Dream's parlor is the same mess as it was on the day of Ranboo's sudden visit. Pillows, cushions and blankets are all piled up on top of each other - Dream insists simply lying on the rug is in equal measures uncomfortable, disgusting and cold.
"Maybe don't lie on the rug, then," Sapnap suggests, sliding up a chair and sitting on it backwards.
In response, Dream drags another pillow off the couch and tucks it under the elbow he props up himself with. Sapnap only rolls his eyes.
"You're such a cat. And a bird. That's a nest if I've ever seen one."
"That's kind of my thing," Dream huffs. "So, about that dinner..."
By the time Dream finishes his retelling, the bored expression on Sapnap's face is replaced by one of disappointment - clearly regretting that he missed two princes almost getting into a duel. Dream has no doubts that leaving him behind was a good decision, otherwise Sapnap would've been foaming at the mouth, riling up the fight; not a good image for a knight who was supposed to be the prince's prime protector.
It's been years since he and Sapnap first met, yet sometimes Dream feels like nothing has changed from the boy who he got into a fight with on his first day of boarding school. Foolish had good intentions sending Dream into a private establishment for noble offspring: he wanted him to mingle with people who were outside their tight circle of three siblings. He notified the principal, pasted together a fake identity, and a ring with the symbol of a family that didn't exist; Foolish thought of just about everything, except for the school going up in flames.
Unlike Dream, who begrudgingly agreed to study in the school, Sapnap wasn't given a choice at all, so he did the only acceptable thing in that situation - light it on fire. It was during the winter break, when there were barely any students or teachers in the building, and nobody got hurt, but his parents didn't come to bail him out of the town jail.
Sapnap was fourteen, shaking in a moldy cell, smudged in soot and hissing from the pain of untreated burns, yet his eyes had the same unyielding shade of ember as Dream approached the iron bars. The heavy lock budged after two turns of a rusty key, and he took a step inside the cell. With his crown once again present on his head, with the king himself behind his back in his whole golden glory, ridiculously at odds with a pungent grim dungeon, it was painfully obvious who Dream really was.
"Do you want to get out of here?" the prince asked.
Sapnap stared at him with dumbfounded disbelief. "I gave you a black eye."
"But I broke your nose," Dream reminded him. "And I'm seeking round two. So, what do you say?"
It was something that wasn't supposed to happen in real life: stories of miracle rescues and second chances belonged to childish fairytales, yet there Dream stood, not a mythical creature but a very real boy of flesh and blood. He saw something more in the white-knuckled clench of Sapnap's fists and his sharp glares - a challenge for the world to try and crush him. Most would call it aimless stubbornness. The prince, however, saw it for what it truly was: loneliness sealed in a prickly shell that, with right guidance, could be turned into blazing loyalty. Dream extended his hand, and after a moment of shaky hesitation, Sapnap took it, sealing a friendship that would last a lifetime.
Sapnap grew to be a skilled fighter. He moves at a fuming pace that not every skilled swordsman can keep up with, and any weapon he takes turns into an extension of himself: unpredictable, rampageous, and probably capable of setting something on fire. However, it's a steady routine for Dream to drop him face-first into mud during their morning drills. Sapnap shakes his fists each time, swearing that he'll overpower him some day.
"You can dream about it," the prince always smirks smugly, and dodges the training sword that Sapnap would throw at him after a frustrated yell. Dream would wheeze, laughing down to the ache in his stomach, only to be tackled off his feet the next moment. Roughhousing on the ground, trading half-hearted elbow blows, grass getting into their mouth as they bicker; it's in these moments Dream is reminded that before a knight, before a training partner, before an old rival, Sapnap is his best friend.
"Why didn't you just tell them that you know who your real pen pal is? You could've avoided involving Prince Theseus if you just demanded Ranboo be punished."
Sapnap sounds concerned as he talks about the crown prince. Dream rolls onto his back, casting a sideways glance at the knight and his furrowed brows. Sapnap would shove his head into a noose if Dream asked him to; for a good chunk of their stay he's expressed doubt about his visits to Prince Theseus but still put trust in his best friend's judgment. First impressions tend to be misleading, and the Imperial family of the Antarctic Empire is nothing short of a theater display. It became personal when Sapnap had taken a brief look behind the curtains and saw a cast-aside kid with too much emotion behind his eyes.
"It was clear from the beginning that the stray didn't come up with the lie himself. I wanted to see both him and the culprit held responsible. Besides, punishing a servant wouldn't look good for my reputation, would it?"
A sly smirk blooms on Dream's face. Sapnap stares at him with a look of exaggerated disbelief, though he knows well that the prince doesn't let things like that slide without retribution. Ranboo was deceiving Dream, so he had messed around with the kid for a while and then screwed him over in public. It was a show, really; but the one person that it was meant for seemed to enjoy it the least. Dream gave every chance to Prince Theseus to come forward and admit to being his letter friend - both in private and with an audience - but each time a dull expression would overcome the boy's face, and then somehow he would put even more distance between them than when they were strangers.
"You're a bad guy, you know that, Dream?" Sapnap says, but he's smiling, too. "I bet the duel part was just a plot to beat Prince Wilbur up."
Dream can feel a chuckle tickling his throat. "You know me well."
"I'm not the only one."
Dream straightens and sits upright as Sapnap hands him an envelope. He trails his fingers over the seal snapped in half, recognizing the shape of a rabbit and a chess piece - the symbol of Kinoko Kingdom's royal family.
"George?"
"George," Sapnap confirms, grinning. "And he's pissed."
Dream skims through the ornate twists of formal greetings that hide a number of ciphered messages in-between the lines - all of that could be carefully looked over later - and skips straight to the end.
'Some alarming rumors are reaching me now that I've crossed the borders of the Antarctic Empire. I'll arrive at the Palace soon. Until then, don't do anything stupid.'
At some point Dream had, in all seriousness, considered that George had some kind of prediction abilities that allowed him to sense when they were getting into something of questionable risk. It dawned on him later, with a dumb smile and a fit of wheezing laughter, that it was just whenever George was absent from their side for more than a few days. Dream barely ever listened to his warnings, and he wasn't intending on starting now.
When he was much, much younger, and his mother was yet to trade a captain's hat for a queen's crown, he and Foolish used to climb into the crow's nest together to stargaze. Dream's brother convinced him that the sparkles reflected on the rumbling waves were the stars that fell from the sky and sank to the ocean floor. A childish promise that he made to himself then, to rescue the drowned lights, has come true. Dream discovered a talent in himself - to search through the gray ocean of faces and pull out those of them that are meant to shine. Sapnap was the first person he found, and Prince Theseus would be the most recent.
Those who came up with the title Prince of Steel know nothing about the real crown prince of the Antarctic Empire. In Dream's eyes, Theseus is a diamond; people are used to tossing him around, his hard edges withstanding the damage. What they fail to realize is that one precise hit to a vulnerable spot is all it takes for the pristine core to shatter. People like Theseus crack from the inside out - for weeks, months, years - until they burst, once and for all, into millions of pieces.
Sapnap was right saying that Dream's not a good person. He can ruin lives in a snap of his fingers, he takes risks that other people are forced to pay for, he has put more people underground than he bothers to remember - but he doesn't stand injustice. If the Antarctic family can't value the treasure they have, it's only fair that Dream will take it away.
"What are you doing?" Sapnap asks as he throws a window open.
"Something stupid, probably," Dream says, smirking, and then shapeshifts into a green parrot.
***
When Tommy returns to his room and finds Prince perched on a chair, the first thing he does is embrace him tightly. The parrot hadn't visited since the celebrations started; it's been almost a week since Tommy last saw him. He had missed the feeling of running his fingers through soft green feathers, missed the warmth and the sensation of another beating heart close to his own. After a long day that couldn't be called anything remotely pleasant, Tommy truly needed this hug.
Prince doesn't squirm or protest until Tommy pulls away himself. He can't bring himself to look in the bird's eyes with how much they resemble Prince Dream's. The guilt in his chest grows only stronger when Tommy spots a new letter on Prince's leg and unwraps it with borderline dreadful anticipation.
'I revealed myself so I could lose the bet,
But you're not even participating. Why?'
With a heavy heart and a sour taste on his tongue, Tommy picks up a quill.
'I don't think we should continue this exchange.'
Tommy barely manages to move the inkpot out of the way when Prince bursts into action, wings beating with raging intensity. The bird isn't eager to deliver the letter; he looks like he wants to tear it to shreds and maybe take Tommy's fingers along with it too. He makes the stupidest attempt to try and raise it out of reach - which doesn't work, because birds, well, fly. With the paper clenched in his beak, Prince settles atop of the canopy of Tommy's bed.
An attempt to drag up a chair and reach for the bird earns him a low, warning growl. With the exhaustion of the day catching up to him, Tommy doesn't have the energy to try and coax him down, so he simply sinks to the floor with a heavy sigh. His eyelids stay closed for a minute or two before there is a sound of flapping and a careful tap on his forehead.
Tommy opens his eyes to Prince hovering over him. He has to crane his neck back to see the bird's head fully. Prince stands with his feet on the bed and lets out a soft, apologetic purr. When Tommy reaches out and pets the bird gently, he nuzzles his head into his hand.
"Please don't be mad at me," he murmurs. "It's just- The letters should've remained a secret, you know? If I announce that I'm the recipient, everyone will blame me for yesterday's conflict. And even if I don't- Techno will learn eventually, and he doesn't exactly have a high view of Prince Dream."
There's a chance that Techno knows already - it depends on whether Wilbur decided to share the truth with his twin or keep it to hold over Tommy's head sometime later. Tommy tries not to think about it too hard to avoid the spike of dread in his stomach. Maybe it's good that he's cutting ties now; if Prince Dream will be upset with his reply, at least he won't have a face to connect to the feeling, and an extra crack to the relationship between two ruling families will be avoided.
Prince finally lets Tommy take the note and tie it around his leg. He pets him at one last time before standing up with the bird now hopping over to his arm and moving towards the balcony.
"I hope you'll be able to visit me even when the letters stop," Tommy says. Prince moves his head in what looks like a reassuring, serious nod. Shadows flicker in an odd dance where warm candlelight meets moon's silver shine, so it might be just his imagination acting out again. Tommy jerks his arm upwards and sends Prince flying back to his owner.
***
Despite his eyelids feeling like they weigh a pound each, Tommy can't fall asleep. He continues to listen to the noises outside his chambers even as the last hints of twilight are swallowed by the thick cloth of night. The head maid urges the servants to hurry with the evening cleaning; they fix misplaced rugs and paintings tipped to the side and soon the corridors are silent save for the noise of one guard shift coming to replace the other.
The rest of the night goes by with Tommy flickering in and out of consciousness. A candle on the bedstand keeps track of hours he restlessly burns. Tommy lays on his side, and if he listens carefully enough, he can hear the hiss of the flame munching on a cotton wick. When he does manage to fall asleep briefly, his dreams are full of blood and panic and fear; he wakes up with a smothered gasp, back there, in the same room, where a ghost of his brother's presence would tell him not to be a burden.
All that's left of the candle is a cold hard puddle of wax and a few drops that dripped over the plate. Someone will have to scrape that off in the morning, Tommy thinks dimly. There is a ribbon of lighter blue in-between two curtains shoved together, but he can't tell how much more time is left until the dawn. Tommy puts a hand on his chest, feeling his ribs struggling to keep his heart in with each frantic beat, and understands that it doesn't matter; he can't stand this torture any longer. Blinking forcefully through his swollen eyelids, feeling more tired now than when he went to sleep, he lets out a shaky sigh and stands up.
If the sight of the crown prince, stepping out of his chambers in a blue cloak trimmed with fur, alarms the guards in any way, they don't show it. In the reflection of metal chestplates, Tommy can see his own sullen, tired eyes, standing out sharply against pale skin; his hair dangles past his ears with no ribbon to keep it in a tight ponytail. He pulls the cloak further up his shoulders and briefly passes the guards with a glance.
Tommy doesn't have the rotation of his knights memorized; there was a high chance that Wisp wouldn't be on duty tonight and only through sheer force of luck does he spot the captain's blue uniform. Wisp pulls his helmet off, but his eyes are still trained on the rug under Tommy's feet.
"Nothing's wrong," Tommy reassures, even before the question could be asked. "Just thought of taking an early morning stroll."
Wisp's lips move, but he doesn't say anything. An understanding passes between them. Wisp gestures something to the other guards; Tommy turns around and continues his path along the corridor with only the captain himself trailing his steps.
There was a time in the palace where the princes could go wherever they want: sprinting through the empty halls, sneaking into the kitchen to snatch some pastries before lunch, climbing the roofs of the garden gazebo. After Techno was promoted to command over the palace security, he toughened it both on the perimeter and in their personal escorts.
Tommy was infuriated; not only did armored figures loom over him like guarding dogs, but at the head of his security was a man who reported to his every step to Techno directly. Wisp served in the Imperial army, in Techno's personal division; he participated in suppressing the riots in the south following the Empress' passing. Those couple of years owned him a title, the General's trust and a fancywork of scars to show off at the training drills.
Among the knights, he was a respected authority. To Tommy, he was just another snitch in a stupid bulky helmet. At age fourteen, he approached Wisp with a couple of papers, glue and scissors in his hands.
"Your Highness...?" the knight sounded concerned for his own safety.
"You have nothing to worry about," Tommy had said with a vicious smile.
A few days following that, Wisp walked around with imperturbable seriousness whilst having goofy paper eyes glued to his helmet. It's one of the best - and last - good memories Tommy has of that year; the next month, he almost became an orphan and a child emperor overnight.
They make it to the gardens. The guards stationed at the doors let them through, and Tommy feels like he can finally breathe freely again. It'll be a few months before the Northern winds will come howling and bring a cloud front heavy with snow. For now, it's just the chill of the air that creeps up on Tommy and makes him curl up further into the cloak. He buries his nose into white furs, feeling them tickle his cheeks and chin. It still smells like Techno, and if Tommy closes his eyes tightly enough, he can imagine his arms embracing him from behind.
Brows creased, lips pursued, Techno's face would've always had this deeply concerned expression more fit for a battlefield than here, in the present, where he'd simply fix a cloak on Tommy so that he wouldn't get cold. Each time he is dressed too lightly for the weather, Techno silently pulls the one off his own shoulders. Tommy sometimes 'forgets' his warm clothes on purpose to get another cloak. He never returns them; Techno never asks for them back. Maybe he knows, too, that Tommy needs them much more than he does.
"May I speak my mind freely?"
Wisp suddenly speaks up, startling Tommy out of his thoughts. The crown prince runs a tongue over his dry lips.
"About what?" he asks.
"About what you and General Technoblade were talking about-" Wisp glances at a soft shade of pink slowly draping over the treetops, "Yesterday, I suppose."
Servants, ladies-in-waiting, guards - a presence so constant around every royal figure that it's easy to forget that they are the most careful listeners and spectators of everything that happens in the palace. Tommy hasn't known that Wisp overheard a part of their conversation with Techno until now. After a long moment of silence, Tommy nods.
"The crown prince should trust his own judgment more."
"You and me both know how well it turned out for me last time," Tommy musters strength to put on a crooked smile.
"Your Highness is older and wiser now, and knows better of who he should and should not trust." Wisp pauses. "With all due respect- The General means well but he turns a blind eye on the things he does not wish to acknowledge."
Tommy sends him a sharp glare. "Choose your words carefully. What would your general do if he caught you bad mouthing about him?"
"Have my head, most certainly," Wisp's lips twitch in a humorless smirk. Despite Tommy's warning tone, he risks casting a long, sad glance at him. "Even though I only speak of what I see."
Tommy opens his mouth and finds that he has no words to answer with. Despite giving Wisp a permission to express himself with honesty, he hadn't expected the slap of his bluntness. A part of Tommy, an unsure, stumbling thing, grips that statement with desperate teeth and claws. Wisp has seen it all: sobs muffled with fabric, fresh scratch marks hidden behind long sleeves and collars, fits of erratic breathing and gagging at the sight of spilled rich-red wine that looks too much like dripping blood. Wisp has seen all the times when Tommy needed Techno and he wasn't there .
Even when Tommy didn't have to replace him with a piece of fabric holding a phantom feeling of human warmth, Techno's comfort was scarce and fleeting. Tommy's choice was between a sword and a spear, but at times he felt like those sparring matches weren't even meant for him but his brother. When Tommy wanted to do it his own way - spilling his emotions out, yelling, screaming - he was told to suck it up. Not in those words, not so harshly, but the meaning was all the same.
Selfish selfish selfish. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek. No, he isn't being fair to Techno - Techno cares about him, loves him, and means him well. Tommy feels a strange fire, an uncomfortable weight, an urge to argue with Wisp and to prove him wrong. (Is this how Techno felt protecting Father?)
The pause lasts long. Wisp clasps his arms behind his back. "Forgive me, Your Highness, I spoke out of turn. Do you wish to return to the palace now?"
"No," Tommy shakes his head, determined. "What I do wish is to see my brother."
Techno should be in the stables by now. He takes Carl for rides early in the morning, when the sunlight is as gentle as silk, to avoid blistering burns. It shouldn't be an issue today, though: the air feels cold on Tommy's cheeks, and the sky slowly turns into a battered cloth of gray clouds. It might rain soon.
The stables hug the outer walls surrounding the palace. As soon as they come into view, Tommy recognizes Techno, back half-turned to him, leading a chestnut horse by the reins. With a newfound energy in his steps, Tommy speeds up his stride.
"Tech-"
The name dies on Tommy's tongue. He stops, taking an unsure step forward to steady himself. He would recognize that ridiculously tall figure anywhere - in the saddle, hunching over Carl's neck, sits Ranboo.
There is a cloak draped over Ranboo's back, slipping from one his shoulder- of course it does, Techno's shoulders are much broader, wider than his. The cloak Tommy's wearing now used to be the same until he hemmed it a bit.
Tommy doesn't realize he stopped breathing until black starts dotting his vision. He forces his airways open through a wrench in his throat, and shudders together with the first gulp of air. They are talking, him and Techno. Tommy can't hear them from this distance, only vaguely makes out of the friendly tone. Techno says something, Ranboo chuckles - it's awkward, but Techno smiles and it's relaxed and Techno never looks so relaxed with anyone but him.
Techno's head snaps in their direction. Tommy jumps away, closer to a wall of bushes and out of his sight. He sways and almost runs into Wisp with his back; the knight catches and puts him back to his feet, "Kid-"
"I'm fine," Tommy says, voice empty. His chest aches; he brushes Wisp's hand off and whirls away from him. "I shall return to the palace at once and- attend to my duties, maybe."
The cape on Tommy's shoulders feels like it's burning. He pretends not to feel Wisp's pitying gaze on him.
***
The palace will be bustling with people this evening now that nobles from all around the Antarctic Empire have flocked to join the foreigners for the last day. Tommy should be doing the last-minute checks, making sure that everything is ready for the Special Banquet - but instead he sits in his office, head sinking into his hands, doing nothing but thinking of everything at once. The twist of knives in his chest keeps his mind clear of sleepy fog for a good chunk of the morning before the exhaustion of his body catches up to him, and he blacks out.
He gets woken up by the sound of the door thrown open. Tommy shoots upright, hand automatically grabbing a knife hidden under his coat- but snaps out of it before he can bear his weapon at Marchioness Beau, who blinks at him sheepishly in the doorway.
"Bad timing?" she chuckles, despite catching a glimpse of metal in Tommy's hands.
"One could say so." Tommy shuffles back down to his chair, shoulders falling. He glances at the windows and, to his relief, finds the sun still hovering high over the palace towers. It would've been a catastrophe if he had slept over the start of the Banquet. He wonders for a second how did the guards let Marchioness Beau through when he specified that he's not to be disturbed- but he thinks he might already know an answer.
"I see that you have not been relieving yourself of your fatigue, Your Imperial Highness." The Marchioness measures him with a critical gaze. "Would I be correct to assume that you will refrain from sharing the cause of your insomnia?"
She notes the dark bags under the crown prince's eyes but opts to ignore the deadly glare that he sends her way. The Marchioness clearly came here with a purpose; Tommy assumes it hasn't changed since the last time they spoke.
"I appreciate when my subordinates do not cross the borders of professional and private matters," he raises his voice a bit so that Wisp outside would hear him, too.
"Why, Your Highness, you should have just told me so!"
The Marchioness crosses the room in one quick stride and puts her arm on the desk against Tommy's. He doesn't make a sound, stunned in his bewilderment. This lady really doesn't have any fear, does she?
"Perfect, the skin tone should match." Marchioness Beau throws dark twin braids over her shoulders and pulls out something out of the pockets of her skirt. Tommy blinks. He didn't even know that skirts could have pockets in them.
"Elaborate," Tommy says, regaining his voice.
"Many of our guests will be seeking a greeting from the crown prince tonight. If he appears worse for wear after yesterday's commotion, people might speculate that the consequences were more dire than a few offended royals."
She does make a good point, but Tommy doesn't understand what it has to do with the circular container she displays to him. "What is that?"
The lady beams. "It's the true magic in a world where innate gifts are scarce and nearly extinct. A concealer can mask almost everything - an inconvenient scar, traces of disease, or simply give one's face a brighter glow-" she throws a pointed look at Tommy, "but for a certain sleep-deprived prince, it might help him appear more awake and less like he just walked out of a coffin."
For some reason, laughter bubbles in Tommy's chest. He tries to keep his face in a stern frown but fails to stop his lips from twitching upwards.
"Your talents are wasted in high society, Your Ladyship. You should try your hand at commerce instead. Though I'd work on the part where you insult your clients."
"I'm touched by your concern, but I must refuse; I still very much desire that allowance."
The container clicks open. Inside, a cream-like substance smells faintly of oils and flowers. Marchioness Beau scoops up a bit with two fingers and pats it over a small birthmark on her hand - it disappears, concealer blending with the rest of the skin.
"Do you always carry makeup on you?" Tommy asks.
"No, I've been saving it for this exact occasion," the Marchioness answers without a blink as she seemingly pulls out a brush out of thin air. "Now, do you want me to assist you?"
Tommy ends up putting the concealer on himself after a demonstration of how to do it without gouging his own eyes out. Once they're finished, Marchioness Beau flips a small mirror open and lets Tommy take a look at himself.
"It's too noticeable, isn't it?" he asks, despite the bags now being hidden out of sight.
"Under a magnifying glass, maybe, and only to a person who uses this trick regularly themselves," The lady shoves the mirror back into her pocket, but the container and the brush stay laying on the desk. Tommy tries to hand them over, but she shakes her head with a cheeky grin. "I have plenty in storage. Please consider this a small gift from me."
Tommy suspects that this might be the Marchioness' way of bargaining her way into his favor, but discovers that he doesn't really care. The gift was helpful, her company - manageable. The heavy weight he's been carrying around since the morning releases its clutches if only slightly. "Thank you," Tommy says, and it's honest.
"It's my pleasure and honor," the Marchioness curtsies and tries to step out of the office at the exact moment Wisp steps in. The knight lets her out first; the lady glances at him and then at someone outside the doors. Her expression turning from cheerful to cautious is all the warning Tommy gets before Wilbur barges into the office.
"You let the palace's worst gossipmonger in here, but not your own brother?"
Wilbur's face twists in a theatrical display of hurt. Tommy feels the start of a headache pounding in his temples. Wisp glances in uncertainty between two princes. "Accept my apologies, I tried to intercept but-"
There are no restrictions for princes' movement around the palace unless specified by the Emperor. Tommy nods and sends Wisp away; as soon as they are alone in the room, he directs all his attention to Wilbur.
"Cut the circus," Tommy props up his chin on clasped hands. "What are you here for?"
"You're very blunt as of late," Wilbur notes. Tommy's unimpressed stare makes his smirk drop first to irritation and then to seriousness. "I want you to add Ranboo to the guest list."
Tommy closes his eyes and opens them again with a deep breath. He doesn't know what irritates him more: Wilbur's request or the fact that he sounds genuine, no creak of the errant notes that Tommy was so used to. "You know I can't. There are only twenty guests at the Banquet, no less, no more."
"Well, I already told people that Ranboo will be attending."
It feels as though the temperature in the room both plummets and spikes. Tommy has never considered himself intimidating - not in a way the Emperor is - but perhaps the face and the eyes are not the only things his father has passed to him; no matter how Wilbur tries to act nonchalant and confident, there's tension when he shakes himself out of his stupor and leans, back and one ankle pinned to a wall.
"You should've consulted me or His Majesty first."
Wilbur's face turns sour. So he did talk to their father, then, and received a refusal; good to know that the Emperor hasn't completely lost his senses. Tommy wants to laugh in Wilbur's face for assuming that his answer would be different.
"Surely there's somebody you can remove in place of Ranboo. Somebody not-so-important."
"Well," Tommy says. "I could always cancel your invitation."
The lie drips from his tongue like poison. The Imperial family members are not included into the guest limit; Tommy physically can't kick Wilbur out unless the Emperor commands him to, but the look on Wilbur's face makes it worth over a thousand rules broken and bent. Sweetly sickening satisfaction drips down his throat and makes him light in the head, as if he had just downed a glass of wine.
Tommy is drunk, drunk on resentment and revenge, and he likes the feeling that the pit in his chest hurts less over its pleasant fog. If Wilbur is allowed to misappropriate his name, why should Tommy keep holding back?
Because Wilbur always has better cards. Tommy is reminded too late; the realization comes as soon as brown eyes flash crimson and regret rolls over his body in the form of a shiver as Wilbur's lips stretch into a vast smile.
"Or," Wilbur presses, innocently tilting his head, "you could give up your own place for Ranboo. Father and Techno clearly prefer him over you, anyway."
Something inside Tommy breaks.
"Get out," he grits through a clenched jaw, head ducked, nails digging into the hard wood of his desk. From the edge of his fogged vision, Tommy can see Wilbur smirking and pushing himself from the wall.
"Aw," he coos, "why so aggressive-"
"GET OUT!" Tommy screams, grabbing an inkpot and hurling it at Wilbur. Wilbur ducks, and it shatters against the wall, glass shards and ink gushing all over him. When he straightens up, eyes wide and hands raised, there's a trail of black liquid starting from his temple and flowing down to his chin.
"...Theseus?"
But Tommy isn't done yet. His chest is heaving, his ears ring; he grabs the next closest object on the desk and squeezes it. Wilbur jerks away and stumbles out of the office. Tommy's gaze drills the door where his brother just stood and slowly puts down the heavy folder.
Wilbur only said it to upset him It's not true, a lie, because Wilbur is liar, liar, liar-
Tommy loses track of how much time he stands there, shaking violently and muttering under his breath (a minute, five, fifteen?) before the door creaks open again and two people peek inside: Wisp, and slightly behind him, a maid. Tommy's expression chases them both away and he is left alone with a huge ink stain that sinks into the wallpapers and drips on the floor. The longer he stares at it, the more it starts to look like Ranboo's face - smirking, triumphant, so fucking happy.
A new surge of anger and frustration shudders Tommy; he clenches his fingers into a fist and strikes the wall with a loud cry.
Crack. Tommy howls, sinking to his knees, cradling his right hand - broken knuckles covered in ink and blood - to his chest. Glass digs into his skin through pants; Tommy barely feels it, his head lolling forward and thudding against the wall.
Pain kills his anger and all that's left of him is an empty shell and a quiet, broken sob.There's something warm on Tommy's face. He uncurls his hand, the one that doesn't make his muscles writhe in agony, skims it over his cheek and-
Oh. He'll need to put the concealer on again.