It's written on his arm. ✔

XI: a King's outward appearance.

(a week later...)

Tommy hadn't quite gotten used to the whole situation.

The first thing he'd noticed was the noise in the morning. Thankfully, it usually occurred after 11am, giving the teenager enough time to at least drift into consciousness before the house erupted with conversations. His brother had taken afternoon shifts now, helping train his replacement now that he was leaving, which more often than not lured at least one of the Kings in. Eventually, after a few minutes of procrastinating in his bed, he would go join them, often finding Techno gripping coffee like a lifeline or Phil nursing a cup of tea whilst Wilbur busied himself around their kitchen.

The second thing that soon became obvious was the reason Wilbur had taken an instant disliking to being followed around. Apparently, the Kings had decided the guard situation extended onto him, and Tommy felt both amused and sorry for the unfortunate soul that got stuck with him. Although he was clearly smarter than Wilbur (he knew full well that bickering with Quackity every day would serve him no use – someone should tell his brother that) it appeared to bother the both of them equally. Tommy made a point of leaving the house at least once a day, as encouraged by Wilbur, to get outside. He was certain that he wouldn't miss the people of Ackerly, but some places held memories that served entertainment to relive.

The final thing that he'd decided was notable was the amount of shit he and Wilbur had accumulated. Whether it be a small figurine that Tommy decided would join his decoration, or an odd painting of a fish named 'Sally' that he'd never noticed the existence of, there was always something that he'd question why they had.

'They hold sentimental value.' Wilbur had explained to him whilst they were clearing out the attic. 'You know, provoking memories and all that.'

'You sound old.' He'd retaliated, sneezing when a trail of dust drifted towards him.

'You sound doubtful. Look here.' Tommy yeeted a toy caravan into the binbag before turning towards Wilbur, his eyes softening at the object in his hand.

Wilbur was holding a baseball bat, the edges smashed in and the handle falling apart, and Tommy instantly recognised it. It was a couple of months after he'd moved in with Wilbur, and they were attempting to play tennis with baseball bats in the garden. Tommy, with obvious intent and purpose, had ended up breaking the window by throwing the bat a little too far. It'd taken a couple of days for them to fix, but the teenager thought it was completely worth it. After all, he'd gotten to show his strength.

'You understand now?'

'Shut the fuck up.' Tommy grumbled, taking the bat from his smug brother and placing it inside a box. 'We're keeping it.'

'Hmm.' Wilbur smiled at him, gasping as he reached into another box and displaying a raccoon figurine that provoked instantly grabbing motions. It was at that moment Tommy realised they weren't very good at clearing everything.

This morning, however, was a little different. Wilbur was out of the house by 9am, claiming that he had to go sort out 'insurance and shit' and if Phil asked, he was visiting an old friend. Tommy, who had been rudely awakened and was definitely paying attention, hastily agreed before shoving his head back under the covers, not expecting any company until later that evening. So (after he eventually trudged out of his sanctuary at a semi-decent time of 12pm) when the doorbell went, he was left pondering what to do.