch of visions. Thoughts?

That would absolutely not go well. Tommy took the pearl because he wanted to make his coven happy, not stress them out. Or he’d make them upset again, since Tommy broke yet another rule. Stay here, Wilbur had essentially said, and Tommy had fucked right off to get the dangerous pearl they all gave up on.

So when Phil goes out to forage, Tommy waits impatiently on the sofa. No one else waits around—Techno goes out to the garden, and Wilbur takes his guitar outside to practice more songs.

Tommy waits. Even when Techno comes in for lunch, or when Wilbur drops inside to pester him.

“Are you really going to spend all day in here?” He says, leaning on the back of the sofa. “You don’t want to go for a walk? Paint? Do anything?”

“Fuck off, Wilbur,” Tommy grumbles loudly. “Go back to writing your shitty love songs.”

“Alright, man,” Wilbur says, holding his hands up in surrender. “No need to be defensive about it. We’ll be outside if you need us.”

What Tommy needs is to know what the fuck is going on—but Wilbur can’t give that to him, so he stays on the sofa while Wilbur goes back to the garden.

It takes a long while for Phil to actually return. The front door opens and Tommy almost shits himself. Phil ambles in, his long wings brushing the door frame, and when he takes off the pack…

“What’d you get?” Tommy breathes, scrambling off of the couch and rushing to the bag.

It’s filled. Filled with jars of mushroom and herbs, different barks of trees and twigs of bushes.

“A few things,” Phil says. “It went well—really well. Looks like your magic really is back, mate.”

Relief and tension flood through Tommy’s body at once. They twist and wrap around each other, like oil and water pushing and tugging at one another uncomfortably.

Phil had a good forage, he got what he needed, he didn’t come home empty-handed. So what Tommy had seen weren’t visions of the future.

Or at least…not this future.

Tommy thinks of Phil’s original card. If Phil’s intuition had been fucked up—if he’d been unaware of where he was supposed to be looking…

He would have come home with nothing.

Just like the vision.

Fuck. That must be what Tommy is seeing. Wilbur changes the future, but Tommy—

He doesn’t get more time to think about it. Wilbur and Techno both enter the door, and Tommy forces the thought out of his head in favor of putting on a wide smile.

“Phil, how’d it go?” Wilbur breathes, looking a bit anxious as he looks over the table.

“It went fine, mate. You don’t have to worry, it all worked out. You did well.”

Wilbur practically deflates as his eyes catch on all of the different foragings. “Oh thank Prime,” he breathes, leaning weightlessly against Phil. “I thought maybe it’d take a while to get back into it.”

“Nope,” Techno grunts, patting Wilbur’s shoulder before brushing past him. “Get the things put away. Tommy, you’re with me for cooking duty.”

Oh shit. The other vision.

Usually, Tommy might complain about cooking duty. All for show, of course—secretly, he loves it. He loves spending time with his coven, and he loves helping, and he loves the smells that spiral across the room and tug at his tummy.

Right now, all Tommy can feel is the slight tug of dread.

Wordlessly, Tommy follows after Techno. And, unlike the vision, he is wordless as Techno dices onions and slices carrots.

“Pass the peppers,” he eventually rumbles, holding out a hand.

Tommy passes them silently.

The anticipation threatens to choke him. Tommy’s not sure what he’s hoping for—not sure what this means for him.

Techno slices one, two.

Tommy clenches his teeth every time the knife is cut downward. The blade gets closer to Techno’s finger, and Tommy cringes backward—

Techno gets through the third one. The knife is set aside, and Then he puts the diced pepper in a nearby wooden bowl.

Tommy doesn’t know if he gasps or sighs. It's a relief, sure, but it’s also realization.

Now Tommy knows for certain that they’re not visions of the future. It’s…other fucking realities? Possibilities? Dimensions? Tommy doesn’t know. Holy shit, he doesn’t know, but Wilbur used his magic and he changed the future and now—

“Tommy?”

Tommy is seeing the original future. He’s fucking living it, because Tommy had been right there, right next to them all—

“Tommy?”

Tommy jumps. Techno stares at him with a dry, raised brow. “Somethin’ goin’ on over there?”

Yes. “No,” Tommy breathes, pushing forward a head of lettuce, “fuck you.”

Techno makes it through the rest of dinner without cutting his finger once.

When Tommy wakes up, he doesn’t rush downstairs.

Wilbur will be waiting for him down there. Wilbur will be waiting with his tarot cards, and with his coven, and Tommy will have to wait to be struck with the most immersive visions of his entire fucking life.

Tommy doesn’t want to see it. It’s all so weird. It makes him feel confused and lost, like a little child wandering through a thick fog. It took forever for Tommy to finally feel real again yesterday.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice calls, echoing up the stairs and to Tommy’s room. “Are you coming down?”

Tommy doesn’t want to see it, but he doesn’t want Wilbur upset even more.

“I’m coming,” Tommy calls back, dragging himself out of bed and forcing himself down the stairs.

Shifted into his fur, Tommy feels even more like a small child. The world is so much bigger than him. This is all so much bigger than him.

“Ready?” Wilbur asks gently, shuffling the tarot cards as Tommy leans against his knee.

Alright, universe , Tommy thinks desperately, give them good cards. Please, please, please—

Phil is drawing his card first. He splits the deck and Wilbur flips the top card, and Tommy holds his breath.

“The Knight of Pentacles,” Wilbur says, brushing a hand over the designed image. “Good. You should be well and motivated in your endeavors today, Phil.”

Oh thank fuck. Tommy sighs in relief, sagging where he sits.

Techno replaces Phil next to Wilbur, watching silently as Wilbur shuffles through the cards again.

“Split.”

Techno’s card is brought forward.

“The Five of Wands.”

Shit. Shiit.

“Uh oh. Someone’s getting into a tossup with you,” Wilbur explains lightheartedly, as if it’s funny and not so fucking annoying. Why does everything always have to work against him, here?

Wilbur silently lights his palms once more, allowing the mirage of stars to flicker and dance above his hands. “Alright. Let’s try moving this one—”

Tommy blinks.

He’s back in his human skin. He’s lying against the sofa, back against the arm rest, and Tommy doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here.

The house looks normal enough. The fireplace across from him is still draped with the long thick socks from last Winter Solstice, and the flowers above the mantel are still lively and green.

Still, even taking stock of that is hard enough. Tommy’s mind feels all clogged up again. It’s hard for thoughts to form, even harder for them to stay there.

He would have hardly heard the front door click open, if not for slamming of bags against the floor and the rough shuffle of feet against the wooden floor.

“Hello?” Tommy calls, willing himself to peak over the back cushions of the sofa. Turns out, he doesn’t even have to get up; Wilbur comes marching through the door, glaring angrily at the ground as Techno shuffles in behind him, jaw tight and eyes dark.

“Guys?” Prime, the hell is their problem? “Are you two alright?”

“Oh, just fine,” Wilbur says, but his tone is laced with mace and sarcasm. “I couldn’t have imagined a better day for us two. Thank Techno that we were so productive today.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Techno grumbles. His tusks jut out from his lips.

“Wasn’t your fault? That was my fucking journal, Techno! I can’t even read the pages anymore!”

“I asked you to help and you didn’t, it’s not like I was trying to—”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich, Techno. Of course you’d be saying that—”

“Well what else do you want me to say, Wilbur, you haven’t been satisfied with anyth—”

Tommy rises from the sofa with arms raised. This is absolutely mental, and Tommy still doesn’t understand what happened! “Fellas, fellas. Let’s calm down a second—”

They don’t. Wilbur snarks back, and Techno begins to argue back, and Tommy is stuck between them, wincing into himself as they snarl and yell above his head—

Tommy blinks.

He’s sat in the sitting room. Phil sits next to him, holding a few playing cards, and Wilbur—

Wilbur and Techno chat amicably and quietly from their place in the cushions. The sky is rolling with grey clouds, and when Tommy looks towards the low table, empty dishware is set out with the crumbs of sandwiches. It’s lunch. It’s also weird as fuck. It’s absolutely disorienting, going from human to raccoon in the blink of an eye, going from day to afternoon, going from the sofa to the floor—

“Holy shit!” Wilbur cries as Tommy’s head smacks onto the floor.

Fuck, that hurt. “Shit,” Tommy says. “Fuck, piss.”

Wilbur’s face leans into Tommy’s vision. “Tommy?” He asks, nudging him with his foot. “Prime, man, what was that about?”

“He’s fine,” Techno drawls, and his face leans in too. “Just has permanent brain damage, now. A shame.”

“He’s always had that,” Wilbur mutters, and Techno chuckles.

Weird. Weird. Disorienting.

Tommy still doesn’t remember how he got here. He doesn’t remember anything from the span of this morning to this evening, and that’s—fuck, how many hours has Tommy lost?

Last time, Tommy had only missed a few minutes. Maybe ten, at most . This—this had to have been at least an hour. Maybe even two.

“Holy shit, maybe he really did sustain brain damage.” Wilbur nudges Tommy again, harder this time. “Can you hear us, down there? Hello, Tommy?”

Phil’s face is suddenly leaning into Tommy’s vision too, and that’s when Tommy knocks himself out of his own shock.

“Sorry, I can’t hear bitches,” Tommy manages to say. Wilbur scoffs, and Techno rolls his eyes with a small smile, and holy shit, is Tommy trying to ignore a lot of signs right now.

It doesn’t matter what happens when Wilbur uses his magic. So what if he loses an hour or two?

It’s worth it, when he sees Techno joke and Wilbur shove him back. It’s worth it, when he gets to see his coven happy. Worth it, when Wilbur smiles and laughs, and Tommy has done well.

So Tommy will take it, if it means their happiness. He’ll take the missing time, he’ll take the fuzz that’s pulling on his mind, as long as he gets to keep this. And he’ll keep it for as long as he can.

None of the Sleepy Boys Coven has a “routine,” necessarily. Still, even without routine, Tommy knows he can find Wilbur at some point in the day leaning over his guitar, or maybe a notebook.

Now isn’t any different.

Or—it almost isn’t any different. Because Wilbur is holding his guitar in his lap, but he’s slumped back against the cushions of the sofa. His chin tilts towards the ceiling, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Wilbur?” Tommy flops onto the cushions on the other side. “The fuck is the matter with you?”

Wilbur groans. “I can’t think of anything, Tommy. It’s like my mind has completely gone away.”

“Maybe you’re just stupid, now.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Hey!” Tommy exclaims, reaching over to shove at Wilbur. “I’m not the one sitting here like a loser.”

Wilbur waves an aggressive hand at him. “You are! You are literally sitting right next to me!”

Oh, Tommy can’t take this. Tommy can’t take this slander. “Take this, bitch!” He cries, and he launches himself across the sofa—

Tommy blinks.

Wilbur is holding a guitar in his lap, slouched into the opposite side of the sofa. His fingers pluck and strum gently at the strings beneath them.

He plays…fine. Good, even. He plays a song that Tommy knows, and another that he doesn’t.

Fuck. What is going on? Tommy had thought—Tommy had been certain before that he had been in his own reality, but now…

Wilbur begins to hum from underneath his breath. It’s a bit tired sounding.

Tired, because Tommy finally realizes that the sun is setting outside of the window.

Oh fuck. They must have done a reading this morning—had to have, if Tommy is seeing things again, but Tommy…Tommy doesn’t even remember waking up this morning. He certainly doesn’t remember sitting down for a reading, or changing any futures, or any fucking thing between this morning and right now.

Even now, Tommy struggles to bring himself fully in. His head hurts. It feels stuffed with thick clouds, fluffed cotton, and cosmic dust.

The vibrating hum of Wilbur’s guitar is the only thing that he can mentally hold onto. Especially when exhaustion starts to set in—Tommy doesn’t even know what he did today to be so tired—and he can’t keep his grip on reality for much longer.

Tommy falls asleep to the sound of Wilbur’s strumming. He can’t decide if it’s real, or from his dreams.

The problem is this:

Tommy never knows where the fuck he is.

The thing is, horrendous, terrible things aren’t up-in-the-cards every single day. Most changes Wilbur makes are small, subtle. Something that will reinspire creativity, or soothe what might have been a day of anger from Techno, or burn-out for Phil when he spends too many late nights trying to perfect potions.

It means that—most of the time—Tommy doesn’t know if he’s gone or not. So many realities are just…like his. His, but off, just a smidgeon to the side.

It had been unnerving, but at least sort of easy, at first. Back when he was only losing a little of himself, a little of his time.

Now…well, now Tommy doesn’t know…

His memory comes and goes in wisps of smoke and wind. Mostly, it just goes. Even when Tommy is in his own reality, he still constantly slips under fog and confusion. It’s like he’s in a permanent daze. It doesn’t help that he hardly remembers the readings anymore—he doesn’t remember the last time he was truly present for one. Tommy doesn’t remember when they happen, or what they say, or even if they happen. Tommy simply wakes up, or blinks, and finds himself somewhere. In his room, or the house, or the garden. In his reality, or an alternate one. Even when Tommy is pretty sure he’s where he belongs, he still can’t…well, Tommy can never…

When Tommy blinks, he’s sitting at the table in the dining room. His witch is there too, empty dishes pushed to his elbow.

Tommy frowns. Wilbur looks peaceful enough—he leans over a notebook with soft eyes. His hair drapes and curls over his round glasses. When he blinks, it is slowly, like a tired cat.

The peace is…nice. It’s really a fifty-fifty on whether Tommy is cast into a reality of domestic quiet and companionship, or a reality of harsh words, simmering anger, and injuries.

But this—this is Tommy’s reality, he knows it. Surely, he knows it. His real reality—his witch is in front of him. Nothing has gone wrong. Not that Tommy would remember if it had.

“What are you writing?” Tommy risks asking, even though it disrupts the quiet air between them.

Wilbur huffs, keeping his eyes on the notepad below him. “I’ve only added a single sentence since I read to you earlier, Tommy.”

“Oh.” Wilbur had read to him? Fuck. Tommy loves when Wilbur reads to him. And he’s missed it. He’s forgotten already. “Read it again?” He asks weakly, and his voice wavers with the desperation underneath. Tommy can’t sound desperate, though—it’s not fitting for the soft warmth of this scene. It’s too unnatural—like it doesn’t belong. But Tommy does belong here, he does. Even if he doesn’t remember. Even if he’s somewhere else most of the time.

Wilbur sighs. “Later, Tommy. When I’ve actually written more.”

Disappointment sinks Tommy’s heart. “Fine,” he mutters, even though it’s not.

Later, Wilbur had said. Tommy doesn’t know if later ever came. His grip from reality slips into mist soon after, and by the time Tommy comes back, he can’t still can’t recall.

Tommy blinks. Then blinks again.

Prime, it’s bright out. Tommy has to rub at his eyes to come back to himself, then squint so he can take in his surroundings.

He’s out in the garden. Wilbur is there, too, his head ducked down as he plays guitar.

Thank fuck, Tommy came back to himself for this. He loves when Wilbur plays music—even before Wilbur had found him, Tommy could hear the soft plucking of guitar and the strumming of strings all the way to his knot in the tree.

Everything still feels hazy—gods, when doesn’t it, these days—but Wilbur’s music comes through clear. Tommy makes sure to pay as much attention as he can, willing himself to not slip back into a blur.

When Wilbur finishes the song, he leans back with a wide smile, looking up at Tommy—

“Prime, man, what the fuck?” Tommy exclaims before he can really help himself. “Where the fuck did you get those?”

Wilbur stares back at him—through star-shaped glasses, points arching over his nose and resting on his cheeks. “What?” Wilbur asks, sounding a bit affronted. “You just now have a problem with them?”

Shit—shit, piss, um—

“I was holding back before,” Tommy quickly amends, wrinkling his nose. “You look like a weird-o. A real wrong’un.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Like you do fake magic. Like you should have a big, long beard, and white hair, and a pointed hat ‘n shit—”

“You liked them!” Wilbur shoots back. “You told me I should buy them!”

Huh. Tommy had been there for that. Apparently.

“I lied,”  Tommy lies, because he doesn’t remember whether he was lying or telling the truth. “I wanted to make you ugly.”

Wilbur scoffs and banters back, but Tommy suddenly feels a little ill.

How long has Wilbur had these glasses? How long has Tommy been…gone?

If he even has been ‘gone’. If this isn’t where Tommy is gone to , rather than gone from.

Suddenly, Tommy’s not sure. He had thought, before, but maybe…

“—not even listening, anymore,” Wilbur says, but Tommy can hardly hear him. Panic and fog and stupid fucking stars start pushing through his mind, pulling him further, further away—

Tommy blinks.

It’s not bright out—but when Tommy opens his eyes, he’s still in the garden. The clouds hang low and grey in the sky.

Wilbur is in the garden too. His head ducks down, towards the guitar that lies in his lap. His fingers move across the strings just as masterfully as they move across tarot cards.

Tommy watches. He watches, and he fucking stares at the crown of Wilbur’s downturned head, waiting, waiting, waiting—

When Wilbur finally finishes off his song, he leans back, looking up towards Tommy with—

With round glasses. Just like normal. Just like his witch.

Which means that this is…or, maybe it’s…fuck, Tommy doesn’t…

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks softly, as Tommy continues to stare and stare at the glass circles in front of Wilbur’s eyes. “Are you feeling alright?” The words are just as gentle, but they crack like thunder in Tommy’s ears.

“Yeah,” Tommy mutters. It’s probably not very convincing. Especially not to Wilbur, who frowns and leans forward.

“Are you?” Wilbur presses. His brows furrow over the edge of his completely circular glasses. “Really, Tommy, you’ve not been yourself. It’s weird. You’ve been…”

Dazed. Strange. So fucking confused.

“Fuck off,” Tommy manages to mutter. “Just keep playing.”

“Are you sick? Upset? There’s obviously something wrong, Tommy, I don’t understand why you’re not just saying it—”

“I said, fuck off ,” Tommy snarls, digging his nails into his forearm. They’ve only just started arguing—if that’s even what you can call this—but Tommy stumbles into the house anyway. He can’t risk an accidental confession, where he slips that, hey, he actually has no idea what’s real or not, and isn’t it crazy that Tommy’s memory has begun to fucking wilter and die like an old houseplant?

He can’t risk staying out there, not when fog is already beginning to drag at his head once more. Not when he just manages to make it to his room before his mind slips away again.

Tommy blinks.

It’s him and his coven in the sitting room. Wilbur is flitting around the room, though, adjusting blankets and fluffing pillows. Techno is passing to the kitchen, and Phil…

Phil lies on the sofa, brow furrowed and mouth twisted.

“We told you,” Wilbur mutters. “We told you you’d overwork yourself, Phil.”

Phil’s hand starts to come up in a casual wave, but it quickly falls again. “I’m fine,” Phil breathes, deciding to just shrug instead. His voice sounds absolutely shot. “Really, Wil, it’s alright.”

“You’re sick,” Wilbur scowls. “Which you wouldn’t be, if you had been going to bed.”

“And if you weren’t out in the rain,” Techno rumbles as he returns with a steaming mug of tea.

Sickness begins to swirl in Tommy’s stomach, too.

Anxiety has always wrought Tommy, when it comes to sickness. He hadn’t grown up near many people, but in the woods? If you’re a sick animal, you’re done for. There is no medicine. There is only the desperate hope that you become better.

Tommy has seen deers fall, squirrels tremble, and bears that lie down and…

Phil coughs loudly. It comes out like a bark: growled, sharp, horrid-sounding.

This is the first time that Tommy has seen any of them sick. Fuck, he wishes he weren’t.

Phil has wings—does that make him part animal? What if this is serious? What if—what if this—

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy watches Phil tremble on the sofa. Fuck. Fuck, he’s ill.

“Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t want this—Tommy doesn’t want to see this, he doesn’t want to watch Phil decay, please, please, please—

Tommy blinks.

He immediately flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Tommy?”

A hand lands on his shoulder.

“You alright, mate?”

Tommy gasps. When his eyes pop open, it’s Phil that looks down at him. Phil, standing upright, still, healthy.

Holy shit. It was…well, that was all…

Forcing down his panic, Tommy’s eyes flit around the room.

His coven is all in the sitting room. It’s light outside, and Wilbur sits in the bundle of blankets with his cards in his hands.

Oh. Oh shit.

Tommy’s managed to come back before a reading. That means he’s lost a lot of time, an entire day’s worth, probably, but…

“Wilbur,” Tommy chokes. “What if…can we just…”

Tommy doesn’t want to see the hurt anymore. It’s bad, it’s scary, fuck , Tommy doesn’t…Tommy can’t…

But if he doesn’t, those things might happen in real life. What happens if Tommy asks Wilbur to stop, and something terrible happens? Something Tommy can’t escape from? Something Tommy stopped them from escaping.

“Can we just…get lunch, after this? Out in town, or—or something.”

Wilbur’s brow furrows. “In town? That’s hours away, Tommy.”

Tommy’s lips pull. “Yeah. Right. Sorry, I—sorry.”

For a moment, Wilbur just stares up at him. Then, he sighs. “We can go.”

“Okay,” Tommy breathes. It probably doesn’t even matter. Wilbur will change his tarot, and Tommy will be pulled into an alternate reality, and when he comes back, they’ll all already be home. “Thank you,” he says anyway.

When Wilbur does his own reading, he gets the reversed Knight of Cups. His palms alight, and Wilbur chooses one of the shimmering stars to shift, and Tommy prepares himself for the worst. Again, and again, and again.

Tommy’s lost track of how long it’s been. Tommy’s lost track of how many pathways he’s seen, how many times he’s been pulled away to some alternate reality.

Tommy comes back to himself in an extremely rare instance: he’s shifted into his furs, leaning against Wilbur’s side. He’s surrounded by pillows and blankets, and when he looks up at Wilbur, he sees Techno seated next to him.

The tarot cards are in Wilbur’s hands. He shuffles them, and Tommy watches them cascade downward like the sand of an hourglass.

Tommy can’t remember the last time he was here for this—every day, presumably, but Tommy’s never been able to recall…

“Split.”

Tommy’s heart spasms as Techno reaches over towards the deck.

Wilbur, he chitters, but a raccoon’s sounds mean nothing to the witch. He can’t understand.

Wilbur flips the top card and places it in front of him. “The Chariot,” he explains, and when Tommy looks over it’s flipped upside down. “Aggression, and a lack of control. Hm. It could be that something goes wrong while you’re out.”

Techno grunts, and Wilbur—ever-caring, ever-helpful—lights his palms.

Panic begins to wash over Tommy. Wilbur , he chitters, clinging onto Wilbur’s wrists with desperate, tiny fingers. Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, please—

Tommy blinks.

A crack of thunder booms from outside of the house. Lightning quickly alights the dim room, and with it, his coven, huddled near the front door.

Or…Phil and Wilbur, huddled.

Techno…stands. Looms, more like, his chest rising and falling in deep, dramatic breaths.

His fists clench at his sides. Red streaks across his jaw, drips from his tusks, stains his knuckles.

“Holy shit, Techno,” Phil is saying, rushing over to check on him. Even with Phil in front of him, Techno does nothing but stare off into the distance. His brow sticks in a low furrow. His eyes stare out.

“What the hell happened?” Phil demands.

Still, Techno is silent.

Thunder booms again. When the thunder follows, it flashes in Techno’s eyes like a warning.

“Techno?” Wilbur tries cautiously, but even his words do nothing to snap Techno out of his haze.

Phil lets out a short huff of breath. “Prime, mate,” he mutters. “What the fuck happened to you out there?” Eyes flicking across Techno’s face, Phil reaches out to swipe away some of the blood.

Thunder cracks, and everything happens so fucking fast.

Techno’s fist whips forward, right towards Phil’s face. Wilbur shouts in shock, and Phil only just manages to jump backward out of the way. Something is wrong, though—something is wrong, because Techno’s face is no longer still and furrowed—lightning flashes through the windows, and Techno looks scared.

Phil stumbles backwards, but Techno keeps coming. He’s summoning spells to his hands, and Phil’s magic is beaming back in his hands, even as Techno fights and swings and thrashes—

A solid hit manages to send Phil flying to the floor. Tommy almost screams—it wavers and whines pitifully in his throat, like a dog scared to be kicked, and holy shit, when Techno turns to face him that might be true.

Tommy’s sound had grabbed his attention. Tommy had stepped closer to grab Phil, to help, fuck, Techno is looming over him, Wilbur is jumping in front of his path, thunder booms, lightning sparks, holy shit, Techno rears his fist back—

Holy shit. Oh prime, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck—

Tommy blinks awake and thrashes immediately. He shouts and cries out, waiting for pain, waiting for flashing lights and spinning stars and hurt, hurt, hurt—

“Tommy!”

Tommy throws his arms to his face.

“Hey, hey, Tommy. What’s wrong, what’s happening?”

That doesn’t sound like thunder. It doesn’t sound like Techno, either, the voice too rounded and swirled…

Gasping for air, Tommy opens his eyes.

Wilbur kneels in front of him. He doesn’t loom, he doesn’t even stand, he kneels to the ground and holds out uncertain, untouching hands.

“Tommy,” Wilbur murmurs again. “What’s wrong?”

Everything tears apart. Tommy can’t hold it in any longer, he can’t, he can’t—

Tommy throws himself into Wilbur’s chest. “Wilbur,” he whimpers, “Wilbur.”

“I’m here, Tommy,” Wilbur mutters, and he tucks Tommy further into his chest. “I’m here, you just have to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I—” the words come out between choked sobs. They pour out like water, like a bubbling, rushing stream right on the edge of a small stone cave, and Tommy can’t stop them. He’s tired of not knowing what’s real. He’s tired of not remembering what happened to him ten minutes ago. He’s tired of being scared, tired of watching his family fall apart over and over and over again, in every possible way. “I’m sorry, Wilbur, I—I found the pearl, I took it, I thought—I can’t—”

Wilbur’s hold tightens. “You…Tommy, you found it?”

Shamefully, Tommy nods. “I just—I wanted your magic back, I thought I could do it, Wil, I thought I could, but I can’t—I can’t any longer, I can’t—”

Wilbur grabs at Tommy’s face, lifting it upwards so they look at one another. Wilbur stares for a long while, as if trying to find something.

“Oh gods,” Wilbur finally whispers. “Tommy, what did you do to yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy cries, because it’s all he can do. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Hey, hey. Stop that.” Wilbur takes a shaky breath. One of his hands moves away from Tommy’s face, going to brush the curls off of his forehead instead. “We’ll figure this out, alright? We will, I promise. I promise you, Tommy.”

Tommy sobs, but still, Wilbur does not let go. He passes a hand through Tommy’s hair once more before shifting, moving to press Tommy against his chest—

Tommy blinks.

Wilbur is gone. It’s all gone. It’s just him. Just him, sitting in the dark of his own bedroom.

It…wasn’t real. None of it was real.

Fuck. Fuck.

The tears come quickly and harshly. They hurt. They hurt, and they glisten in the moonlight like fucking stars, and fuck , Tommy wants this to be over . Tommy wants to be real, Tommy wants Wilbur, the real Wilbur, please, please—

The door across the room creaks as Tommy continues to sob.

“Tommy?” Wilbur mutters. His voice is hoarse and low. Tommy must have woken him up.

I’m sorry, Tommy wants to say, but just the thought of the words sends another sob heaving from his chest.

Silently, Wilbur crosses the room. He nudges Tommy’s mound of pillows aside and shifts onto the bed.

Then—with the same warm comfort from before—he pulls Tommy into his arms.

Tears seep into the chest of Wilbur’s sleep-shirt. Because fuck, fuck, Tommy had thought that was real. Tommy was finally saved, Wilbur finally knew —

His heart shatters again and again and again. The sharp pieces left behind scrape his throat through every sob. It pierces through his chest and sinks into his stomach and Tommy wanted it to be over.

“I’m here,” Wilbur murmurs, again and again and again, even though his voice is addled with exhaustion. “I’ve got you, Tommy, you’re alright. You’ll be alright.”

Wilbur’s chin rests in Tommy’s curls. When he sighs, Tommy feels it against his crown.

“I’m sorry we argued the other day,” Wilbur mutters quietly, in between Tommy’s desperate sobs and his dreadful silence. A gentle hand lands in Tommy’s hair. Wilbur waits a few moments, but Tommy feels too worn down to say anything. Too worn down to say what he’s already said before, just before it was all ripped away from him.

When Tommy doesn’t answer, Wilbur sighs again. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. I’m worried about you, Tommy.” Another moment of quiet. “We’ve all been.”

It hurts too much to disappoint Wilbur.

It’s a pain that Tommy bares with gritted teeth, trembling shoulders, and eyes crystal with tears and stars alike.

Tommy’s still in bed when Wilbur comes in one morning. His witch looks…tired. Way more tired than when he didn’t have his magic, even. His glasses are askew. His eyes are lidded, and dim colors smudge underneath his lower lash line.

“Wilbur?” Tommy asks, rubbing his eyes. “You look like shit.”

Wilbur blinks. Then, his brow furrows. “I’m not in the mood, Tommy. Please stop. I just…I just wanted to check on you.”

Tommy frowns. Something is…wrong. It tilts the energy in the room downward. “Wil?” He tries, doing his best to not sound suspicious. But Wilbur genuinely looks awful, and unease settles like oil in Tommy’s gut. “What’s wrong?”

Wilbur stares at him for a long, long moment. When he turns, it is without answering, and he exits the room with nothing but a haughty sigh.

Tommy is quick to stumble after him. “Where’s Techno?” He asks, surveying the dim, silent house. Dust covers some of the bookshelves, and the plants droop and die where they still cling to the wall.

Wilbur pulls a kettle out of the cupboard. “Out.”

“Oh. Out where?”

Wilbur puts the kettle onto the stovetop slowly. His back stays turned towards Tommy. “You know where,” he says quietly.

Except Tommy doesn’t know where. He doesn’t remember. He can never remember anything.

“Oh,” Tommy says, instead of pressing for more answers. It only seems to upset Wilbur.

Tommy observes his back carefully. Wilbur seems weak, hunched forward in on himself. His hands shake as he fiddles with the stovetop. It’s like he’s caught in a residual shiver, even though he’s wearing Phil’s long cloak around his shoulders.

“And Phil? Where’s he, if you’re wearing his shit?”

Wilbur pauses. It’s stormy outside. Tommy can see the dark clouds roiling overhead. They drape over Wilbur with a shaded darkness. “Tommy, stop.”

Dread takes ahold of Tommy’s stomach with a tight fucking grip. “What?” Tommy asks weakly, unease pounding with every beat of his heart.

When Wilbur turns to face him, his features are twisted and guarded. He looks tired, he looks pissed. He looks like he’s barely holding it together. “Tommy.”

Oh, fuck. “Seriously, Wil, this isn’t funny.” Tommy’s voice is beginning to tremble, just like Wilbur’s hands trembled, and just like the earth trembles as the distant thunder sounds. “Where’s Phil?”

Wilbur’s face tightens. “Yeah, Tommy, you’re right. It isn’t funny. Knock it off, you’re acting…”

Odd. Off. Tommy doesn’t remember how he got here. Tommy doesn’t remember anything, nowadays.

Tommy doesn’t remember where Phil is.

Tommy doesn’t remember what happened.

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes. His heart is begging to jackrabbit in his chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Wilbur, please, I don’t…”

I don’t remember. I don’t understand. I don’t want this to be what I think it is.

But Wilbur doesn’t turn in sympathy, nor understanding. He turns looking just as broken as the first time. “Bring this out to Techno,” he mutters, holding out a steaming mug of tea. “Don’t keep joking like this, Tommy. Especially not to Techno. It’s cruel.”

Words fail as Tommy reaches out and takes the mug. The dread, the anticipation, the fear, has snaked from Tommy’s gut all the way to his heart, ending in a wrenching grip around his throat.

When Tommy makes his way outside, he stumbles. The ground feels unsure beneath his feet; like it could crumble away at any second, or maybe turn into mud and suck Tommy right into its center.

Tommy finally finds Techno outside the house.

Gods.

Gods.

Techno is kneeled in front of a large stone. Through tears, Tommy can’t make out what they say, but he doesn’t need to.

“Oh, fuck,” Tommy breathes. The mug drops to the ground. Steaming water splashes upward over Tommy’s shoes and across his ankle, but he doesn’t feel a damn thing. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

Through the haze, through the fog, he sees Techno turn minutely. Only slightly. He still faces the gravestone. Phil’s gravestone. Holy shit.

And Tommy doesn’t remember any of it. He can’t recall his last moments with him, or his final words, or even how it all happened.

“Oh, fuck,” Tommy repeats. Then again, and again, and again, until the sobs are choking him out, and Tommy can’t speak around them.

Phil is dead. Phil is dead, and Tommy can’t even remember why , or what happened, or if he got to say goodbye, and the tears are falling from his eyes like a bubbling stream, and Techno is wrapping an arm around him and it hurts, it hurts, everything fucking hurts, please, please—

Tommy blinks.

For a moment, Tommy thinks he’s still there, still tucked into Techno’s trembling side.

He’s not. His own duvets twist around his thrashing body, and Tommy realizes that he’s no longer there.

That doesn’t mean anything. Fuck, that means nothing. Maybe Tommy slipped again. Maybe it was all real, and Tommy’s just forgotten again. Maybe Tommy stayed out there and cried until he fucking threw up. Maybe Techno dragged him back in, dazed and out of his mind. Maybe Tommy will look out his window and see a tall gray stone, occupied by an abandoned familiar.

But Tommy doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t want to see any of it, he wants to hide, he wants to curl up and act like this is all a bad dream, he wants—he wants—

There’s a soft knock on his bedroom door. “Tommy?” Wilbur calls softly. “Can I come in?”

Any words in response shrivel and die before they even reach Tommy’s lips. He’s frozen, paralyzed, as he stares at the door between him and Wilbur.

“I’m coming in,” Wilbur says, “if you don’t want me to, you’d better say something now.”

I don’t want you to , Tommy’s mind screams, absolutely frantic. Please don’t, he pleads, because holy shit, if Wilbur comes in wearing a deep green cloak and askew glasses Tommy is going to scream. Tommy can’t handle it, Tommy can’t do this, please—

The door slips open quietly. Wilbur peaks his head in.

His curls fall neatly over his forehead. His glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thick blue sweater, tucking into a pair of brown trousers. “Tommy?” He says, voice gentle as he slips fully into the room. “You’ve been up here all day, man. Are you sick or something?”

Still, Tommy can’t do anything but stare at Wilbur. He takes in every single centimeter he can—Wilbur’s shoulders curled in, the mole underneath Wilbur’s left eye, the hands that stay uncurled by Wilbur’s side. The frown that takes over Wilbur’s face. “Oh, shit. Are you actually sick?” Wilbur steps forward until he’s standing right in front of him. A hand reaches out to press against Tommy’s forehead. “You do feel a little warm, I suppose. Is your nose stuffy? Or do you have a headache?”

Maybe. Maybe Tommy has all of those, maybe none, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t care to check, because all he can do is stare at Wilbur and wait for some sort of sign.

“You must be sick, if you’re being quiet, for once,” Wilbur murmurs, slipping his hand from Tommy’s forehead to his cheek. “Except you’ve been quiet for a while, now. A long while…”

The door creaks open once more. Tommy lets his eyes flicker from Wilbur to the figure in the door—

The figure with platinum hair, crystal eyes, and long dark wings that drape along the floor as Phil himself enters.

“Is he feeling alright?” Phil asks, and holy shit, it’s him. It’s him, it’s Phil, he’s alive—

Tommy wastes not a single second before he throws himself forward. He collapses into Phil’s arms with a wretched sob, the tears flowing on and on and on as Phil’s wings wrap around him.

“Prime, mate, what’s wrong?” Phil exclaims, shock and exasperation and liveliness all mixed in his tone at once. “What’s happened?”

Tommy just cries louder. He cries so hard his throat begins to scream, but still, Tommy can’t stop. He can’t, because holy shit, Phil was dead, Tommy had seen it, had seen his grave, and even now, Tommy still doesn’t know what’s real. Maybe this is the dream, maybe this Phil is here but the real Phil is gone, and one day Tommy will blink and Phil will be gone, he’ll always be gone—

“Shit, Tommy,” Wilbur breathes, coming forward and attempting to wrap his arms around Tommy. “Are you hurt? Let me look at you, Tommy—”

Tommy practically screams in hysterics as Wilbur tries to pry him away. He grips onto Phil’s shirt so hard he’s sure his nails tear through, but fuck , if this is a dream, Tommy can’t let go, he can’t, he can’t—

Heavy footsteps pound their way up the stairs, and, even tucked away in Phil’s chest, Tommy knows that it’s Techno who’s entered. “Tommy?” He rumbles. “What the hell—”

“Something is going on,” Phil finally says, wrapping his arms tighter around Tommy, “Has been going on. Seriously, mate, you’ve been acting off for ages, and now this…”

“Tell us,” Wilbur breathes, commands . “Tell us, Tommy, seriously.”

Tommy shakes his head frantically. He can’t. He can’t. He already had, and it was fake, it was all fake, and if they find out that Tommy broke the rules—if Wilbur finds out he can’t use his magic again—

“Tommy ,” Wilbur pleads, “ tell us. You’ve been acting strange enough recently, but this? This is…” Wilbur waves his hand listlessly at where Tommy has tucked himself into Phil’s shirt.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Tommy shakes his head with a keen, tucking himself away even further.

Wilbur huffs angrily. Tommy can hear as he rises from the floor, clambering down the stairs. It only takes him a moment before he’s clambering back up again. Tommy risks tilting his head out of Phil’s chest, watching Wilbur drop to the floor next to them.

He’s holding his tarot cards. “I’ve been trying to respect your privacy, Tommy, but this—this is—” Words falter. His face cracks, then mends back together in determination. “If you won’t tell us, we’ll find out,” Wilbur mutters. He brings the pack of cards to his lips and closes his eyes. His head is tilted, so Tommy can’t see what he mutters, but he can take a fucking guess. With quick fingers, he brings the deck down and begins to shuffle. The cards are then held out towards Tommy. “Split.”

Fuck that. Tommy doesn’t want to use tarot, he doesn’t want them to know what’s wrong, he doesn’t want any of this.

Wilbur huffs. “Split, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t.

“Fine,” Wilbur mutters. “Fine, I don’t need you to.”

Then Wilbur is splitting the deck himself. The card on top is quickly flipped forward, right in front of them—

The Moon. Reversed, right on its head.

Wilbur stares down with furrowed brows. He releases a short breath, reaching out and grabbing the card. Immediately, he brings the deck to his lips once more.

“Wilbur—” Phil interrupts, but Wilbur doesn’t stop. He shuffles until satisfied. The deck is split, and another card is placed forward. The Moon, reversed again.

“Fuck,” Wilbur mutters, taking all of the cards together and pressing them against his lips. They’re whispered to, then split. This time, Wilbur draws three cards, placing them together in a line.

To the left, The Star, hanging upside down. In the center, The Moon, placed similarly on its head. To the right, The Hanged Man.

“Fuck,” Wilbur mutters again, shaking his head. “Fucking fuck.”

“Wilbur,” Tommy mutters weakly, desperate for his witch to stop being upset. “Wil—”

Wilbur grabs all of the cards once more and brings them to his lips before shuffling. Tommy wishes he could hear what Wilbur speaks to them. Tommy wishes he knew what was being asked of him.

Three cards are placed down once more. A reversed Star. A reversed Moon. The Hanged Man.

Past, present, and future.

“Fuck!” Wilbur mutters again, glaring down at his cards with a fury.

“Wilbur,” Phil cuts, “you’re upsetting—”

Wilbur doesn’t stop to listen. He snatches the card of The Star upward and holds it in front of Tommy’s face. “Your past. You were sad, Tommy, you—you were hopeless. Why, Tommy? About what? About our magic? About whatever this is?”

Tommy shakes his head frantically again. He wants Wilbur to stop, because fuck it, Tommy is so scared of what will happen once they know. Tommy is so scared of what will happen if he tells them all over again, and it’s all a fucking illusion.

“So which one?” Wilbur asks desperately, leaning into his space. “Tell us, Tommy, just tell us what problem you were having— are having.” When Tommy doesn’t answer, Wilbur groans, reaching backward and snatching The Moon card. “What about this?” He presses. “You’re scared, you’re confused. You’re not understanding—what don’t you understand? What are you so confused about? Tell us, Tommy, please.”

A choked sob catches on Tommy’s lips. “I don’t—” Fuck. Fuck. Phil’s arms are tight around him, and Techno is staring at him from above, but Wilbur has asked something of him and Tommy doesn’t want to disappoint him. He doesn’t want to see Wilbur’s anger, his desperation. “I don’t know if this is real.”

Tommy’s voice wavers on the final word. It’s fucking shameful, it’s embarrasing. It’s all Tommy’s fault again, it’s his own fault he’s in this mess in the first place.

Wilbur leans in closer, his brows low and eyes shaded. “What do you mean?” Wilbur asks quietly. “Why wouldn’t this be real, Tommy?”

“Because—” a sob pushes past the words. “Because…”

“Your magic.” Techno’s voice rumbles lowly from above Tommy’s head. “It has something to do with your magic. It’s felt…different. Something’s wrong with it.”

The breath won’t come to Tommy. Not even as he gasps for it. “I don’t—I don’t know, I’m not—”

“Just tell us,” Phil instructs, gently running a hand down Tommy’s hair. “Just try, mate. It’s alright. We’ll all figure it out together.”

If this is real. If this is even real, they’ll all figure it out together. If Tommy isn’t still losing his mind. “When…” Fuck. There’s no good way to say this. “When Wilbur uses his magic, I—I don’t know—”

Wilbur leans backward. “My magic?” He asks, voice husky and low. “Is it hurting you?”

Yes—yes, but no, and Tommy doesn’t know whether to nod or shake his head, so he shakily continues instead. “It just—whenever you use it, I see…I see us, but—but not us, but…another version of us? I—I’m not—”

“Another version?” Phil asks. “What do you mean?”

Tears well up in Tommy’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he whimpers weakly. “Wilbur changes the future, but I see…”

“You see it,” Wilbur murmurs. His voice is thick, quiet. “You see what doesn’t happen.”

The air in the room is unbearable. It’s thick, and it’s solemn, and Tommy waits for himself to blink it all away.

Steadily, slowly, Techno kneels in front of him. “Tommy. You did something. Tell me what.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—”

Techno raises a hand. “Kid. I only need to know so we can help you.”

Tommy thinks about the shine of pearlescence and the rugged powder in his throat. Tommy should lie, Tommy should get up and swear his alright-ness, but Prime, he is so tired.

“The pearl,” Tommy murmurs, shame rising as heat.

Phil takes a sharp breath in. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says again, eager to soothe Phil’s anger—in this reality, the one where Phil isn’t in the ground, Tommy needs to make sure he doesn’t lose this. Anything to make up for what he’s just seen. “I just—I needed to get our magic back, it was my fault, and—”

Techno raises a hand. Tommy falters off.

“Phil.”

“I know,” Phil mutters, briefly pressing Tommy further into his chest. “I know. We’ll…”

The silence returns again.

“Tommy,” Wilbur eventually says, leaning past Techno. “I don’t know what…what you’ve seen,” he says, but he stumbles, because they look at how desperately he clings to Phil’s shirt, and Tommy has a feeling they know at least a little. “But this is real. This—”

“How do you know?” Tommy breathes. He’s not willing to get his hopes up for this. Not when his head feels stuffed with thick dark clouds, and the ground beneath him feels as though it could still collapse. “You’d say that then, too. You’d say that in other realities, because you’d believe it. Because you are real in them, but I’m…”

“Right,” Wilbur murmurs. He leans back once more. “Right.”

They continue to sit for a long, long moment. Long enough that Tommy finally runs out of tears. Long enough that when Phil finally begins to shift, Tommy is only strong enough to grip his shirt a little tighter.

“Well,” Phil starts. His voice sounds a bit grave. “Until we figure this out, Wilbur, it’s best not to use magic.”

No, no, no! That’s the very thing Tommy had been trying to avoid in the first place! He whips his head upward, ready to exclaim his protests, but Wilbur is already nodding solemnly. “Phil,” Tommy tries, “that doesn’t—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts, and Tommy can only just stop himself from curling away. Wilbur sounds serious. He’s got that tired-look on his face again—which reminds Tommy of terrible, terrible things, so he looks away. “I’m not going to use my magic again. Not if it does…this. Not if it hurts you.”

“Wil,” Tommy whines, “It’s your magic. You shouldn’t—you can’t stop using it. What if—what if the readings say—”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Wilbur mutters. “I’m not using magic, Tommy. I’m not. Especially not when your future is…”

The Hanged Man. A sign of sacrifice.

Wilbur trails off before shaking his head. “Fuck that.”

“Right,” Phil says. “Exactly that.”

Tommy wants to keep fighting—he wants to tell them to fuck all that, and that he’s fine, really, just shaken, and that it doesn’t matter which reality is real because Tommy would want them to use magic anyway—

He can’t. He doesn’t get the chance to. The fog in his head becomes too much, and before Tommy knows it, he slips away.

Tommy blinks.

He’s lying on the sofa in the sitting room. The fireplace across from him is alight with only a few burning embers.

Tommy doesn’t remember how he got here. He never does. Tommy doesn’t know where he is.

He tries to account for his surroundings. The fireplace still has long knit stockings, and a variety of plants upon the mantel. There’s still Phil’s chair, and Techno’s worn books, and Wilbur.

“Tommy,” Wilbur greets quietly, standing in the corner of Tommy’s vision. “How are you feeling?”

So fucking confused. Tired. Fucking confused again. As it is, Tommy just shrugs.

Wilbur stares down at him with lidded eyes. “You sort of faded off, earlier. Do you remember what happened?”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. He remembers a version of what happened, but that doesn’t mean it’s what really happened here. Wilbur is wearing his usual round spectacles, and his knit sweater, rather than Phil’s cloak, but that doesn’t mean…

“You told us about your magic,” Wilbur fills in. “And that you’ve been seeing other realities.” He pauses. “You don’t remember that?”

Oh. So Tommy is still in that same reality. He’s not stupid enough to say that this is the real reality, but at the very least, he hasn’t gone back to some of the worser ones. “I remember,” Tommy says weakly, voice still addled with exhaustion. “I didn’t know…”

Wilbur’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t know if that was real. Right.” He takes an unsteady breath. “Well, it was.”

Wilbur stares down at him. Tommy stares back.

“Phil is in the kitchen,” Wilbur finally says, “and Techno should be back soon. They’ll want to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Tommy lifts himself upward on shaky arms, forcing a smile onto his face. “Of course they do. I’m cool, get loads of women, am generally the best. Who wouldn’t want to talk with me?”

It’s supposed to be funny. Wilbur doesn’t laugh. He just stares at Tommy as though he’s a ghost. “Right,” he says eventually, eyes dropping from Tommy to the floor. “Go on, then.”

He doesn’t follow as Tommy makes his way through the doorframe.

Wilbur is right, in that Phil is already in the kitchen. He’s pouring water into a kettle, only glancing up slightly as Tommy enters the room. “Tommy,” he calls with a gentle smile, tilting his head towards the table. “Sit down, mate.”

It only takes a few moments more for Phil to take the kettle off of the stove top. He reaches over to pour it into a small ceramic mug. “For you,” he explains.

Great. They’re back to square fucking one. “For my magic?” Tommy asks, and he can’t quite hide the grimace in his tone. “The raspberry one?”

Phil falters as he picks up the mug. “No, mate. Just peppermint. We’re not…” he sighs. “There’s no tea that will solve this. Not really a magical tea-property for it.” Phil places the mug on a knitted cozy, right by Tommy’s elbow. “This is just because you like it. We’re hoping…well, you were rather spacey last night, Tommy. Do you remember anything?”

“Just our conversation,” Tommy says quickly, bringing the mug to his lips. This tea tastes infinitely better than the raspberry one—peppermint has always been Tommy’s favorite, and he can tell that Phil put a dash or two of honey into this. “When Wil said that he…he wouldn’t use magic anymore.”

“Right,” Phil sighs. “I thought that something might have happened after that. You’ve been spacey and quiet this entire week, but you still walk and talk, I didn’t think…well. Now I know better. Did you see anything?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“Okay. Good. That’s good, mate. If it only happens when Wil uses his magic, then you should stay here for a long while. Do you still feel confused?”

Shamefully, Tommy nods.

“Alright. That’s alright, mate, I assumed. That’s why I made you this.” Phil gestures towards the tea. “Until we figure out how to soothe your magic, we’ve been thinking it’ll be best to just ground you. Hopefully, eventually, all of the smells and tastes and feelings will just…” Phil waves his hand and shrugs. “Help,” he finishes lamely. It’s like they both know how bullshit that’ll end up being.

But Tommy doesn’t fight on it. At least this tea tastes good, it’s not like it ails Tommy to drink it. And if this is what makes them feel better about this—if this is what gives them hope—then Tommy will let them do anything they want.

Tommy sits until the tea is fully drained. At some point, Phil rises to begin dishes from across the room. He hums and clinks the dishes around, and Tommy tries his hardest not to slip into fog again.

It’s an hour or two before Wilbur enters the room again. He’s got his same thick-knit sweater on, but now he’s holding one out for Tommy to take. “Come on,” he pushes, “we’re walking.”

“Outside?” Tommy asks, as if there’s anywhere else to go. It’s a stupid fucking question, but Tommy is apparently pitiful enough that Wilbur lets it slide.

“Yes, Tommy. Out to the woods. Is that going to be alright?”

Tommy nods eagerly. Fuck, he loves going out into the woods, and he loves spending time with his witch. Tommy had lived out in the woods as a wild animal for far, far too long, but with Wilbur with him, they aren’t as scary. It’s nice, even, like visiting an old friend, or a childhood home. The sweater is quickly tugged over Tommy’s head and around his shoulders. Then, for good measure, he pulls on his shawl (and secretly shudders in relief as Wilbur reaches for his own, not Phil’s).

They both bundle out the door and into the brisk air.

Tommy tries to focus on the scent of pine around him, the feeling of Wilbur’s body next to his, but it’s…hard. Fog pushes and shoves at his brain. Sentences are started and never finished. The walk often turns to standing completely still, willing himself to move purposefully, not just because his body moves when his mind doesn’t.

“Tommy?” Wilbur eventually calls, but it sounds far away. “Are you still here?”

Tommy wants to be. He’s in the forest, and there is a sudden, gentle warmth in his palm, and Tommy wants to be here.

But the universe has not cared for what he wants for a long time. The fog builds, and Tommy slips before he can utter a single goodbye.

Tommy blinks. He’s in the doorway of the house, now. It looks like their house, in the same way it always has.

“He’s floated off,” Wilbur grunts, and Tommy can only just turn his head to look at him.

Techno is there, too. He looks a bit ragged, like he spent some time in the woods, too, or maybe went off on a great adventure. Those are some of Techno’s favorite things. Yet, his face looks low and solemn. Maybe those things didn’t go great for him.

“We need to—”

“Yeah, well. We can’t. Not while he’s…”

They’re talking about him. “Wilbur,” Tommy calls airily, trying to fight against the exhaustion that weighs him down.

Wilbur flinches. “Tommy.” He’s quick to leave Techno’s side, coming to Tommy’s instead. “Are you back with us?”

Tommy shrugs. He’s not sure. He’s not sure what they’re counting as with them.

“Alright. Do you remember what you were doing before you spaced out?”

“We were…walking.”

“Right,” Wilbur breathes, sounding only slightly relieved. “Do you remember everything before that? Do you remember telling us about your situation?”

Tommy nods this time.

“Good. Yeah, that’s…” Wilbur trails off. “Here, Tommy.” With gentle hands, Wilbur guides him to the sofa. “Lie down. You’re tired.”

“But we just got home,” Tommy frowns, but Wilbur frowns right back.

“We’ve been home for a while, Tommy.”

“Oh.”

“Just…rest,” Wilbur mutters, and he sounds just as tired. “We’ll wake you tomorrow.”

Tommy does not slip, but he does sleep, in which the darkness overtakes him and Tommy wonders how much longer he’ll stay here.

When Tommy wakes in the morning, Techno is the one leaning over the sofa. “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you here?”

“Yeah.”

Techno nods. “Good. Get up when you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Tommy asks with a yawn. He brings a hand up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Not that it does anything.

Techno doesn’t answer. Instead, he sits on the wooden floor next to the sofa, gesturing for Tommy to sit across from him.

“This again?” Tommy asks skeptically. “Are we meditating?”

“Yes.”

“To fix my magic?”

Techno’s brow lowers. “No.”

“Oh.” Clumsily, Tommy lets himself roll off of the sofa, weakly shuffling to get into position. “For what, then?”

For a long, long moment, Techno doesn’t answer. He simply stares at Tommy, brows lowered and eyes dim.

Tommy blinks right back. “Techno? I don’t understand—”

Tommy is cut off as he’s pulled into someone’s chest. Techno’s chest.

“Oh,” Tommy says weakly. “Yeah, this—oh.”

By the time Techno pulls back, Tommy is fighting off tears. Tommy doesn’t want this reality to end. Tommy doesn’t want to get pulled away from this.

Techno takes a deep breath in. Tommy mimics it.

He’s ready—ready for affirmations, or humming, or any other weird meditation thing, even as Techno reaches across and takes his hands in his—

“We found you a little over a year ago.”

Tommy blinks. His eyes reopen, closed even though Techno had never told him to.

“You were out in the woods, shifted into your fur. I could feel your magic—even tucked away for so long, it was there. You’re stubborn. It hadn’t gone out.”

Tommy blinks again. “Techno?”

“When we found you, you were curled into the knot of a tree’s roots. You had red on your snout. Phil had thought you had eaten something, but Wilbur—”

“Techno. What the fuck are we doing?”

Techno takes another deep breath. “You don’t know if this is real.”

No, admittedly. He doesn’t. But that doesn’t explain anything, doesn’t explain why Techno is…

“I’m telling you what’s happened. So you know. You’re real. This is real.”

The tears begin to prick in Tommy’s eyes again. “But you all know that,” Tommy says weakly. “It’s not…”

“Then tell me where,” Techno rumbles. “Tell me where to start. I will.”

A single tear drips down Tommy’s cheek. “I won’t know if these things are real. I won’t remember most of them.”

Techno’s lips pull. “I’ll remind you. I’ll tell you even if you don’t remember.”

And he does. Techno talks about some things he already knows—Phil and Techno’s first trek to find the pearl, the raspberry tea, the meditation. He mentions a few things he must have forgotten, or maybe things he had never actually lived—a dinner that Phil had burnt recently, Wilbur’s run-in with a snake, a plant in the garden that had recently flowered.

Even if it isn’t real—even if all of this is the illusion of a future not chosen—it’s still comforting to hear. At least Tommy knows about where he is—at least Tommy isn’t desperately trying to connect the pieces he doesn’t have.

Techno talks until Tommy is all caught-up; right to where they are right now.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmurs, still a little choked-up.

Techno nods, but he doesn’t look any more relaxed. His face is still solemn, somber. “Go get Phil, kid,” he says. “I’m sure he has your tea ready by now.”

Phil does. Tommy takes it, letting the warmth of the mug seep into his palms, and he desperately tries to remember, even as the steam from the tea turns to fog in his mind and he slips into smoke.

Tommy blinks to the sound of a bag being thrown to the floor.

He’s seated at the kitchen table with Wilbur. Well, briefly, anyway—Techno and Phil enter the room, and Wilbur is quick to stand, rushing to them.

Phil and Techno are both soaked, dripping water onto the floor.

“Did you find him?” Wilbur asks, completely ignoring their sorry states.

Techno grunts but doesn’t respond.

Phil drags a hand across his face. “Yeah. We did.”

Wilbur seems almost breathless. “And?”

“He can’t do shit.”

Wilbur’s shoulders drop. “Fuck. Fuck. Was he sure? He’s certain there’s nothing—”

“He’s sure,” Techno grumbles. “He said there’s nothin’ he can do.”

“Who?” Tommy mutters, and he must have been out of it for a long time, because everyone in the room jumps. “What are we talking about?”

Wilbur frowns. “Nothing, Tommy. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s obviously something. Does it have to do with me?”

“Tommy.”

“If it has to do with me, I—I should know. I have to know. Come on, please—”

“We went to see that guardian.” Techno says gruffly.

“Oh.” Tommy shifts in his seat. “Did he know how to help me?”

Techno’s face is tough as stone.

Right. That’s a no, then.

“So I’m stuck like this forever?”

“No,” Phil says. It’s just a tad too quick. “No, of course not. We’ll just have to try something else.”

Right. Something else.

Tommy is given tea, and sat outside, but it only manages to keep Tommy present a little longer than usual. Eventually, he begins to slip. The mug is taken from his hands.

“We’ll be here,” Wilbur murmurs. Tommy can only just hear it through the fog. “Come back soon, Tommy. Come back to us.”

Tommy blinks.

There’s a low, constant drone in front of him. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and tries to let it pull him out of his own head.

“—this morning, and Phil made you tea. You didn’t want peppermint, so he made you peach instead. Thought you might be bored of it.”

It’s Techno. It’s Techno’s hum of conversation, so Tommy forces himself to open his eyes.

He was right, that Techno is in front of him. He’s got one of Tommy’s wrists in one of his hands, while his other hand brushes against his veins. It’s as if he’s trying to push his magic back, or perhaps just soothe it.

“You didn’t drink a lot of it,” someone says, and hey, Wilbur is here too. He’s sat next to Techno’s side, looking at Tommy with pulled brows. “Even though I know you like that flavor. Do you remember that?”

No. No, Tommy doesn’t, so he shakes his head.

“Okay. You went on a walk with Wilbur after.”

“It was nice out,” Wilbur says, “the leaves are starting to change over. There were a few red ones speckled through the trees.” A beat. “Do you remember that one?”

Fuck, Tommy doesn’t. He loves when the leaves turn for the seasons. He wishes he could recall that one. But he can’t, and so he shakes his head.

It’s like a game, or some kind of survey. They recount something, then ask the same question: Do you remember that ? Tommy always has the same answer: No.

It’s starting to frustrate Wilbur, he can tell. His jaw is getting tight. His brows are beginning to lower.

“We came home after,” Wilbur grits. “Phil made you dinner with all of your favorites. You helped pick the berries for it. You set the plates with me. You don’t remember that either?”

Tommy shakes his head again, and Wilbur’s jaw ticks even tighter.

“You were there ,” he says, the words gritted through his teeth. “You were there, Tommy, you ate, you talked with us—not a lot, but—you don’t remember? You seriously don’t recall any of that?”

Tommy is so fucking tired of upsetting Wilbur again, and again, and again. He’s so sick of it. But lying is what got them here in the first place, so Tommy shakes his head no again.

Wilbur stares at him for a long, tense moment. Then he’s rising, bumping into Techno on his way out.

“Wilbur—” Techno calls, but it’s too late. Wilbur has already stormed out of the room. The shame knocks him back into the blinding, smothering fog, and Tommy’s conscience goes too.

Tommy blinks.

It’s dark out. There’s a hand running through his curls. He’s lying on something soft, warm, and it takes a moment for Tommy to realize that it’s someone’s chest. It rises and falls below him, carrying him with it.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur is saying, voice only a murmur in the quiet hum of night. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry.”

This is nice. Tommy isn’t a racoon, but still, Wilbur holds him like he is. Wilbur holds him like he is a small animal. Wilbur holds him like he is loved.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Toms, I’m sorry.”

Maybe he is loved.

As Tommy drifts off, into sleep or into smog, he doesn’t quite know—he slips, and he doesn’t get any more time to think about it.

The many, many days after are pretty monotonous.

A good monotonous, though. For the most part. Tommy has no complaints.

(Well, no complains aside from the fog that keeps fucking kidnapping his mind away. Tommy could do well away with that).

Phil makes tea, and Techno speaks to him, and Wilbur plays his guitar. Anything to ground him, they say, anything to bring him back to them.

It’s not really clear whether it’s working or not. Tommy still drifts, and he still forgets, but at least he has something nice to come back to. At least Tommy has not been whisped away to a reality in which Techno is traumatized, or Phil is gone, or Wilbur has ugly fucking glasses.

Today starts quite the same. Phil makes him his tea before heading out to the garden. Techno goes with, but Tommy knows that their ‘meditation’ will come later today. Wilbur stays with him, humming under his breath while he stares through the kitchen window.

It’s a relatively peaceful morning. Which maybe should have been a sign that something was to go terribly wrong. When was the last time this coven was afforded a truly peaceful day?

Yet, Tommy thinks nothing of it until Wilbur inhales a sharp gasp.

Tommy looks up from his plate. “Wilbur?”

Wilbur stares out of the window with wide eyes. “Fuck.”

“What?”

Not a single second is wasted by answering. Wilbur is frantic as he stumbles out of the room, running up the stairs with pounding footsteps.

“What?” Tommy calls again after him, a chill permeating the air and piercing at Tommy’s chest. Wilbur is gone, so he doesn’t answer, but Tommy rushes to the window, eager to look out, and—

There’s fighting. For a moment, Tommy can’t even see what’s going on. Flashes of bright magic explodes and flurries of bodies spin.

It takes forever for Tommy to finally pierce out Techno and Phil. Techno hasn’t shifted, not yet—he hasn’t got a weapon, but he slams into unknown figures and brings his fists downward. Phil is almost in the center of it all, magic whipping around him.

Fuck. They haven’t had hunters since—

Since the incident. Since this entire shitshow started.

“Holy shit,” Tommy mutters, barely registering as the pounding footsteps come flying back down the stairs. “Oh, fuck.”

Wilbur flies back into the room in a fervor. In a second, he’s got something in his hands—

His cards. His pack of tarot cards.

Wilbur hasn’t done a reading since Tommy came clean about the pearl. Or, if he has, Tommy hasn’t been present enough to see it.

“Fuck,” Wilbur echoes in a breath. Where his fingers have always been lithe and nimble, they are now panicked, frenzied. “Phil,” he murmurs, loud enough that even Tommy can hear it this time. “Tell me about Phil.” Then the deck is brought back down, shuffled so frantically he almost drops a card. The deck is split, a card is drawn, and…

Tommy doesn’t even get to see it, but he knows it’s bad. He knows because Wilbur’s face goes white, and his hands start to tremble. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He picks up the deck and brings it to his mouth again. “Techno, tell me about Techno.” He shuffles, almost dropping multiple cards this time, with how hard his hands shake. He splits the deck, draws a card, places it down…

Wilbur stares down at it with dawning horror. His breath comes in desperate, large pants.

He looks at the card. He looks up at Tommy.

“Tommy,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I—”

“You have to use your magic,” Tommy finishes weakly. His knees tremble below him.

Fuck, he likes this reality. He likes it, he doesn’t want to go away. Even if it’s not real, even if this would bring him back to his own reality, he can’t—he doesn’t want—

But he doesn’t want anything to happen to Phil—to Techno. He can’t let it happen. Tommy had tried and failed to fix this problem again and again—he took the pearl, he took the visions, but none of it fucking worked.

But now? Now, Tommy can save them. Really, this time. Even if he loses himself. Even if he loses it all.

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur says, and in a blink, Wilbur is standing in front of him. “You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright, Tommy, I promise. Even if you’re taken somewhere else. You’ll always come back to us. I’ll make sure of it.”

“What if I don’t?” Tommy breathes. Because fuck, deep down—he knows. He knows he won’t. Not for long, not for much—and Tommy doesn’t mind it. Not when it means he can finally atone for his mistakes. Not when, after everything they’ve done for him, he can finally do something back.

Wilbur places his hands against Tommy’s face. “You will. Because it doesn’t matter what reality you’re in, Tommy, I am your brother every. Single. Time. There’s not a world in which I’m not. You tell me—you tell me every time you see me, Tommy, I’m serious—and every single version of me will help you. Every single version of me will bring you back to where you belong. Okay?”

Tommy intakes a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. This will save them?”

When Wilbur’s face breaks, it crumbles. “Yeah, Tommy. We’ll save them.”

Tommy takes another deep breath, then lets himself shift. The world around him becomes larger, louder, more overwhelming, but it only takes a second before Tommy is picked up. He’s tucked to Wilbur’s shoulder, his snout pressed against his neck.

“Okay, okay,” Wilbur breathes, and the cold air ruffles Tommy’s fur as Wilbur steps outside. The battle outside still rages. Techno has shifted too, now, his large tusks ramming through bodies. Still, it’s not going well. They’re losing. It’s obvious they’re losing.

Not for much longer. Wilbur alights his hands.

“Okay,” he breathes one more time. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry. It’ll be quick.”

Wilbur begins to move one of the stars.

The world erupts.

Hundreds of realities flash before Tommy’s eyes. They’re quick blurs of colors, shapes, sounds, here and then gone and then here again. Tommy lives in blips of all of them—through warmth and cold, through sound, through silence, through joy and fear and creation and destruction. Tommy lives through hundred of alignments, through hundreds of lives and scenarios and realities.

His brother is holding him in every single one.

Tommy tries to cling on for as long as he can. But the worlds are going so fast, and everything is flashing and overwhelming and Tommy can’t breathe—

The last thing Tommy feels is Wilbur’s arms, still wrapped tightly around him. Then he feels nothing at all.

When Tommy wakes, he is lying in his own bed. He’s human once more.

Wilbur enters the room. His glasses are in the shape of stars.

“Hey,” he says, a small frown on his face. “Are—”

Tommy blinks.

Wilbur is in the room. He is wearing Phil’s cloak. “—you—”

Tommy blinks.

Wilbur’s jaw has a long, irritated scar. It’s in the shape of a tusk. “—feeling—”

Tommy blinks.

“—alright?”

Tommy blinks, then blinks again. This Wilbur is ruffled, hair messy and fingers fidgeting in front of him. His knit sweater hangs against his frame. The facial hair on his chin is scraggly.

“Tommy?”

Tommy blinks again. Nothing changes. It’s still just rumpled, worried Wilbur, standing across from him with a somber look on his face. “Are you here with me?”

Yes. No. Maybe? Tommy can’t tell. He doesn’t feel real. Nothing around him feels real.

Wilbur crosses to Tommy. When he sits on the bed, he takes Tommy’s hands into his. “It’s alright, Tommy. I’ve got you. We’ve got you. I told you, remember?”

Remember. Remember, remember, remember—

Tommy can hardly remember anything. Tommy can’t remember how he got here. Tommy can’t remember what’s supposed to happen next.

But he remembers Wilbur. He will always remember Wilbur, even when his glasses change, or his songs are different, or his temperament is tilted.

“Wilbur?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur murmurs, still grasping Tommy’s hands. “Yeah, it’s me, bud. I’m real. You’re real.”

Is he?

Wilbur rises, and Tommy slips, and he guesses he’ll never know.

Tommy blinks.

He’s sitting on the floor of the sitting room. Not on any cushions, not in any blankets. There’s a variety of symbols drawn in chalk on the ground in front of him.

Techno sits across from him. His eyes are closed, his face is drawn.

Tommy watches. He watches and waits for—

Tommy blinks.

Techno stands in front of him. He’s panting, he’s sweating, his hands are clenched into fists at his side. Phil stands in front of him with his hands raised. “Mate,” he says, “I’m here. I know, I know. You’ve got to calm down.”

Tommy watches as Techno grunts angrily, head tossing as if he were a wild boar. Phil steps forward, and Techno growls, and Tommy watches and waits for—

Tommy blinks.

Techno kneels in front of him. His shoulders are shaking. There is an unfamiliar sound—a keen, a whine, a choked sob. It takes Tommy a moment to realize that it’s from Techno.

“Techno?” Tommy breathes. He leans as close to Techno’s shuddering form as he can without touching him.

Techno doesn’t answer. He just cries.

The house is dusty. The curtains are drawn. The room is empty.

The house is empty.

Phil is gone.

Tears start to sting at Tommy’s eyes. It still hurts. It never stops hurting.

Slowly, Tommy begins to reach out, arms ready to wrap around Techno’s frame—

Tommy blinks.

“Hey.”

Techno’s in front of him. He’s sitting cross-legged. Chalk drawings litter the ground in front of him. Tommy is back in the sitting room.

“You’re here?”

There’s that question again. Tommy still doesn’t know. Tommy still doesn’t know how to fucking answer.

A rumbling sigh leaves Techno’s lips. “Okay.” He says.

Then he begins.

“You woke up this morning at sunrise. I don’t know why. I don’t think you were really here to see it. But you wanted to anyway. Phil found you standing outside. You were freezin’. You need to start grabbin’ your shawl before you go out…”

Techno talks, and talks, and talks, and Tommy just listens.

It’s nice. It’s nice to see Techno fine. It’s nice to be here, for just a moment.

It’s a shame he still drifts off. It’s a shame he doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye before it.

Tommy blinks.

He’s in the kitchen, already sat. Phil stands in front of him, pushing a ceramic mug towards his hands. “Drink, mate. It’ll make you feel better.”

Tommy stares down at it uncertainly.

“At the very least, it’ll taste good,” Phil amends. “You chose the flavor yourself. I promise. Even if you don’t remember.”

Tommy doesn’t. Still, if he chose it, it must be good. Tommy begins to reach out, fingers flexed forward—

Tommy blinks.

Phil is seated in front of him. His hair is pulled back, though it must have been a long day, because pieces are falling out and draping in front of his face.

There’s a variety of papers spread out in front of him. Tommy can’t quite read what they say, upside-down.

“There’s a town nearby we could trade with,” Phil mutters at some point, pointing at one of the papers with a map. “I’m sure they’ll have sunflower seeds, if you really want them.”

Once Tommy doesn’t answer, Phil looks up with a glance. “Tommy? Did you still want them?”

Does he? He can’t recall ever mentioning them. But maybe this version of him had, and now it’s his responsibility to still want them.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “That sounds good, Phil.”

“Good. Alright.”

Phil sounds calm, here. Soft. Gentle. Tommy hopes that this is the real reality. Tommy hopes that his coven is calm. He hopes that they are soft, gentle. He hopes that they are happy.

He hopes that they are happy, because he can’t be. Tommy reaches a hand out towards the papers, wanting to read what they say—

Tommy blinks.

His hand collides with stone.

Phil Zae , the stone says. Mentor, witch, friend. Dearly departed.

It says more, but Tommy can’t stand to read it. He doesn’t want to—he can’t stand to. He thinks he might be sick.

“Phil?” Tommy croaks. The stone is cold beneath his hand. Phil was always so warm. “Phil?”

There is no answer.

Fuck.

Tommy curls into the soil beneath him. “Please,” he croaks, desperately clutching onto the grass beneath him. “Take me somewhere better, take me somewhere else, please, please—”

Tommy cries, and he sobs, and he reaches out to touch the cold tombstone once more—

Tommy blinks.

Ouch. His palms are burning. He shifts them away from…the mug of tea he’s holding. The smell of peppermint wafts upward.

Phil is in front of him again. Except, Tommy almost doesn’t realize at first, because his head is bowed to the table, and his hands are clutched together in prayer.

“Please,” Phil begs. The words fall like rain from his lips: with a gentle pitter, accompanied by the occasional tear of water. “Please, Kristin, please. Bring our boy back. Bring him back to us.”

I am , Tommy wants to say, I am back.

Except he never is, not for long. Tommy only manages one sip of his tea before he’s gone again.

Tommy blinks.

His bedroom shines with the light of the moon. The curtains are drawn away from the window, and Tommy can see the speckled stars twinkling throughout the dark blue sky.

There is a hand in his hair, and a body curled around his own.

“I’m sorry,” the body says, and it is Wilbur. Soft lips press against the crown of Tommy’s head. “I’m sorry. I wish we knew how to fix this. I wish this had never happened to you.”

Tommy wishes too. Not for his own sake, though.

Through the open window, he watches as a streak of light stretches across the sky.

I wish Wilbur were happy , Tommy thinks hazily. I wish they were all happy.

By the grace of some unknown god, Tommy gets to stay in this reality for a long time. He gets to stay with Wilbur’s gentle words and the shining stars. And even when he eventually falls, it is into sleep, rather than into the fog.

Tommy blinks.

And holy shit, where is he?

Even in the most wild of realities, Tommy has always been home. He’s always been in their cottage, or walking through the woods, or sat out in the garden.

Now, Tommy has absolutely no fucking clue where he is. It’s dark, everywhere—aside from the twinkling spots of light—stars, stretched in every direction. It’s as if he’s floating through fucking space.

“Hello?” Tommy calls, and it doesn’t echo. Just floats through the open air.

Holy shit. This might just be it. He finally overdid it—he fucked around too hard with magic, and now he’s destined to be alone and stranded in the center of the universe.

There is no one to hear him, no one to call upon.

Nothing except for…

A hum?

Tommy whirls wildly. “Hello?” He calls again, louder this time.

And there, in front of his eyes—two stars begin to twinkle and flash.

A voice enters the empty space. It does not ring out, or echo, or boom. It is soft and quiet, comforting like a knitted blanket, or apples with cinnamon. “Hello, Tommy.”

What the fuck? “What the fuck?”

A laugh chimes out. Suddenly, the stars are moving, shifting and dancing and spinning until they form—

A woman. A woman that smiles down at Tommy from where her enormous figure floats. She’s the size of the entire cosmos—and yet, she ducks her head down to look at Tommy. “Indeed.”

Breath doesn’t come to Tommy. This is…she is…

“Who are you?” Tommy finally chokes out.

The woman grins, blinking slowly. “I’m the Goddess of Death.”

“Oh.” Wait, hold on, fuck. “Oh. So…So I—”

“No,” she rushes to say, shaking her head. Her hair shifts back and forth like the waves of the ocean. “Gods, no. Phil would be absolutely distraught.”

Tommy nods. “Right, right. That’s…good, then. I just don’t…”

The woman—the Goddess of Death, Kristin—raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know what you’re doing here?” Tommy nods again, and she gives him a sad smile. “You’ve been feeling that a lot recently, huh.”

Well, shit. She’s right. There’s nothing Tommy can do except shrug his shoulders.

Kristin seems to understand, though. She leans a little closer, the nearby stars shifting around her. “That’s alright, Tommy. You’ll be alright. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner.”

Understanding finally dawns on Tommy. “You’re fixing it?” He breathes, and that breath catches when Kristin nods.

This…is this real? Tommy’s been wishing for this for…fuck, for however long it’s been, but he didn’t actually think…

Weakly, he says, “Wilbur will be able to use his magic again?”

Kristin’s lips tug softly, sadly. “You won’t have to hurt anymore.”

She waves a hand, and all of the stars begin to shift and turn. Every single one moves until suddenly, each of them are alight with their own scene, constellations that flash and move.

Tommy sees himself with Wilbur, a Wilbur with star-shaped glasses. Wilbur sings, and Tommy sings with him. They both seem happy.

He sees the stars form a broken Techno, scarred and bleeding but hugged by his coven in turn.

He sees the stars form Wilbur and Techno, wrapped in one another in a forgiving embrace.

He sees the stars form Wilbur, wearing Phil’s cloak. He sees the stars form him, next, leaning against Wilbur’s shoulder and taking his hand.

He sees, he sees, he sees.

It’s everywhere. Everywhere Tommy turns, he sees himself, he sees his coven. He sees the ending to every possibility.

Then Tommy finishes turning, and he sees Kristin.

“I’m glad I finally met you, Tommy,” Kristin says softly. She brings a large finger to Tommy’s forehead, pressing it gently. “Now wake up.”

“Oh, shit,” Tommy gasps, eyes flying open. He flinches so hard he almost rises from his spot on the bed.

He’s…normal. At least, he feels normal. There’s no fuzz in his mind, no headache or trembling hands. He just feels…fine.

Tommy’s flinch was apparently hard enough to wake Wilbur, because he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Tommy?”

All Tommy can do is stare down at him, wide-eyed.

Holy shit, it’s all clear. Tommy looks at Wilbur and he just knows this is real. There’s not a single doubt in his mind.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Wilbur says as Tommy just continues to stare at him. His voice is hoarse, and a bit sad, but the words come out with a practiced ease. Like he’s said them a million times before, and fuck it, he probably has. “It’s okay, Tommy. I’ve got you, this is real—”

“I know.”

Wilbur pauses. Shock sweeps the tiredness of his face. His brows furrow low, his eyes squint slightly. In place of the exhaustion, a teetering anticipation forms. “What?”

A grin begins to crawl up Tommy’s face. “I know. Wilbur, I—I know. I know this is real, I know it.”

Wilbur blinks. “You know?” He scrambles upward, gripping onto Tommy’s shoulders. “Holy shit. Tommy, are you—”

He is. He is! Kristin did it! She blessed him! And it’s not flashy, it’s not cool, it’s not even an upgrade from what he originally had, but Wilbur stares up at him in shock and Tommy knows that this is Wilbur, knows that this is his real life, and that is more than fucking enough. “I’m fixed!” He shouts, and then erupts into laughter as Wilbur slams into him.

“Holy shit!” Wilbur breathes before wrenching himself backward. “Actually? Tommy, are you actually feeling better?”

“Yes!”

Wilbur squints. “This isn’t like last time, is it? You didn’t, like—sell your soul or anything for this, did you? Gods, please say you didn’t—”

Tommy laughs, tugging Wilbur into another hug. “Gods, indeed, my friend!”

“Wh—”

The door creaks open, and Phil and Techno stumble in. “Tommy?” Phil asks, worry and exasperation all lining his tone in one. “Is everything alright? We heard shouting—”

Tommy throws himself at Phil so hard they both fall to the floor.

“Tommy?” Phil exclaims, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s frame. “Prime, mate, what happened?”

“Phil,” Tommy crows, the smile never dropping from his face. “Your wife is so much cooler than you!”

It takes an extremely long argument to convince Wilbur to try to use his magic again.

“I don’t know, Tommy,” Wilbur says, sitting next to Tommy with a frown on his face. “What if this hurts you again? What if—”

Tommy drops dramatically onto Wilbur’s shoulder. “Ugh, stop worrying already. Kristin fixed me all up! Are you doubting her skills, you prick?”

“No, child,” Wilbur argues, shoving Tommy back. “I just…”

“We just want to be safe,” Phil finishes. Both him and Techno crowd around the edges of the blankets, leaned in with a nervous energy.

“Just do the reading,” Tommy scowls, shifting into his fur before Wilbur can argue further.

Wilbur’s lips tug. “Fine. Fine, fine. This could fuck you up again, but fine.”

Tommy swats a small hand at Wilbur’s arm. Get on with it, you dramatic bitch, he chitters, even though Wilbur can’t understand him.

“Right, alright. Just let me…” He brings the tarot cards out of their small casing. Warily, he brings them to his face. “Tell me about Tommy.” His tone is gentle. As he shuffles the deck, his fingers are slow and cautious. “Split,” Wilbur says, and Tommy reaches over and digs his fingers into the deck.

“Alright, alright,” Wilbur says, shooing him away, “I didn’t say to destroy my cards. Split it, already.”

Finally, Tommy gets a good grip. He takes the biggest pile he can and pulls it out, holding it up for Wilbur to take.

Wilbur takes a deep breath. “Okay. Alright. Let’s see it, then.”

Tommy’s stack is placed on the top of the deck, and Wilbur pulls over a card, flipping it in front of them—

The World. The World card stares back up at them, the image of a woman floating amongst the sky.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Wilbur breathes, and the room erupts into relief.

The World: a symbol of fulfillment, of a harmony with oneself and with the universe.

Wilbur lifts Tommy into the air, squeezing him into a hug. Phil is cheering, praise and relief intermixed with thanks to the Goddess. Even Techno lets out a dry laugh, coming over to pat between Tommy’s ears.

Looks like Tommy doesn’t even need to change his future. He’s already got everything he needs right here.