Welcome Home, Little Thief (Dark SBI)

Chapter Eight- Play Nice

A/N

Dearest readers,

I will not apologize for this chapter. I had writers block and chose angst and a faint semblance of comfort as a solution.

Enjoy,
The Unstable Author

Jk. except not really. 

TWs: vomiting, panic attacks

Enjoy the part where Tommy Mcfucking snaps! <33333

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Wilbur didn't seem to notice Tommy's sudden change in expression– either that, or he didn't care. He didn't pay attention to how the witchling's eyes seemed almost rooted to the door, the locks that lined it in an excessive fashion and the taunting window next to it, nor the sudden clench of his palm, nails digging into layers of bandages.

Entirely unaffected by the fact that Tommy's distant light at the end of the tunnel– his only chance at freedom, at finding Puffy and finally telling her everything that had happened– just became all the more distant. A hopeless cause.

Tommy took in a shuddering breath, throat dry and scratchy. "Why...why do I need to meet them? I don't know if I-"

"They're your coven too, Toms," Wilbur interrupted.

Tommy fell silent, not even bothering to protest the claim. He felt Wilbur's eyes linger on his face, scrutinizing him, maybe waiting for some sort of rushed argument, but he said nothing. The elder man sighed before grabbing him by the shoulder and gently dragging him forward, further into the entryway and down one of the hallways leading off into the side.

Tommy watched in barely-disguised fascination as they passed through the long hall, doors blurring past with wooden signs carved with marks he couldn't decipher. Along the walls were shelves of numerous items; all seemingly random in a bizarre mix of pots, bottles, books, and plants. Flowers lined every corner, hanging in pots and drooping from the ceiling, abundant enough to create a mirage of beautiful color in every corner. A complete contrast to the nature of the witch beside him.

Maybe it was another method of tricking him into falling prey to his lies. That if he was emersed in such a bright and cheery environment, not a single telling flaw hidden amongst the decor, he would feel at home. Safe, even.

Tommy wasn't falling for it. Not even as he gazed in awe at the completely-still candles, Wilbur's hand the only thing keeping him from far behind.

Nope. Not one bit.

It wasn't long before they came to a stop in front of a single wooden door near the end of the hall, with the same strange marks cut into the large doorframe and littering over the handle. Wilbur glanced at him for a long moment, making eye contact for only a split second, before opening the door with a small click. He motioned the boy inside with nothing but a careless flick of his fingers.

Tommy, as always, said nothing as he entered a spacious room.

Before him was what he could only describe as a closet, though perhaps that was a loose term to describe it. With sweaters, numerous stray pieces of clothes littering around the room, and a row of shoes to the left, Tommy instantly pinpointed that it belonged to Wilbur. He hadn't met whoever else lived in this cursed place, but nobody could replicate Wilbur's obsession with sweaters and that many button-up shirts.

In the middle sat a table, with yet another vase of freshly-bloomed flowers, their bright blue opacity too unnatural to be plucked from a garden. Almost magical in their own sense.