Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Micro’s scarily good at chemistry—it’s something that’s widely known throughout the school. For all the terrible he is at math and pretending he cares for lectures, Micro is concerningly great at chemistry.

It isn’t a big deal to Thomas. Micro’s that weird, too airy kid that Thomas has had rotated in most of his classes through the years.

Too aloof for his own good and never too selfless to earn him a more than mediocre reputation. He has a friend group to match, too.

For all of Micro’s bland personality, it isn’t hard at all to spot him in a crowd—supposedly.

He has pale hair and moles under his eyes like a certain Saparata. He has a scar across the bridge of his nose that he says was from a fight with his dog.

(If Thomas listened closely enough, he would hear Jophiel tiredly sigh and Snowbird chuckle under his breath. It's too bad he doesn’t.)

Micro is a few inches shorter than Thomas, give or take, but his eyes seem like they could stare into the universe and make it tremble under itself. So maybe Thomas is a very, very tiny bit afraid of Micro–but only hypothetically.

He doesn’t know Micro much, other than that Snowbird buys snacks from him, or that Micro’s clumsy—told verbatim by Jophiel in a conversation he overheard.

There was a time when Fluixon and Saparata had gotten into a heated argument, which led to Saparata spending some time around Micro’s friend group. Every time Thomas spotted Fluixon making heart eyes over Saparata, Thomas couldn’t help but want to smack the shit out of him. Saparata is friends with nearly anyone and everyone, so it didn’t surprise him that they knew each other. Fluixon can act as if he doesn’t care all he wants, but everyone knows that he does.

It’s during that spring semester when Thomas is finally seated next to Micro.

They don’t talk very much—it’s only one class after all—and Micro’s smart enough to grasp the basic concepts of things when he isn’t sleeping in class. Micro doesn’t snore or drool when he sleeps; he's simply too tired in the morning rush to make an effort to learn. They don’t talk much, and Thomas thought it would stay that way until they changed seats again.

—

Thomas doesn’t usually skip breakfast, doesn’t like not eating breakfast because he knows he’ll start sleeping too, but he had woken up late one morning and was thrown off to school like a sack of potatoes.

It’s embarrassing when your stomach growls because you can’t tell if it’s only in your head or if everyone can hear it. Thomas can’t focus, and Micro must’ve noticed from all the glances he’s been giving. He keeps shifting in his seat, catching himself dozing off, and bouncing his foot on the floor. He lets out a deep and quiet sigh. It’s worse than having to watch Fluixon and Saparata dance around each other, only to then later insist that they’re just friends.

When the teacher turns around, Micro, hunched over the desk with his head in his arms, asks, “Are you okay, dude?” His pitch-black, foggy eyes wandered over to Thomas.

Obviously, he is not, but he grinds his teeth, “I’m fine.”

He probably spits it out with a grimace on his face, but Micro doesn’t say anything for a while. Thomas hates the blaring lights in this classroom, hates the loud AC blasting into the room as if it isn’t fucking winter still. The teacher turns to the next slide. The lead in his pencil breaks.

Thomas flips a page in his notebook before Micro suddenly whispers, “If you do my homework, I’ll give you something to eat.” Thomas raises a brow. “Unless you have a dollar or ten…”

And usually, Thomas would question it, refuse it in a heartbeat because no way in hell is he doing someone else’s homework for anything-

(Thomas glances at Newkids through the class window.)

-but truth be told, he really can’t focus or sit still. It’s torture. Nor is he that stupid to bring a wallet to school, either. So eventually, Thomas holds out his hand, and Micro smiles before reaching into his backpack. The smile is more like when a cashier smiles at a customer, but it’s a new face ingrained into Thomas’ memory—Micro’s customer service smile. It's practiced and full of mischief that maybe makes Thomas internally shiver.

Micro hands him something wrapped in parchment paper, and for a moment, Thomas feels like he’s made a deal with the devil himself…

(It’s awfully dramatic, Thomas doesn’t entirely feel that way, but there’s an awful sense of eeriness that creeps up his neck. Micro certainly doesn’t look like a devil, though; the existence of Saparata is making him second-guess. That evil, evil white boy…)

He doesn’t care—he’s hungry—and they’re seated in the back of the room anyway. If the teacher says anything about it, he’ll blame it on Micro.

—

Thomas doesn’t think much of the situation. He eats the cookies and bread handed to him, and Micro goes back to living in his own head. His shoulder-length hair drifting off his hoodie as he puts his head down.

It’s a downward spiral from there.

There's not a lot to it.

(The next day, some of Micro’s hair covers Thomas’ notebook on their small, two-person desk. It's light, pale as bone, maybe even translucent if he looks hard enough. He gently brushes Micro’s hair off, tucking it back into his hoodie, but only so Thomas doesn’t end up waking Micro up. Maybe along the way, Thomas also tucks Micro’s hair behind his ear, revealing his serene, peaceful expression as he sleeps. If Thomas learns that Micro has subtle, small freckles that day, it’s no one’s business but his to know. )

—

“You gave our goods to that guy?!”

“What? He needed help, and I helped him out.”

“You gave our precious goods, the cookies that we spent months perfecting, for FREE?!”

“It wasn't for free, he has to do my homework now-”

“We could always make more cookies-”

“No one was talking to you, Panzer.”

“I still have more, you guys. I didn’t give him the whole batch, for ish’s sake…”

“Isn’t that the guy your brother wanted to get away from?”

“Yeah, they were dating or whatever, right?”

“What the hell are you guys talking about? Saps isn’t dating anyone, and Thomas and Fluixon don’t even look remotely the same!”

“So you admit that something’s going on between Saparata and Fluixon?”

“Shut up Neptune, I don’t wanna think about my brother’s love life right now.”

“So what, we drugged a guy?”

“No, but I wish I could drug myself so I wouldn’t have to listen to your guys’ dumb questi-“

—

Micro likes to bake. He doesn’t know how or when he’d come to realize it, but he does. It makes sense when Thomas stops to think about it, but Thomas obviously didn't think of Micro much before.

Saparata is still distant. Fluixon has been…well, going a bit coo-coo, so to speak. Thomas can see the guilt in Fluixon’s eyes. The thing is, it seems like Saparata has made up his mind to be avoidant as hell, and it's been eating away at Fluixon ever since–no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

This means that whenever anyone looks for Saparata, there’s also a chance to see Micro.

Micro, who looks more like a shorter, more deadpan Saparata, but if he liked purple–kinda like Fluixon’s and Saparata’s secret love child…

Thomas doesn’t wanna think about that, actually.

Fluixon’s been getting angsty, and Thomas already knows what’s coming. So, when Fluixon comes up to him one day during lunch with a determined look on his face, after so many days of being a yearning, edgy, lovesick fool, he can almost certainly guess the next words that come out of his mouth.

Their group, the Conspiracy (they named it freshman year and thought it was cool—but only because they totally were not rigging the votes for class president to be in Saparata’s favor. Nope, not at all, if anyone’s to blame, it’s definitely Hvyrotation’s fault), sits at their unofficial, designated table that they always sit in.

Fluixon pipes up, “So, I’ve been thinking-” Fluixon’s posture is poised, but his hair looks like a rat had tried to scurry into it in his sleep. Thomas has always had a bed head, but jeez…

“Sure, buddy.”

“ShutupRotation. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, since Saparata has been so stubborn lately, that it is finally time, to release my ultimate pettiness onto the school!” Fluixon dramatically pauses with each second he has, standing on the table as if he had not just stepped on wet grass and dirty concrete. A lunch lady yells at him to get off the table, and Newkids probably had a thought of pouring milk on his shoes.

“Via winning class president?” Gotoga raises a brow, even under his beanie.

Fluixon repeats, “Via class president.” He points a finger at himself, body language bold and wide. “THAT’S RIGHT, I’M GONNA BECOME CLASS PRESIDENT, AND WIN! SAPARATA WILL BE NOTHING BUT A LOSER!” HvyRotation, Snowbird, and Newkids cheer while Seraphim tells Fluixon to shut the hell up while trying to tame the mess that is Fluixon’s hair.

In the corner of Thomas’s eye, he can see Saparata and Micro’s group hanging out outside the cafeteria–oblivious to the chaos happening inside. Thomas can’t help but chuckle at the absolute mania in Fluixon’s voice.

Saparata ran for class president during his freshman year and won, mentioning a while back that he planned on running for it again this year after missing out the previous year. Something about going on vacation for something…Thomas was only half asleep.

“And your plan?” Gotoga asks, surrounded by milk cartons while resting his elbows on the table.

And Fluixon, the ever-scheming, no-good, troublesome bastard that he is, simply says, “Oh, I’ve got a plan alright…”

—

This, is how Thomas ends up having to “infiltrate” Micro and his weird, weird friend group. (The Canadian Cartel? They’re not so weird, Thomas would argue that Fluixon and Saparata are weirder by a mile. Maybe they’re just a bit more creepy…)

So it starts like this: Thomas and Gotoga are recruited to make friends with the Canadian Cartel members to get information about Saparata and to then report back to Fluixon. With this information, Fluixon would end up trying to one-up Saparata behind his back and without him knowing. What Fluixon will do when it is all over? Thomas doesn’t particularly care about. The matter of fact is that now, Thomas has to talk to Micro.

Thomas doesn’t know when it started, but he and Micro have a routine where Micro will give him stuff that he baked, and Thomas, in exchange per Micro’s complaints, gives him homework answers now and then. They were never entirely on bad terms despite how Saparata would glare at him when he thought Thomas wasn’t looking.

Micro is kind enough to feed him, and maybe they grow closer than Thomas thought they would. He laughs at Micros' confused expressions. Micro smiles when he gives him the homework answers. Fluixon said to go easy on Micro, probably because they both like purple, given their choice of clothes, so in hindsight, Thomas is only following orders. (Nothing is wrong, nothing is strange.)

He can see so clearly the way Micro’s eyes light up when he gets an answer right. The way his laughter echoes when Thomas starts cursing under his breath at the teacher. They’re unlikely friends, and when all the crap with Fluixon and Saparata gets blown over and when the school year ends, Thomas and Micro will never have to talk to each other again.

So, no, his hand does not twitch when someone like Gotoga wraps an arm around Micro’s shoulder. Does not narrow his eyes when Micro looks at someone with the same bright laughter, and does not get closer to Micro, if only to see the flush beneath his face because they’re so, so close, and it's so, so cold.

No one says anything, and soon, when Micro appears, there becomes a chance Thomas might be following behind him as well—like a loyal guard dog protecting the hand that feeds him. His unruly heart beats like a ticking time bomb. He can feel his hands sweat under the heat of his face.

People tell him he’s become more reckless, more hyper, more tender. Thomas tucks a strand of Micro’s hair behind his ear as they eat bread in the back of the class.

Micro teasingly–tiredly–mumbles, “…Thomas the gentleman today, hm?”

And Thomas?

Thomas can only curse himself for the predicament he’s put himself in.

Chapter Text

If anything, Snowbird has never been one known for his observations. He’d say he’s a smart, easygoing guy, but Saps would definitely give him a knowing look. Yet when people wanna know what is going on around school, there are very few people to go to.

Snowbird would know because Snowbird is one of those people. It’s a whisper through the grapevine type of thing, where rumor goes around one ear and eventually makes its way to him. Truly, there is a privilege to be seen when all of your siblings are enrolled in the same school–and when each grade separates them.

(“Everything is useless if you can’t find a way to use it,” Micro lectures, his glasses reflecting the ceiling light as he points at the sky.)

Snowbird is simply a messenger—innocent, clean hands and all. Except recently, he has been noticing, some uh…things going on, like Sap’s and Fluixon’s whole car-totalling fiasco, but also Fluixon trying to get Sap’s stray cat’s favor.

(It’s hard to say where he’ll stand his ground, and Snowbird wishes that it will never come down to that. Ish…he feels like he’s in some sort of custody war.)

It’s one thing to have one brother’s drama, but two brothers might just make him worried. Saps has been lenient with him, but he’s not so sure how Micro will fare. In a manner of speaking, Micro is like a ghost, there yet not, floating away and away it seems. Snowbird feels untouchable with Saps, but Micro never says much in his words—it’s hard for Snowbird to distinguish what he means.

(Lifting his blanket when Snowbird had nightmares, after Saps moved to room with Jophiel. A holding of hands—if only so Snowbird wouldn’t get lost—or pulling him aside to brush out his frizzy hair. It all means something to Micro, and Snowbird can’t figure out the finer details.)

Micro is a private person despite the many charms he has (but not as much charm as him, haha). So, when news reaches Snowbird about how, different, per se, Thomas may or may not be acting, he can’t help but be intrigued.

He knows the plan—ask about Saps and Fluixon will see what he can do—although Thomas's own attachment has him walking desperate circles. Thomas and Gotoga were only asked to scout around the workings of the Canadian Cartel, due to their newest addition—his oldest brother, Saps.

Fluixon and Seraphim worked through the student council, while Snowbird and Hvyrotation were placed on student leadership. Whilst Thomas and Gotoga were still under student leadership and council, it’s safe to say that Thomas is bargaining more than he was asked for.

When prompted, Gotoga only repeats what Snowbird already knows.

(“I’ve watched Thomas braid Micro’s hair before. He’s lively, livelier. I asked him about it earlier, and he flipped me off, so I gave him a bad score on Mr. Wooddaddy’s test last week—Y’know, because I’m his student assistant.”

Snowbird almost wants to cry and pull his hair out.)

It’s making Snowbird’s head hurt, just the mere mention of it—Thomas and Micro—causes his mind to spin because, really, Thomas?

Gentle?

Tender enough to someone so invisible as Micro? Snowbird laughed when he first heard it, but Sidefall insisted it was true.

And dear Ish, is it true.

Never in any lifetime would Snowbird imagine Thomas allowing someone to tussle his hair–without a punch to the face. Never even thought of seeing Thomas with such a meek front. It’s hard to notice it at first, yet not ever has Snowbird seen Thomas—so confident, so unfazed—look timid—small—in the way he gazes at Micro. Snowbird isn’t sure if Micro knows what he’s gotten himself into.

Thomas has to be planning something–to break Micro’s heart, and in turn, hurt Sap’s too. It isn’t anger that bubbles up in Snowbird; he isn’t sure what it is at all. So, as Micro’s (youngest) brother, Snowbird has decided to take the initiative—spying! (To protect Micro, of course.)

Snowbird has a plan—a very intricate, deliberate plan. It happens the day after deciding to spy on Thomas’s and Micro’s shenanigans (he barely has an idea sketched out). It's only morning, the cold biting into his clothes and tiredness clutching his face, when Snowbird spots Gray, Thomas’s little sister, suspiciously hiding behind a wall.

Jophiel might say, "Curiosity kills the bird,” and Snowbird will groan like it’s the worst thing she could have possibly said. (He won’t admit that he grins–even if Jophiel points it out–because Snowbird knows, in his heart, that it’s true too.)

—

“Why the hell are you eating poutine at 7 in the morning?”

Micro, with his double-layered Ziploc bag filled with poutine, looks up at him in his huddled, curled-up form. Behind him, frost is sprinkled among the grass like a protective blanket. The roofs of the building are frozen over as if a preserved tide. The morning cold is always unrelenting, but today, it feels especially cold. Thomas can see his own breath, even with his scarf wrapped around his neck.

Micro is huddled against the bench on the opposite side of campus, where their class is—the only class where they sit together. It’s a secluded part of the middle of campus—little to no other students, especially given the time. Most of all, it’s quiet, and lonely even. As he throws his backpack down, Thomas can see why Micro would be here, of all places.

(Thomas takes a deep breath in when he spots Micro—remote and zoned out. Micro kicks his feet as he watches Thomas walk toward him.)

Micro, with his terribly blank face, moves part of his headphones behind his ear, pointing with his licked plastic fork and asks, “You got a problem with that, Mr. 5500?” There’s a smirk on Micro's face, full of bait and teasing.

(And later on when Micro laughs, Thomas finds that Micro has such a soft smile.)

Thomas sighs with a smile and shakes his head, “Of course not, Mr. Ghostspr.” Thomas sits down on the bench, taking out his phone. He doesn’t open anything.

The sun is barely floating in the sky. Thomas can hear Micro’s music flooding out of his headphones. For a moment, it’s just him and Micro, out in the cold air…with a bag of poutine. Thomas taps his phone, checking the time.

Come to think of it, "How is your poutine still hot? I swear that stuff should be frozen with how cold it is.”

“I microwaved it in Mr. Wooddaddy’s room. You want some?”

Micro holds out the bag, but Thomas can only raise a brow, “In the ziploc..?” The bag Micro was holding was a thin plastic, definitely not the microwaveable ones. The type that would melt under a summer sun—melt in a microwave. Thomas just hopes Micro isn’t intentionally trying to eat liquified plastic.

Micro slouches as he munches on his food. “Um…I was extra careful?” (Micro takes off his headphones and hooks them to his backpack.)

“Micro.”

“Listen, okay?! I was careful, and the classroom didn’t burn down, did it? The school wasn’t caught on fire, everything is fine, Thomas.” Micro pouts as if he’s a bunny caught shredding apart a sofa, swatting his hand in the open air. Thomas has to stop himself from laughing rudely in Micro’s face. Micro shoves his knuckle into Thomas’s cheek.

His phone vibrates. The ‘boing’ of a cowbell—the notification sound of Gray texting him. He doesn’t open it.

—

Gray cray >

Today 7:43 AM

( Wya? )

( Hvyro is asking 4 hw answers )

( And also I forgot my water bottle and I’m thirstyyyyy pls bro I don wanna use the school water fountains )

( Big man u’ll be my fav bro after this im kinda homeless )

( Yellooo? )

Delivered

-

“You’d better hope not. Aren’t you already failing his class?” Thomas moves closer and ruffles Micro’s shoulder-length ivory hair—thighs nearly touching each other.

(Micro’s hair is soft, soft enough to sleep in. It’s poofy and delicately tousled through—by airy wind—on a bad day. Shiny and deliberate like a perfect picture frame on a good day. Thomas would know, because Thomas spends hour after hour, studying it when the sun watches them.)

It isn’t tied up today like it usually is; Thomas can’t blame him. He’s wearing two thick jackets over a sweater and is still cold.

Micro grumbles. “Not yet…Hey, look, Thomas,” Micro is already giggling like some psychopath. “Here comes the airpla-”

“I’m gonna bite your hand off, Micro.” Thomas can’t help but smile a tiny bit as he rests on the back of the bench. It might seem eerie to Micro, but Thomas brings his arm to the side of him. It’s resting on the edge of the bench, not close enough to touch Micro.

(Thomas is clenching his other hand against his thigh. He shoves his phone back into his pocket.)

Micro whines, throwing his head back onto Thomas’s bicep, “Aw man…”

When Micro takes another bite, some gravy ends up getting on his face without him noticing. He’s turned away from Thomas, still with that furrowed brow, but with an easy smile.

Thomas is already regretting what he is about to do as his body carelessly moves.

“Do you still think we have a test for sci-” They’re really close now, as Thomas grabs Micro's chin and wipes the gravy off with his gloved hand. “-ence…”

(His thumb grazes the edge of Micro’s lips.)

Thomas doesn’t have enough dignity to look back at Micro’s eyes, but he can feel his flushed gaze on him. His other arm, the one not holding Micro, clenches on the edge of the bench—if it were anything else, Thomas is not sure he wouldn’t break it. Thomas can see their frozen, labored breaths brush against each other. His heart beats too loudly in his ears. Maybe if the wind blows hard enough, Thomas can float away and never see the surface of the Earth again.

“Sorry,” Thomas’s hand tingles from the cold, ”you had something on your face there.”

In the thick tension, Thomas watches Micro’s lips tighten, their faces blush following the frozen winds. “Y’know, this is probably why your stomach always hurts so much, eating so heavy in the morning,” he manages to mumble. Thomas’s breath hitches, the bitter ice blows against his burning ears. His eyebrow twitches ever so faintly.

Micro’s the one that pulls back, the sun coming out of hiding to hit every surface of Micro’s face, “What? No way I’m giving up poutine!” The stream from the bagged poutine floats like smoke in Thomas’s head. Micro wipes his cheek with the back of his palm. A smile is still evident through Micro's ebony eyes, and Thomas would totally make fun of his flush if it weren’t for the fact that he probably looked like a mess, too.

“I’m not saying never to eat it again, Micro, just don’t eat it so early in the day.” Thomas nudges his hand to mess with Micro’s hair and jacket—simply tidying him up, yep. (Thomas takes a moment to pinch Micro’s flustered cheek.)

Micro scoffs and grumbles about something Thomas doesn’t have time to hear. (“That’s just a myth anyway…,” he mutters, holding his cheek.) Their faces must be really red, Thomas thinks as they avert their gazes. His hands finally leave Micro’s hair alone.

—-

“There’s no fucking way.”

Gray nearly jumps as Snowbird puts a hand on her shoulder. “Holy shit, dude, you scared the crap out of me…,” Gray loudly whispers.

Gray isn’t one for snooping around her brother, but it wasn’t intentional, she swears! She just wants water for Ish’s sake, why would she be expecting to see her brother cupcaking—and fumbling, as a matter of fact! Her precious, beautiful water bottle, left on the kitchen counter, Gray could explode out of frustration.

Snowbird mumbles a short, half-assed apology before turning back to look at the unsuspecting duo. “But you saw that, right?” Snowbird pants like he’s been out of breath running a marathon.

Oh, she saw that alright…Gray starts to comb her fingers through her hair, not out of confusion but more like disbelief. Gray frantically nods.

She mutters (begs), “Please don’t let this be another Fluixon and Saparata. Please don’t let this be another Fluixon and Sapa-“

Snowbird shushes Gray, pulling her back into the security of the shadowed wall. “Shutup! They’re gonna hear us!”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

The bell echoes like an annoying, blaring alarm clock as they both turn their heads.

“I mean, maybe they’re just close? I don’t kno-“ Gray starts to pace in circles, giving her brother the benefit of the doubt.

“Don’t act so surprised, Gray, really?” Snowbird scrunches his eyebrows.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, REALLY!?”

Snowbird puts his hands up with the twitch of an eye, “Hey, I’m just an observer, dude. No hard feelings or whatever, but I’m just wondering why Thomas is doing what he does with my brother. Y’know, of all people.”

(“The drug dealer is your brother?”

“Unfortunately.”)

There’s a moment of silence, keen and curious. Gray and Snowbird turn to look at the oblivious Thomas and Micro.

They’re both standing up now, faces stupidly red after that stunt Thomas pulled—Snowbird has no idea where he suddenly grew the nerve…

(Micro looks more flustered than Thomas, but that’s probably because Thomas’s ears are so red. Snowbird didn’t even know he did that. Thomas and his indifferent face…Ish, when did this all happen?)

Most notably, Thomas lays a hand on Micro’s shoulder, patting him as comfort—pulling him closer. Oh, fuck off…Saparata is so gonna kill that man when he finds out. Snowbird can’t help but chuckle nervously for what’s to come. Gray elbows him for his strange reaction.

Micro’s bag of poutine is forgotten, cold, and wet from condensation.

(“Is that poutine? Is he really eating poutine right now?”

“…Micro has strange tastes.”)

Snowbird can almost feel smoke coming out of his head, his mind trying to wrap around the fact that Thomas—calculating, smug, secretive as can be, Thomas—just lets his brother pull him around. If Snowbird did anything that Micro is doing right now, he’d be slapped upside down and over.

Seriously, what the fuck. Micro butts the dull end of the fork into Thomas’s cheek, and Thomas softens his eyes. Gray furrows her brows, like she can’t believe what she is seeing. Gray swears she’s never seen Thomas like that before. He’s genuinely flustered–no more of his facade–and Gray knows because Thomas’s fists are so clenched they could break bones. And Ish, had Thomas ever looked at someone the way he looks at Micro?

She might be going crazy. Gray might just scream out of embarrassment—her big brother is a down bad freak!

Micro and Thomas walk away, still with Thomas’s hand on Micro’s shoulder. Snowbird and Gray are only left to stare into oblivion. At least, until Thomas, looking at Micro, shifts his gaze to look directly at them.

A dark, withering glance.

Shit.

Metaphorical bugs crawl into and under Snowbird’s skin as the subtle gaze locks onto him. “Shit shit shit, go Gray go!” Snowbird ushers them away in the opposite direction. Thomas is gonna kill him!

Gray hysterically mumbles, ”We’re cooked, Snowbird, he knows! I just wanted some water and to return some books from the librar-!” Snowbird lets out a very manly scream.

—

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? If we stall any longer, I don’t think the teacher will forgive us.”

–-

If there’s any chance of either of them coming out unscathed, it’s Gray. Snowbird is so screwed…maybe Saparata or Jophiel will get revenge for him when Thomas inevitably gets him.

(Thomas isn’t that cruel, but Thomas isn’t so nice either. Maybe if Snowbird plays his cards well enough, he might just live with his dignity. Snowbird is such a mess, he laughs at himself. Gray must think he is crazy.)

“Okay, okay, let’s get the facts straight, alright? Your brother, likes my brother.” It’s hysteria, like it's the last day Thomas allows them to live. “Is that good or is that bad?”

Gray gives Snowbird a look of disbelief, giving her the illusion of choice. “Uh, I don’t know! I mean, Thomas looks happy. What's the big problem?” They join the crowd of late, absentee students, caring and uncaring for their attendance.

“Gray! There’s no way Thomas just likes Micro!” They’re going to be so late to their classes, but at this point, Snowbird doesn’t even care anymore. The only thing he can be happy about is not having the first period with Thomas.

“What? My brother is not that mean!”

“But what if he is?!” What if they break Micro’s heart as they did to Sap’s? They run past Sidefall, unaware of the wandering chaos brewing next to him.

Gray slows down their frenzied jog, finally giving them time to breathe properly, “Listen, dude, it isn’t our decision for who anyone loves, alright? Breathe man. I get that you’re scared, but what if it’s just that—that Thomas likes Micro?”

“If it’s just that..?” If all the plans they never told him, all the things they had him do with Saps, all to pretend not hearing him sob and sob in the next room over—if it’s just that. There’s no way, it can’t be. Snowbird can’t, won’t, make himself believe that. He winces and shakes his head.

Gray gives him a pitiful look. It only fills him with more guilt, more isolation. The Conspiracy makes him so happy and terrible. They make him laugh, but when Gray and Snowbird enter their classroom, they don’t say anything more or anything less—their gazes separated by more than just tables.

For once, Snowbird is happy with the math sheet in front of him. Snowbird isn’t bad at math—not good either—but it’s tedious. So, Snowbird forgets, and Snowbird is so happy that he forgets.

—

Thomas doesn’t mean to grab Snowbird’s shoulder so hard—except, maybe he does.

Snowbird is waiting in his typical spot, the air tensely sudden. He bites the inside of his mouth, his brow twitching with sweat despite the dying cold.

In truth, Thomas hadn’t expected to see anyone snooping around that morning, much less his own sister. (Some part of him curses himself for not checking his messages.) It was funny watching them scurry away like little rats, but Thomas knows that they won’t tell anyone—try not to anyway.

He’s embarrassed, more importantly, so Thomas starts with something easy, hopefully smiling and friendly. “So. Snowb-”

“What else did Fluixon tell you that he didn’t tell me?”

Thomas instinctively loosens his grip on Snowbird. What? Snowbird keeps his head towards the ground. He furrows his brows, “Snowbird, what are you talking about?’

Snowbird’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet. Thomas tilts his head, worry festering into him like an impulsive thought. They’re outside the campus during their shared break period—like they usually are, even though they’re not supposed to. The two sit on the raised edge of the nearby park. Snowbird’s dirty blonde hair covers his face as if he were a ghost that will forever haunt him with distress. He’s mulling it in his head. What did he do wrong this time?

Snowbird brings his knees to his chest. Thomas gives himself time to silently sigh before lifting his hand to carefully rub at Snowbird’s arm—the side he had his firm grip on earlier. “I’m not…mad…at you, if that’s what you are thinking,” Thomas talks to Snowbird the same way he used to console Gray when he took away her toys. He hasn’t talked like this in so long that he struggles to find the right words.

Thomas starts again, “If you’re thinking that this is related to the whole Fluixon and Saparata scheme, it isn’t.” He can feel the younger boy tense and then relax, over and over again, under his tender palm.

Snowbird’s voice is so quiet it hurts. “I don’t care if you’re trying to make me feel better, just tell me the truth.”

“...it is the truth. I’m not tryi-. I’m not using Micro for anything, “ Thomas clenches and unclenches his fist. “I was surprised at first, too, y’know, but despite everything, we’ve become…good friends.”

Snowbird chuckles to himself, and then it becomes hysterical. The sentence sounds so odd to Thomas’s ear that he can’t help but laugh at himself, too. “Oh, Thomas,” Snowbird wipes his eyes, turning to look at him. “I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you do at my brother.”

Thomas blinks, conflicted like Snowbird always makes him feel. (It was Snowbird who first came to him when they first pitched the idea of orchestrating against Saparata, subtly pleading for opposition, who improperly introduced him to Micro, even if it was through half glances.)

“Wha- Sorry, what..?”

Snowbird laughs even more at Thomas’s confusion. “Thomas, do you- ha, do you even want Micro?” He asks like it’s so simple, wiping his tears of joy and sorrow.

Does he? Thomas feels strange around Micro, but it isn’t because of Micro, is it? Micro’s soft hair and grinning, his need for mischief, or his chaotic casualness. Micro seems to make him feel everything where Thomas swears was once nothing.

And then…

Thomas starts snickering too, because it isn’t that simple at all.

So Thomas asks, “Why wouldn’t I love Micro?”

Snowbird tells him he’s utterly screwed.

—

School’s over, the somber day darkening for a brighter night.

(“The rest of our siblings are gonna kill you, Thomas,” Snowbird’s sniffled giggles echo throughout the empty park.

“Who are your siblings?”)

The park is still empty, a few students seat themselves on the park benches and tables. Thomas finds Micro on a swing, so Thomas sits on the other side.

Micro almost looks surprised when he lowers his gaze from the sunken sky.

(Snowbird looks up at the blinking sun, hugging his knees closely, “Jophiel, Saparata, Micro, and me. That’s our little family.”

Well, fuck.

Snowbird starts giggling again. They’ve definitely overstayed their break, but Thomas won’t be the one to say it.)

“Thomas?”

“Micro.”

Micro simply hums, letting the pastime float by as he tries to find stars in the winter evening sky, letting his feet dangle just above the bark.

(“What else did Fluixon say to you?”

“That he loved Saparata, and hated how he changed for love…He told me he was scared once. That he lost his control over himself because of it. Though if you ask Fluixon, he’ll say he never loved Saparata at all, and everyone knows he’s lying through his teeth. I couldn’t have changed his mind, even if I felt I needed to.”

“…I know.”)

Thomas tightens his grip on the chain of the swing. “Are you waiting for someone?” He doesn’t look away from Micro, not for one second, in fear that he might forget.

Micro stares at the dark stars, then at his dangling feet, “I have to wait for my sister, because she’s the one with the car. All my siblings have student leadership, whatever, after school today.” The swing creaks as Micro begins slowly swaying back and forth, his untied, pale hair aimlessly following him.

Thomas’s ungloved hands are burnt nearly frozen, but his chest is feverishly warm. “I’ll wait here with you then.”

(“You really do love Micro, don’t you?”

Thomas doesn’t have to respond because Snowbird already knows the answer.)

“Oh- you don’t hav-“

“I live nearby anyway.” Thomas can imagine it now, Gray at home with her beloved water bottle—and his, by extension—softly giggling as she passes his room.

(“Do you believe in luck, Thomas? Because you’ll need a lot if you want to get on Sap’s and Jophiel’s good side, man.”)

The crickets in the grass start to chirp, and Micro digs the tip of his shoes into the bark. “You don’t have to stay for me.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Thomas’s soles stay flat on the ground as he watches the ghostly boy.

Micro finally turns to look at him, and Thomas blurts out, ”Has anyone told you that you have pretty freckles?”

Micro mumbles so faintly, “No…they haven’t,” but Thomas hears it regardless.

—

The swing grinds softly in the slight tussle Micro sways in. A star twinkles out from gloomy shadows as the sun falls from its high.

“Does this mean you’ll wait here with me every time?”

For no one else but you, Micro. Only Thomas just promises and says, “Of course.”