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| hcob
| | y’all saying y’all want the Fic back, but the mods don’t approve of it. |
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| | the fic no longer sticks with me. |
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| Tommy didn’t care that murder was illegal now, it wasn’t in his first life, so it shouldn’t matter now. If Linda Smith opened her mouth one more time to '''''educate''''' him about the consequences of his actions, she deserved it. So what if threatening one of your foster brothers was ‘immature’ and ‘borderline harassment'? The prick shouldn’t have used Tommy’s notebook to demonstrate one of the many reasons why no one in this world would ever adopt him, which was majorly due to his shit art skills.
| | no more Curse Of Binding. |
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| The notebook was special to Tommy. It was the only thing that stayed with him each rebirth and the pages could never be filled. No matter the amounts of written rants he had about how weak France was for their government to be overthrown by a guy whose name sounded like the ice cream—the 1780s were rough—the pages kept coming.
| | Yet the Fic is gone when I need it the most, |
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| Even though the book was primarily used for his analysis of Greek myth tragedies and served as a constant reminder of the shitty lives he experienced, he had a sentimental connection to it.
| | Curse Of Vanishing. |
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| “Tommy, are you even listening to me?” apparently Linda, his social worker, was still going on about the insignificant and little incident he had with another guy. It was just silly and not worth spending this much time talking about.
| | (??\??\24) |
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| “Yes, ma’am, absolutely.” Tommy would salute but he didn’t want to be shouted at again. He didn’t want to add any more grey hairs to Linda’s already balding head. “You were just in the middle of dismissing me of needing to be punished because I am the victim in this situation.”
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| “How comes in every fight you have, you are both the initiator and victim?”
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| “Personally, I don’t see it that way and the only way to see it is the way I see it.” He was sure what he said made sense, but the glare Linda gave him proved him wrong.
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| “You held a pencil to Zack's throat.”
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| “Well…”
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| “And then threatened to shank him and his whole family, full-well knowing he’s an orphan.”
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| Tommy laughed. “But it was funny though.”
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| The look of discontent on Linda’s poorly-ageing face only caused him to laugh harder.
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| “Look, Tom—”
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| “Don’t call me that.”
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| “Tom, I know you’re acting out because you’re being relocated soon, but it’s finalised. No amount of death threats can stop the Craft’s from fostering you.”
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| He took this as a challenge.
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| “Clearly, I haven't tried hard enough.”
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| “If this is about what happened at the last house, I promise you that won’t happen again.” The humoured smile on his face fell.
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| Linda just had to ruin everything. First, it was his life (arguably, a green bastard was more to blame for that), then it was his mood. He thought social workers were supposed to prevent childhood trauma rather than consistently bring it up when unprompted.
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| “Oh my God, lady can you just…” he gestured for Linda to, as you could say, fuck off so he could focus on something else rather than the shaking in his hands and his heartbeat that decided to act up for some totally unprovoked reason.
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| “Alright, I get it. Punishment for today’s events still stands though. And no, you can’t steal dessert from the younger children again.”
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| “They need to respect their elders.”
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| “Then why don’t you respect me?”
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| Tommy was tempted to explode on her, not in the literal sense—he wasn’t a victim of rigged explosives this time around—but in a metaphorical way. A way that would hopefully result in Linda crying and realising the weight of her words. He usually had little daydreams of arguments with his social worker, of him finally letting go and releasing the burden that was only physical on his back, shoulders, and torso. But that will never happen because that would require acknowledging his past lives in detail and Tommy preferred to stay in the bliss his ignorance created.
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| Instead, he resorted to his normal tactics: annoying the shit out people and ignoring everything serious.
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| “I said elders, not ancients.”
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| Tommy narrowly avoided a smack across the wrist and grinned at the lady. Nothing said disregarding your anxiety by taking the piss out of old people.
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| “Go to your room and pack your things. Be ready for later.”
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| ❊❊❊
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| Contrary to belief, Tommy wasn’t popular in the home. Between terrorising his carers, many ex-social workers and being the oldest amongst the parentless lot, it didn’t result in him having many friends. So when it was time to leave, he didn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. He liked it this way though. He doubted that he’d even return to this shit-hole before his time was up and a new myth continued the cycle.
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| All he brought with him to the car was two bags, one for school and another for the items he had gathered—stolen—throughout the years.
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| Tommy hated this part of relocation. Being trapped in a car with Linda Smith as she played the shit music of the 21st century wasn’t something he enjoyed. The only music he tolerated were those bardcore Medieval style covers of modern music he found on YouTube. They reminded him of better times when people believed that disease was caused by God and crime was easier. Maybe not '''''better''''' times, but simpler ones. He’d take surviving the plague again over a two-hour-long car journey with Linda any day.
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| “You did read the file I gave you about the Craft family, didn’t you?”
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| Tommy did not.
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| The last time he read his foster family file, he thought that was going to be his forever home and '''''not''''' a scheme for child labour and exploitation via YouTube vlogging. Don’t ask, it gets more confusing. Just imagine a married couple mixed with a dash of infidelity who foster small, cute children just to vlog their every waking moment without their consent for some ad revenue on a family channel. One hundred percent illegal and one thousand percent fucked up.
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| Their apology video was pretty funny though.
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| “—he’s adopted before and has a biological son as well, Wilbur, but unlike the other houses, your foster brothers will be older than you.”
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| Tommy was used to screaming babies and bratty toddlers, but apparently now he had to get accustomed to depressed college students and unemployed young adults still living with their parents. If there was one thing he appreciated about his curse, it was that he’d never have to get a job or be an adult. Ever. Evading taxes and responsibilities since 1509.
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| “Phil Craft is an expert with cases like you.” Tommy raised his eyes from his notebook and glared at her. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened and he wondered whether that was because she knew he’d attempt to swerve them off the road. “So hopefully, if you behave, you won’t be my problem anymore.”
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| As soon as the word 'problem' left her lips, Tommy's interest in keeping a civil and professional conversation with a patronising dickhead faded. In all the shitty people in his life, Linda wasn’t even on the leader board, but her words cut deeper than any blade had. She wasn’t like the others in the past, they didn’t conceal their hatred for him with fake concern or kindness. They were upfront with it, weapon in hand and murder in their eyes.
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| Tommy preferred that to whatever the fuck this was.
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| With a glance down to the tattoo—the curse that bound him to nothing but cyclical pain—on his wrist, he sighed. Just like his destiny, the car journey continued with no ounce of free will in sight.
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| ❊❊❊
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| It surprised him that his normal visitor in his dreams didn’t swing by when he fell asleep in the car.
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| Normally, before any traumatic event or major change, the fucker would come to gloat. But, ever since what happened in his last life, with Sisyphus, his visitor had left him alone. With this new knowledge, Tommy hoped whoever opened the door to the Craft household wasn’t about to make his life a lot worse.
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| They had parked in front of a normal middle-class looking house, maybe on the upper-middle-class scale as it screamed ‘Tory’ to him. Baskets of flowers hung next to the door and a bike was parked on the porch, which was just asking to be stolen. As it was the evening, the sun had set, and Tommy had to admit that the little neighbour looked pretty in this light.
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| “So, where are we exactly?” Tommy asked as he exited the car.
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| “Snowchester.” Noticing the lack of snow, he frowned at her. “Historic name, it has nothing to do with the weather.”
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| “Don’t tell me this is another small town with its own lore,” he groaned, not wanting to be recruited into a cult again (his Icarus past life didn’t have fun in Transylvania during the late 1600s).
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| “I wouldn’t describe a Civil War during the 16th century as ‘lore’ but… yes, this town has an important history.”
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| “Isn’t that an Avenger’s movie?”
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| “Tommy stop stalling and come with me to the door.” He muttered very incriminating things under his breath but reluctantly followed Linda to probably his last destination during this lifetime. “Remember, be on your best behaviour.”
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| She knocked on the brown door and the silence disturbed him. Usually, Linda would carry on with her irritating speech about him not misbehaving, but for once, her mouth remained shut. If only she had been this way from the very beginning.
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| When the door opened, it took everything in Tommy to not burst out laughing. At first glance, the man behind the door looked like he’d beat the shit out of you if you breathed the wrong way. The dyed pink hair and glasses favoured the ‘I’m an anime antagonist’ vibe Tommy got from him. But the Minecraft pig slippers on the man’s feet destroyed any fear Tommy felt for one second. This wasn’t an anime antagonist, it was just a buff nerd.
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| “You’re not an Amazon package,” the man said in the most monotone and American voice he had ever heard.
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| Tommy blinked at him, stumped. “You couldn’t fit me in a box anyway.”
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| Linda sighed from beside him and he had no idea why. His response was perfectly reasonable. The anime man seemed to agree by how his emotionless and deadpan face changed ever so slightly, maybe in amusement or general annoyance…or both. Tommy had that effect on people.
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| The man still had his hand on the door, almost unsure if he should let them in or shut it in their faces. Footsteps came from behind the door.
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| “Is it my package of illegal substances from my favourite shipping company that benefits from low wages in their supply chain and extreme tax avoidance—?” the door widened and an even taller man with curly brown hair entered the frame. “Oh. Hello.”
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| “Hi, I’m Linda Smith from Kinoko Foster Care.” The taller man had the audacity to look embarrassed now. “I spoke to your father earlier today, is he here?”
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| Without a second of hesitation, the new guy shouted, “Dad, your child is here!” and walked back into his house.
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| Tommy failed at concealing the growing smile on his face because he knew Linda was seconds away from bursting a blood vessel at how unprofessional this entire shitfest was.
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| The other man stood awkwardly and stepped out of the way, opening the door so they could enter.
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| The inside of the house supported Tommy’s worry that these guys were Tories. No normal house had a kitchen with an island and two separate tables to sit on. Why would you need a dining table and a smaller table? The lack of artificial smell and scented candles from some Dior shop in London confused the Conservative vibe though. No sign saying ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ either. Maybe these guys actually cared about the poor after all. There was a picture frame on the wall of a Minecraft house for some reason. So they’re Minecraft stans as well.
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| As Tommy slipped his bag off his back and Linda fiddled with her bracelet (something she would only do when contemplating quitting), voices came from around the corner, in the living room.
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| “Wilbur what did I tell you about saying random shit in front of social workers?” Tommy assumed the voice was Phil, as it was older but also northern. Why did everyone in this household have a different accent? Northern, southern, and fucking American.
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| “I genuinely thought it was the Amazon guy!”
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| “Just shut it before she thinks we’re doing illegal shit.”
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| “But what about the shed-”
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| “Shut!”
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| At the sight of Phil, it took everything in Tommy not to rush out of the house. He looked too much like '''''he''''' did. The blonde hair, the familiar blue eyes, straight nose, and light beard. The spitting image of his father. His first father and the only one that meant anything to him. Not that he meant anything '''''good''''' to Tommy.
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| Instead of snatching the car keys out of Linda’s hand and booking it out of here, he froze. The timid comfortability in this chest died. He couldn’t move.
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| “Ah, sorry for the confusion Ms Smith. I forgot to tell the boys you were coming today,” Phil glanced at him with a soft smile. “You must be Tommy. I’m Phil, these are my sons Wilbur and Techno.” He was too bothered by Phil to even care about the fact that anime man was named after a music genre.
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| Tommy nodded. He didn’t risk opening his mouth to answer in case a whimper left it. It had been a while since something like this happened and he never trusted himself when it did. Wilbur and Techno stared at him as if he was one of those little exotic animals in a zoo, with intrigue and disguised judgement. He didn't dare to look Phil in the eyes again.
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| “Well,” Linda clasped her hands together, making Tommy flinch at the sudden sound, “before I leave Tommy to get himself situated, I need to discuss something with you Phil if that’s alright.”
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| Linda wasn’t very subtle at hinting to his new foster parent that she needed to bitch about Tommy to him. You’d think she would use a different phrase every time she did this, but nope.
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| “That’s fine, join me in the kitchen then. Will, Techno can you show Tommy around his new home?”
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| “I’ll come with you, Techno do the tour,” Wilbur interjected, pushing Techno closer towards Tommy.
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| There was something comedic in the death stare Wilbur received from Techno. When the three left the room, Tommy stopped tunnelling his hands into his sleeves and crossed his arms.
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| “All I need to know is where the bathroom and my bedroom is, big man,” Tommy said, sensing that neither of them wanted to do this.
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| Techno pointed at a door. “Bathroom,” and then pointed at the stairs, “bedrooms are all upstairs, yours is the first door on the right. Mine is next to yours, Wilbur’s opposite, and Phil’s next to his. There’s another bathroom upstairs.”
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| “Nice tour. Didn’t even need to move.” Techno gave him a look of exasperation, which Tommy frowned at.
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| “I thought you’d want to hear your social worker talking about you,” Techno said, surprising him. “You haven’t seen the kitchen yet.”
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| Tommy grinned. “Show me the way anime man.”
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| “Don’t call me that.”
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| They stopped at the door to the kitchen, which was left ajar, and Linda’s scratchy and patronising voice was easy to hear from there.
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| For a solid minute, she was just chatting about general things that aren’t mentioned on his file (for instance, his amazing personality, or perhaps more about his previous home with the YouTube vloggers). But then she got onto the shittier stuff.
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| “Now, as we warned you before, he’s a flight risk and a problem at that,” Tommy rolled his eyes and bit on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cussing her out, “We assume he had a rough past in the last fostering agency with the gang tattoo and scars he has. So if this becomes an issue with you in the future, don’t worry, this won’t be the first time it has—”
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| Her tone left Tommy uncomfortable. The marks of Theseus prickled against the ripped flesh on his back. The same stains that killed the naïve child soldier who would follow his big brother to the ends of the word. And a cliff so happened to be that end.
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| With his hands shaking, Tommy stared straight ahead and ignored the heavy gaze of Techno, “That’s enough listening.”
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| He moved away from the door and went into what he assumed was the living room, trying not to collapse on one of the sofas. He was still exhausted from the lack of sleep from last night, the shit car journey here, Linda in general, and now this. A family with two weird brothers and a father whose appearance hit too close to home.
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| Tommy jumped at Techno as he sat down next to him. He looked as if he were psyching himself up to start a conversation; Tommy knew the signs since he did the same thing.
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| “So… are you an orphan?” that was not the conversation starter Tommy was expecting, but it sure did knock the exhaustion out of him momentarily.
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| “What the fuck kind of question is that?” Tommy asked, gasping for air.
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| “A non-rhetorical one.”
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| “You smartass.” Techno’s facial expression didn’t change. “You actually want me to answer that? Don’t you know how triggering and insensitive and triggering it is to ask a child your family is about to foster if their parents are dead?”
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| He tried to hide his amusement with this entire situation and apparently failed due to how Techno didn’t have a shred of guilt or remorse in him.
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| “See, what you’ve essentially done is answer my non-rhetorical question with another question that I’m going to treat as rhetorical ‘cause I’m not answering it.”
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| “Yes! I am an orphan, you fucking weirdo.”
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| “That’s pretty cringe.” Tommy didn’t know how to respond to that.
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| Despite how Tommy was confused and felt like he'''''should''''' be offended, the conversation fuelled his interest in the pink anime man. He admired anyone who made fun of orphans and used it as their small talk prompt.
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| He was too focused on his stare-off with Techno to notice the others coming back from the kitchen. Wilbur seemed confused at seeing Tommy and Techno on a sofa together, and he had no idea why. Phil looked delighted. This family was fucking weird.
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| Linda clasped her hands together again, “Well, I best be off then as everything’s in order. I’ll visit again in a couple of weeks to check up on everything.”
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| His new foster family said their goodbyes to Linda whilst Tommy stayed silent. He didn’t want to waste any more energy on that prick. When the door slammed shut, the entire situation finally hit him. This was his new house, and if he was still here for at least half a year, then it would be his last. Stuck with anime man, a tall weird guy, and the doppelganger of his father. Fun.
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| Now, he had no idea what to do. His only other experience with a foster house had screaming toddlers, cameras in every ceiling corner of the room, and creepy adults. He wouldn’t admit that he was nervous, anxious even, at this change, but deep down he was scared. Scared of Phil, what this house meant and his upcoming sixteenth birthday.
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| “Tommy, have you eaten today?” Phil asked from where he was stood. Phil and Wilbur hadn’t moved since Linda left. Maybe they didn’t know what to do either.
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| Instead of facing his fears and embracing change, Tommy pussied out.
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| “Yes, I have.” He had not. “Is it ok if I go to bed early? I know where my room is already.”
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| “Sure mate, you’ve probably had a busy day. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
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| He scurried out of the living room at a nonsuspicious pace, picking up his bags with him, and ran up the stairs. He didn’t like how all confidence left his body when Linda went. It should have been the opposite.
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| The upstairs looked similar to the living room, with light decoration and sparing photographs of the family members on the walls. Still no ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ posters thankfully.
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| Tommy opened the first door to his right, kept the light switched off and stepped inside. The walls were white and empty, besides the painting of an island nailed above the double bed. The room had some furniture: a desk and a closet with some draws.
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| He walked towards the window and sighed at the lock. He recognised the brand on the glass anyway. Suicide prevention windows. Nice.
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| All he needed to do to die was call upon ''''' him '''''and say an incorrect name. No window needed. Curtesy of his curse.
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| Regardless, he threw his bags at the end of the bed and grabbed his notebook and cow plushie, Henry, out of it. The darkness in the room added to his fatigue to the point where he didn’t care about sleeping in his only good t-shirt and uncomfortable jeans. He slipped under the covers and unbolted his notebook, searching for the page he always went to before going to sleep. The only page to have his brother’s—albeit messy—handwriting in it. To his day, Tommy was glad he pestered his older brother enough for him to write a note in it, even before he knew that the notebook would always be reborn with him.
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| His fingers outlined the message:
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| '''''Tommy Soot is forcing me to write this. Help me. I will never write that he is the biggest man, he is rather quite small and dainty. A child. Also, his diary book is shite. No idea where he got it, but it’s ugly. Much like him. '''''
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| '''''– W. Soot.'''''
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| It was a stupid message, but it brought him comfort. He closed the book and placed it under his pillow. He clutched his cow plushie to his chest and tried to ignore the sounds from downstairs. The Crafts were watching the TV.
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| Burning came from Tommy’s left wrist, his tattoo, and he flinched. For fuck’s sake. He buried himself under his covers and screwed his eyes shut. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.
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| As soon as his consciousness withdrew, he was there again. In the void. It was normally just black, filled with nothing. But this time, tall brick walls, adorned with vines of all lengths and green shades, stood around him. Tommy was in some sort of puzzle or maze. He shoved at the walls, hoping they were illusions or hallucinations of his, to no avail. He was trapped. That was until a green pathway materialised beneath his feet, ruining the opaque darkness and claustrophobia.
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| With his head and heart pounding, he followed it. Regret flooded through him as he reached a dead-end. Not because he was trapped again, but because of who was there waiting for him.
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| A masked man appeared in front of him. An amulet of the same symbol that burdened his wrist hung around the deity’s neck.
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| “What the fuck do you want this time, Dream?”
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| The masked man smiled.
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| With hindsight, Tommy regretted falling asleep in jeans. It was bad enough that he woke up in a cold sweat, thanks to Dream and his nightmare fuelling mask, but waking up and not being able to feel his legs was where he drew the line.
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| Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Tommy sat up and grabbed his notebook. Every time Dream visited, he updated his file on him. From the numerous visits, the prominent notes he always wrote down each time were:
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| '''''Dream’s still an asshole who exploits his Godhood to annoy me. He won't take off that stupid mask.'''''
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| He didn’t get why Dream wore it. He had seen his real face, and boy was he glad Dream covered it up. He wasn’t ugly or anything (he kinda was) but it was more what his face represented, what that humanised person '''''did''''' to him in his first life, when Tommy was at his absolute lowest, hoping for someone to just care for him and- nope. No, it was because Dream was ugly underneath it. That was why he was glad. No other reason.
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| Anyway, despite how Tommy would usually write that, he didn’t this time. For once in the void, Dream wasn’t an asshole. But he wasn’t nice either. It was creepy, how Dream seemed '''''excited''''', almost happy at Tommy’s recent predicament.
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| '''''Dream said this life would be more fun. He didn’t specify who it would be fun for, me or him.'''''
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| '''''But he kept laughing. <s>It scared me.</s> He must like the myth he picked for me.'''''
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| Tommy stopped writing and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was late morning. He’d rather not start the day with writing any more bullshit about the green bastard.
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| Ignoring the aches in his legs, Tommy headed towards the bathroom, the sign saying ‘shitters be shitting’ on the door made it clear. The door opened and a tall body bumped into him.
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| “Oh, uh good morning,” Wilbur said.
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| “Morning,” he replied. He waited for Wilbur to move away from the bathroom, but he didn’t.
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| “I don’t exactly know how to deal with children.” If Tommy wasn’t so tired, he would’ve beaten the shit out of him—and won, obviously—but that was just another thing to blame Dream for.
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| “I’m not a fucking child.”
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| “Exhibit A.”
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| “Shut up.” Wilbur appeared amused at this entire thing. “Can you get out of the way so I can take a shit, or would you prefer watching me do it? Because if you take the second option, that’s a bit weird of you—”
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| “Exhibit B.”
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| It was too early for this shit. His stomach quenched in hunger. Maybe Wilbur could be useful.
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| “Is your family the type to force everyone to sit down and have breakfast or can I just take food and eat it upstairs?” he asked, not caring at Wilbur’s surprise at the conversation change.
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| “We used to have family meals,” Wilbur thread his hands through his hair, “But yeah, I guess it would be convenient to have them again. Come downstairs in a bit, we can have breakfast.”
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| “Cool.” Wilbur took that as his leave and finally moved away from the bathroom.
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| After Tommy finished his time in the bathroom, he walked down the stairs. They noticed his arrival in the kitchen. Phil greeted him as he made toast, wearing the greenest dressing gown Tommy had ever seen before, and Wilbur, unbothered, continued to grab jams from the top cupboard. He supposed the table with a cereal bowl in front of one of the chairs was the chosen table today. Fucking Tories and their two different types of dining tables.
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| He didn’t know if this family had a hierarchy of who sat in each chair, but he didn’t care. He was sitting at the head of the table and no one could do anything about it. His tiredness sabotaged his normal self-preservation.
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| Wilbur sat to his right and Phil to his left. Phil placed toast in the middle of the table. If awkward could be described as a moment, it would be this. Tommy acted on impulse half the time—correction, all of the time—and did things without thinking, but in this house, he felt constant judgement. He didn’t care about other people’s opinions of him (that was a lie), yet here, he weirdly did. Perhaps it was because this house was older, no younger siblings to take the attention off him, no crying babies to fill up the silence.
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| He was the youngest and hated it.
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| “How’d you sleep? You looked tired last night,” Phil asked as Tommy put slices of toast onto his plate.
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| “I slept alright. A bit hot though, suicide prevention windows will do that to you.” Okay, maybe he needed to tone it down. The eyes practically bugging out of Phil’s head were enough evidence for this.
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| Wilbur choked on his cereal, “I need a drink.”
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| “No alcohol.”
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| “I don’t think I can get through this conversation without it.” To Tommy’s dismay, Wilbur didn’t grab alcohol from the fridge, which would have made this family breakfast even more entertaining. Instead, he grabbed a White Monster… at ten o’clock in the morning?
| |
| | |
| Techno chose this moment to come downstairs. Fortunately, he was no longer wearing the Minecraft pig slippers.
| |
| | |
| “Oh, you’re up early,” Phil said to him.
| |
| | |
| “I’m getting coffee at the café, Niki has an early shift.”
| |
| | |
| White Monster still in hand, Wilbur shoved Techno by the shoulders into the seat next to him, “Nope. Sit your arse down and drink Dad’s Poundland coffee. This is a family breakfast.”
| |
| | |
| “Poundland? Seriously?” Hearing an American say that was the worst thing to ever happen in Tommy’s life. Well, if you disregard the cycle of dying on his loved ones, which is pretty hard to disregard from his experience, then it was the worst.
| |
| | |
| “I’m sorry that Walmart is on the opposite side of the world—” Techno interrupted Phil with what Tommy assumed was an attempt at a ‘bruh’ but the lack of energy made it a pathetic groan. “Just because we have money doesn’t mean Waitrose is the place to get coffee.”
| |
| | |
| Wilbur nodded, way too vigorously in Tommy’s opinion, “Yes, we need to humble ourselves. Living in a privileged neighbourhood with no financial insecurity will go to our heads.”
| |
| | |
| “I could humble you right now by kicking you out of the house,” Phil said.
| |
| | |
| “You would never.” Phil’s lack of response caused Wilbur to take another painful sip of his drink.
| |
| | |
| Tommy picked at his breakfast, not really knowing what to do. This didn’t have an atmosphere of a family meal or even a family at all. More like a group of friends with a family dynamic, but Tommy was the outsider here, watching in on their inside jokes. He could either join their banter and thrive off their awkwardness towards him or eat the burnt toast. His stomach answered the dilemma for him.
| |
| | |
| As Techno sluggishly got up to make coffee, Phil turned all his attention onto Tommy.
| |
| | |
| “Since we’re all here, it’s a good time to go through the rules in this house.” Tommy's legs bounced under the table. “It’s nothing bad, just basic things. There are chores you’ll need to do but not for now, since you’re still getting settled in. Curfew is nine o’clock and tells me where you go beforehand, and no illegal shit.”
| |
| | |
| Wilbur’s scoff wiped out Phil’s serious demeanour in seconds.
| |
| | |
| “Shut.” Wilbur grinned at him, “Oh yeah and don’t go in Wilbur’s shed.”
| |
| | |
| “What’s in his shed?” Tommy asked, “What, you like a murderer or some shit?”
| |
| | |
| Techno sat back down. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
| |
| | |
| “Do I need to explain morality to you again?” This sounded like this was a common occurrence. Techno shrugged and stirred his coffee.
| |
| | |
| Phil continued, “Anyway, Tommy, is there anything we can do to make you feel more welcome and comfortable? Ignoring anything Will and Techno say might help with that.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy narrowed his eyes at the man. He’d never been asked this before. He debated taking this seriously or not.
| |
| | |
| “Child abuse and neglect makes me pretty uncomfortable. So maybe don’t do that.”
| |
| | |
| The abruptness must have caught Techno off guard, seeing how he spat his coffee back into the cup. Phil sighed into his hands.
| |
| | |
| “So you admit you’re a child now,” Wilbur said.
| |
| | |
| “Only when it’s convenient for me.”
| |
| | |
| “Mate, you don’t have to worry about any of that in this house.” Tommy looked over at Wilbur and Techno, who both gave him a thumbs up. That was not a response he expected.
| |
| | |
| “Oh, also, we need to go shopping. I don’t think one t-shirt and jeans are enough for you, plus you need other essentials.”
| |
| | |
| The memory of unwillingly vlogging a clothing maul came to his mind and he’d rather die than go clothes shopping again. All thanks to the Morrison family.
| |
| | |
| “Can I do clothes shopping online?”
| |
| | |
| It was a weird request, but Phil for some reason didn’t deny it, “Yeah that’s fine. We’ll go out for essential stuff later today.”
| |
| | |
| The rest of the family breakfast carried on in peace. Kinda, apart from when Wilbur spilt his drink over the table and Techno somehow dropped his toast on the floor.
| |
| | |
| | |
| ❊❊❊
| |
| | |
| | |
| Car rides with Phil were more enjoyable than with Linda, which was ironic as Tommy hated being in close quarters with the man who looked exactly like his father. Linda was that much of a dickhead.
| |
| | |
| Tommy spent most of the journey staring out the window. Snowchester, despite having no snow, was pretty.
| |
| | |
| “Sorry if it’s been awkward for you so far, we haven’t fostered or adopted anyone since Techno,” Phil said, disturbing Tommy’s count of how many fucking trees this town had.
| |
| | |
| He wanted to ask why Phil suddenly decided to foster again. There had to be a reason why. Maybe Techno wasn’t the child he really wanted but adopted anyway, hoping that he’d change, and because he never did, he’d try again with another child. Yet, Techno seemed cool enough. Maybe someone died and the house needed a replacement, or the Craft’s had a saviour complex and desired to fix the most problematic children. Or they needed the money; Tommy quickly ruled this idea out since Phil was about to spend money on him today.
| |
| | |
| Instead, Tommy asked, “Is Techno his actual name?”
| |
| | |
| “No, it’s Technoblade the Third.” Fucking what?
| |
| | |
| “You’re taking the piss,” Tommy looked at him, trying to find anything in Phil’s face to up his ‘bullshit-metre’.
| |
| | |
| “I wish I was.”
| |
| | |
| “Not only is there one of them, but three?” Tommy couldn’t grasp the idea of naming your child after a music genre and synonym for a knife, “Take them all out, Jesus.”
| |
| | |
| “Why’d you think he was up for adoption?”
| |
| | |
| “Oh.” He shouldn’t find this funny. Tommy, trying to find a sympathetic bone in his body, tried to bite back a laugh. Keyword: tried. He burst out laughing and Phil surprisingly joined in. Okay, this family was alright.
| |
| | |
| Tommy had officially been living with the Craft family for a week and it honestly felt longer than that. He had the same feeling with his last foster home as well, but this house was for a different reason. Here, it didn’t drone on. Instead, Tommy found himself savouring every moment he had with them, lingering on his enjoyment.
| |
| | |
| The house was quiet for once and he was on his phone, holding it at an awkward angle since his knuckles still hurt from beating the shit out of a statue (something he very much regretted now). His room didn’t share the ease he experienced in this house though, it was still empty and didn’t look lived in. No amount of posters or decorations could make it feel like home, not with the suicide prevention windows mocking him every night. All he wanted was for fresh air, he had no intention of using the window as a diving board from the second floor.
| |
| | |
| “Tommy!” Wilbur burst into his room, causing him to drop the phone in his hands.
| |
| | |
| “You bitch.”
| |
| | |
| “I require your assistance,” Wilbur said, grinning as Tommy tried to regain his breath. He did this occasionally, running into his room without knocking, scaring the shit out of him, ever since Tommy did the same to Wilbur.
| |
| | |
| “No.”
| |
| | |
| “You haven’t even heard what I need you for.” Wilbur stood straight and gave Tommy a look that '''''would have'''''frightened him if he didn’t know how much of a pussy Wilbur was (they both agreed to never speak about the spider incident).
| |
| | |
| He sighed but let himself be pulled up from his bed and pushed into Wilbur’s room.
| |
| | |
| “Now, I know you like my kind of music, so I need to show you something because Technoblade is being a little bitch at the moment.”
| |
| | |
| “How do you know I like your music?”
| |
| | |
| “You’re not very subtle at stealing my music taste in the car. Next time, use Shazam or something.” Wilbur laughed as Tommy’s ears reddened. “Awe, you’re embarrassed.”
| |
| | |
| “Shut the fuck up.” Tommy hit his shoulder and watched Wilbur display his SoundCloud and Spotify accounts on both of his computer monitors.
| |
| | |
| The various Spotify playlists Wilbur created were on the side of the screen. Tommy stopped reading their titles when he got to the ‘POV: water is wet’ playlist. Who the fuck names a playlist that?
| |
| | |
| “Give me your opinion on this song,” Wilbur said, clicking on one of his drafted audio files. “A warning though, it’s got shitty audio, courtesy of our school’s recording equipment.”
| |
| | |
| This didn’t surprise him since he’d seen the shitty music equipment the school had, the drum kits were incomplete and the sound of the snare made him want to commit arson, specifically in the music room (every music lesson was hell on his ears).
| |
| | |
| The song started playing and the trumpet caught him off guard; the song was named ‘One Day’ and he liked it, despite Wilbur’s awful singing—that was a lie but Tommy didn’t want to fuel Wilbur’s ego.
| |
| | |
| When Wilbur paused it, Tommy frowned at him. “Is this why you guys don’t have a pet?”
| |
| | |
| “What?”
| |
| | |
| Tommy leaned over him and replayed the first of couple seconds of the song. “Who killed your cat?”
| |
| | |
| “I’ve never had a cat.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy stared at him blankly. “Don’t tell me this is some precise metaphor about pussy.”
| |
| | |
| “I never want to hear that word come out of your mouth.” The disgust Wilbur expressed didn’t answer Tommy’s statement though.
| |
| | |
| He opened his mouth to repeat himself but Wilbur grabbed an empty can of Pringles and waved it around as menacingly as possible. “Don’t think I won’t hit you.”
| |
| | |
| Rolling his eyes at him, Tommy took hold of the computer mouse and hovered the cursor over a drafted album file. It was titled ‘Your City Gave Me Asthma’.
| |
| | |
| “What’s that?” Tommy asked, wondering what the title meant, maybe it shared the same shitty metaphors about pussy.
| |
| | |
| Wilbur looked back at his computer screen. He ripped the computer mouse out of Tommy’s hand and exited out of his SoundCloud account. The previous amusement he had practically drained from his face with unease replacing it.
| |
| | |
| “Don’t ask about that,” Wilbur snapped. There was a certain edge to his voice that left Tommy uncomfortable; he didn’t expect such hostility over an album. “I’m being serious, don’t.”
| |
| | |
| “Okay, okay, Jesus I won’t.” Tommy raised his hands in surrender, still confused about the entire switch in Wilbur’s mood.
| |
| | |
| A tense silence followed as Wilbur exhaled and rubbed harshly at his face. Tommy fiddled with his hands, not sure what to do.
| |
| | |
| “Uh, anyway yeah,” he began, voice uncertain, “I liked the song you showed me, especially since it started with cat slander.” He hoped for the strained atmosphere between them to quickly leave and maybe for the unease in Wilbur to leave as well.
| |
| | |
| Wilbur, still quiet, rubbed his face again and sighed.
| |
| | |
| “I take it you’re more of a dog person,” Wilbur said and Tommy nodded. “Good, I don’t think you’d survive in this household if you preferred cats to dogs.”
| |
| | |
| “Now that you know I steal your music, can I have a look through your playlists?” At the mention of his Spotify playlists, Wilbur sat up straighter, almost as if the life returned to him.
| |
| | |
| “You’ve come to the right place for song recommendations.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy smiled to himself, satisfied as a face of joy greeted him.
| |
| | |
| | |
| ❊❊❊
| |
| | |
| | |
| Tommy had spent the rest of the day listening to the music Wilbur had given him—and fucking hell was there a lot. No wonder he had a band in sixth form, he was obsessed with music. After finally going through all the songs, Tommy was hungry. There was nothing against a snack before going to bed.
| |
| | |
| He went downstairs and walked into the kitchen. Phil and Techno were currently in the living room, lounging on the sofas whilst watching something on the TV. Tommy stared at the screen and held back a gag as he realised what the two were watching. It was some anime, fucking weebs. Because of this, he made sure to be as loud as possible when searching through the cabinets for a perfect snack.
| |
| | |
| Techno, bothered by the noise, paused the TV. “Is it possible to orphan an already orphaned child?”
| |
| | |
| Tommy stopped rustling a random crisp packet and flipped him off. He leaned against the kitchen island counter. “You’d technically need to kill Phil.”
| |
| | |
| “Nevermind,” Techno huffed, “it’s not worth it.”
| |
| | |
| Phil narrowed his eyes at him. “I don’t know if I should be offended at that or not.”
| |
| | |
| Techno shrugged. “That’s up to interpretation.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy frowned at the pair; the dynamic between them was different to Phil and Wilbur. With Techno and Phil, they acted more like old friends rather than father and son. It was weird.
| |
| | |
| Rustling the crisp packet again, Tommy took it and some biscuits with him. He circled the kitchen island and was about to stomp his way up the stairs, but Phil saying his name interrupted his plans.
| |
| | |
| “Do you want to join us?” Phil asked, waving his hand towards an empty sofa.
| |
| | |
| Before Tommy could answer, Techno said, “Nah, he won’t like this, which is more of a reason for us to make you watch this, but no.”
| |
| | |
| “Are you gatekeeping weeb shit?” He didn’t know if he was using the word that the girl in English taught him correctly, but he didn’t care.
| |
| | |
| “I’m not gatekeeping anime,” Techno answered, confused.
| |
| | |
| “So you’re gaslighting me now.”
| |
| | |
| “Stop saying words you don’t know the definition to,” Phil said.
| |
| | |
| “I think what you just said counts as an example of gaslighting,” Techno stated, his mouth upturned at the irritation present on Phil’s face.
| |
| | |
| “Shut.” This entire situation took years off Phil’s life expectancy. “We’ll put on a simpler anime for you Tommy if you want to join us.”
| |
| | |
| “If it’s Death Note, I’m leavin’,” Techno said.
| |
| | |
| “Avatar: The Last Airbender.”
| |
| | |
| “That isn’t even an anime.”
| |
| | |
| Phil looked over at Tommy. “If a word starting with the letter ‘g’ leaves your mouth again, I swear to God.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy scowls, bitter that Phil knew what he was going to say.
| |
| | |
| “No more buzz words, no more arguing, Tommy sit down.”
| |
| | |
| He rustled his snacks annoyingly one more time and jumped onto the empty sofa, making his dislike of watching an anime (that wasn’t an anime apparently?) obvious to the two.
| |
| | |
| If Tommy so happened to text Tubbo in the middle of season one asking if it was bad to side with a character whose mission was to kill a twelve-year-old child, it wasn’t anyone else’s business. It wasn’t his fault he liked the emo fire guy and Uncle Iroh.
| |
| | |
| | |
| ❊❊❊
| |
| | |
| | |
| He woke up cold and blinded. His face ached as he lifted himself from the floor. He was in the void again.
| |
| | |
| His neck twisted as he tried to find the light in the dark. The grey walls in the distance glared down at him, the once green vines bled red. At least he wasn’t in the middle of the maze this time.
| |
| | |
| Wrapping his arms around himself, Tommy roamed aimlessly, hoping for something to appear. A two-seated table emerged from the darkness and as he got closer, a figure materialised in one of the chairs. The white gleam from a mask gave away who it was. Dream.
| |
| | |
| There was some type of board game placed on the table and Dream seemed to be playing it by himself. Three coloured dice and ten playing pieces were untouched.
| |
| | |
| “Why the fuck are you playing some Greek version of Monopoly in my dream visit?” Tommy asked, his teeth chattering as he spoke. He stopped by the side of the table.
| |
| | |
| “Do not refer to the Knossos Game as Greek Monopoly. If anything, it’s Greek chess.” There was no edge to Dream’s voice, no malice present in the exposed part of his face, which confused Tommy. He was weirdly being civil, something that was rare.
| |
| | |
| “Again, why are you playing it?”
| |
| | |
| “I think it would be beneficial for you if you play with me,” Dream said, ignoring his question.
| |
| | |
| “No thanks, I’m gonna go back into the maze and figure a way out of this place.” Tommy turned to walk back to where he woke up, but a hand grasped onto his left arm, brushing over his tattoo.
| |
| | |
| “You don’t want to go in without my presence there. You won’t find a way out,” Dream said and loosened his grip when Tommy faced him again.
| |
| | |
| Huffing, Tommy jerked his arm away. “Alright you egotistical dickhead, I’ll play your Greek Monopoly.”
| |
| | |
| “It’s not—”
| |
| | |
| “I don’t care.” Clenching his jaw, Tommy sat down and observed the board game in front of him. The rectangle board was painted gold with blue circles at the bottom side and black circles at the top.
| |
| | |
| “The aim of the Knossos Game is to get your pieces from the Land of the Living to the Land of the Dead, then back to the Living,” Dream stated, pointing at the different areas on the board as he explained.
| |
| | |
| “What’s this area?” Tommy asked, referencing the brown area in the middle.
| |
| | |
| “The River Styx. It’s best if you don’t get caught in there.”
| |
| | |
| “Sounds boring.”
| |
| | |
| “I could instead force the void to replay all your past lives’ deaths,” Dream’s voice sharpened, “starting with Sisyphus.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy’s body shuddered, the chair bit at his exposed arms. “Jesus Christ, fine, no insulting your shit board game then I guess.”
| |
| | |
| As Dream continued to explain the rules, Tommy tried to recover from the mere thought of possibly having to see his Sisyphus death again. He couldn’t bear to think about it but seeing it… He’d rather play a shit board game than have to watch the last person to ever love him, who tried to change and recover from their destructive behaviour '''''for''''' him, die again. And for him to follow shortly after.
| |
| | |
| The game began and the way Dream played convinced him that this was more than just a board game to Dream. He played as if his life was on the line, with his masked eyes analysing the board at every step his piece moved. He even threw the dice with precision, whereas Tommy just chucked them (which resulted in one of the dice falling onto the floor at some point). Dream didn’t respond to any of Tommy’s teasing or insults either.
| |
| | |
| Dream’s tactic seemed to be working though, seeing as the masked man was utterly destroying Tommy so far. Dream had secured most of his pieces back from the Land of the Dead whilst Tommy couldn’t even get past the River Styx, having to restart every single time.
| |
| | |
| “This is rigged,” Tommy spat, annoyed as another piece died to the river.
| |
| | |
| “I don’t cheat,” Dream replied.
| |
| | |
| “I somehow don’t believe you.”
| |
| | |
| Strangely, Tommy found himself enjoying the game for a moment, especially when one of Dream’s playing pieces also died to the River Styx. But then within minutes, Dream successfully passed through the river and secured his last piece.
| |
| | |
| “That was a fun round,” Dream said, a smug smile mocking him.
| |
| | |
| “Fun? You battered me. I didn’t even get one piece back to the Living!”
| |
| | |
| “It’s not my fault you always rolled into the River Styx.” Dream reached over and reclaimed his playing pieces. “You really are a sore loser.”
| |
| | |
| “Not to be ageist or anything, but you’re old as fuck and have played this game for millennia, Dream. You have an advantage,” Tommy said, bitter.
| |
| | |
| “I wasn’t even born when this game was made.”
| |
| | |
| “Motherfucker you’re a God, you still have an advantage.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy, with his arms folded, watched Dream reset the board.
| |
| | |
| “I’m glad you aren’t resulting to suicide in this life.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy jerked back into his seat, the words slapping him across the face. He didn’t expect that. His mood soured. Did Dream not learn how to control his bluntness after being alive for so long?
| |
| | |
| “You’re glad?” Dream nodded at him. “I would’ve thought, you being the sick fuck you are, you’d enjoy this shit.”
| |
| | |
| The smug smile on Dream’s lips moulded into a frown. “I don’t enjoy watching my creation die and come back angrier, and angrier, wishing for a premature death against destiny’s wishes.”
| |
| | |
| “Then why make me this way?” Tommy asked, his voice rising. He picked up a playing piece from Dream’s side. “Why am I like this?”
| |
| | |
| Dream stayed silent, his mask focused on the playing piece in Tommy’s hand.
| |
| | |
| “Oh so you’re quiet now,” Tommy taunted, clenching the piece in his palm. “Come on Dream, you normally like it when I fight back, don’t pussy out now. Answer the question.”
| |
| | |
| His silence endured.
| |
| | |
| Tommy slammed his fists onto the table, cracking the board. “I’ve asked for centuries and each time, I get a cop-out answer. First, it was a punishment, you wanting me to suffer, then it was for me to learn a lesson. Which one is it, Dream? What is it now?”
| |
| | |
| “Contrary to belief, Tommy, I do want you to figure out your myth in this life,” Dream muttered.
| |
| | |
| Tommy gripped harder on the playing piece.
| |
| | |
| “Sure, sure you fucking do,” he scoffed. “But if I guessed it correctly, where would your main source of entertainment go? Who else would you torment for eternity? Maybe another child, maybe—”
| |
| | |
| “You’re arrogant to assume you are the only cursed one.”
| |
| | |
| Time stopped. The cold air burned his lungs.
| |
| | |
| “What?” Tommy whispered. All this time he thought he was alone in his struggles, burdened with the fact that no one in the world would ever understand what he experienced and still continued to experience.
| |
| | |
| Dream held his chained amulet around his neck, an action he did before he would disappear.
| |
| | |
| “No, no, repeat that you coward. There are people like me out there?”
| |
| | |
| Dream’s silence returned, mocking the panic in Tommy’s body.
| |
| | |
| “Who else? Who else did you curse?”
| |
| | |
| “I’ve said too much.” Doubt settles on Tommy’s shoulders. What if this was another trick? “You may not believe me, but I’m telling the truth.”
| |
| | |
| “I don’t believe a single thing you say. Last time I trusted you, I fucking died.” He could still remember the touch of Dream’s arms wrapped around him, his whispers of support against his ears, his comfort that became deadly in a matter of seconds. “And now I continue to die, over and over again, all because of '''''you'''''.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy hurled the playing piece at him, only for it to fly through Dream’s body. He glanced down at the broken board game and picked up the remains, but the pieces evaporated behind his hands.
| |
| | |
| Dream stared at him, his face paler than before. “Tommy—”
| |
| | |
| “Fuck off and let me out, Dream. I’ve had enough of this shit.”
| |
| | |
| | |
| Gasping, Tommy woke up with his hands stinging. He cursed under his breath and unclenched his fist, revealing bleeding fingernail indents on his palms. At least it was just his hands this time.
| |
| | |
| He tried to sit up but something weighted held his body down. He blinked the blurriness out of his vision and recognised that he was still in the living room. Phil and Techno were on their sofa, watching the TV. He must’ve fallen asleep down here. A weighted blanket covered his body.
| |
| | |
| “You alright?” Phil’s voice was softer than usual. He sat up, his body tingling. “It looked like you were having a nightmare.”
| |
| | |
| “Yeah, something like that,” Tommy mumbled, tired. “What are you watching now?”
| |
| | |
| “We stopped watching Avatar when you fell asleep. Now, it’s Bleach.” A blonde man with a green and white striped bucket hat was on the TV screen. Great, another anime.
| |
| | |
| “And that’s my cue to go to bed. Goodnight.” Tommy shrugged off the weighted blanket, despite the relief it brought him and made his way upstairs.
| |
| | |
| He swore to God if he saw Dream again in his sleep, he was going to shove those Knossos playing pieces up his fucking arse.
| |
| | |
| Text
| |
| | |
| “For the last time Ranboo, I don’t know the melting point of a child. Stop asking me!” Tommy exclaimed as the two walked from the science block to the bench they usually sat at for lunch. Tubbo was at the bench already, waiting for them.
| |
| | |
| “It’s a simple question,” Ranboo said, digging himself further into a hole that started the second Ranboo asked if spilling hydrochloric acid on people was as serious as people made it out to seem. Though, Ranboo did turn down Tommy’s offer for him to test it out on him.
| |
| | |
| “Let’s ask Tubbo.”
| |
| | |
| Tommy repeated the question and Tubbo put down his sandwich.
| |
| | |
| “I don’t know about a child but the melting point of human skin is a hundred and sixty-two degrees.”
| |
| | |
| Both Tommy and Ranboo shared a look before staring back at Tubbo.
| |
| | |
| “How do you know that?”
| |
| | |
| Tubbo took a bite of his sandwich, a small grin on his face.
| |
| | |
| “I’ve never been scared of anyone shorter than me before,” Tommy whispered to Ranboo.
| |
| | |
| “Everyone is shorter than me.”
| |
| | |
| “Shut the fuck up. You have stilts in your shoes.”
| |
| | |
| “That doesn’t make sense—”
| |
| | |
| “Our science class alliance is over, I hate you again.” Tommy picked up the crushed ball of tinfoil in front of Tubbo and threw it at Ranboo.
| |
| | |
| “Thank God, it’s back to normal,” Ranboo said, laughing as Tommy flipped him off.
| |
| | |
| Before Tommy could continue to display his hatred for the tall American, someone texted him.
| |
| | |
| '''Anime Man:'''
| |
| | |
| '''Technoblade: Wilbur’s having a bad day; he won’t be able to drop you home after school.'''
| |
| | |
| '''Tommy: [message deleted] is Wilbur ok?'''
| |
| | |
| '''Technoblade: I can pick you up if you want.'''
| |
| | |
| '''Tommy: no, it’s fine. I’ll walk home.'''
| |
| | |
| '''Technoblade: Alright. Be careful around Wilbur when you get home.'''
| |
| | |
| Tommy frowned at the last message. He remembered Tubbo telling him that Wilbur resat year thirteen because of home issues during his GCSEs and first year of sixth form. He thought this house didn’t have any prominent red flags but maybe they did. He put his phone back into his blazer pocket.
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| “What are you two doing after school?” Tommy asked, interrupting their debate over the rankings of the flavours of Starbursts.
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| “Illegal substances,” Tubbo said, unwrapping one of the Starbursts.
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| “Ignore what he just said,” Ranboo added.
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| “How the fuck could I ignore that?”
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| Ranboo shrugged. “I’m going to Tubbo’s house, with or without his consent, if you want to come as well.”
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| “When are you '''''not''''' in my house?” Tubbo said, rolling his eyes at Ranboo’s silence. “But yeah, you can come round. We just play video games and random shit.”
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| “We occasionally watch the Office.”
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| “UK or American version?” Tommy asked.
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| “American.”
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| “You disgust me.”
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| “I’m sorry that I have taste.” Ranboo ducked to avoid another ball of tinfoil Tommy threw.
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| “Take that back.”
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| “Nope.”
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| “Tubbo, help me,” Tommy begged. He did not like this pro-American environment he was in.
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| “No.”
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| “I need new friends.” He gawked at how both Ranboo and Tubbo nodded at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me!”
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| “Start eating your lunch, boss man,” Tubbo said. “You guys already came out of class late.”
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| “That wasn’t even my fucking fault—”
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| “You’ve got him started again,” Ranboo interrupted.
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| “—Daniel was the one who sprayed acid on my blazer first! I was defending myself and the solution was dilated to shit anyway.”
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| “Tommy, he had to go to medical.”
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| “And?”
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| “I mean, there is the reason why my class aren’t allowed to do practical’s in chemistry,” Tubbo said. “It was bound to happen to your class eventually.”
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| “Thank you, Tubbo!”
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| “And Daniel is a dickhead.”
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| Ranboo sighed at the two. “I can’t believe you’re defending this.”
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| “Shut up, boob boy.”
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| “That is not my name!”
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| ❊❊❊
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| Ignoring how Tommy tried to push Ranboo into the road several times, the walk to Tubbo’s house went fine. Though, Tubbo’s house was not what Tommy expected. Maybe that was due to the duck that tried to bite him as soon as he stepped into the living room.
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| “Why the fuck do you have a duck in your house?” Tommy asked, pointing at the duck who was currently attempting to jump up the kitchen counter. Seeing an alive duck in a kitchen was just something that shouldn’t exist. That was a level of morbidity he didn’t want to associate with.
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| “Benson,” Tubbo said, not giving him any more information.
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| “Benson?”
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| “Yep, Benson,” Ranboo nodded. “Keep your ankles away from him.”
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| Perhaps he made a mistake going round Tubbo’s house. He took off his shoes and left them beside Ranboo’s and followed the two.
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| Besides the duck, the house looked normal. Well, the ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ sign was a big no, especially as it was next to one of those quirky mother images that boasted about their dependence on wine to deal with their children. Tommy was thankful that a Minecraft house was the only framed image in the Craft house.
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| Whilst Tubbo retrieved drinks from the fridge, Niki came running down the stairs, dressed in the same outfit he saw her wearing in the café.
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| “Oh, hi Tommy,” she said as she grabbed her keys out of Benson’s mouth. That was something he just chose to gloss over.
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| Tommy smiled and waved at her, before following Tubbo out of the room and up the stairs.
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| “How do you know my sister?” Tubbo asked with narrowed eyes.
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| “I know every single woman.” Tommy grinned at the exasperation he heard from Ranboo.
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| “Oh wait is it a,” Tubbo pointed to the inside of his arm, “thing?”
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| Tommy looked down at his arm, confused. “What?”
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| “Did you not like Germany either?”
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| “Tubbo, I can still hear you!” Niki shouted from the kitchen.
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| “Your secret’s safe with me,” Tubbo whispered this time and ran up the rest of the stairs, which only added to Tommy’s confusion.
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| “What the fuck is he going on about?” Tommy asked Ranboo, who shrugged at him.
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| “You’re asking the guy with memory problems.”
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| “I could push you down these stairs and make it worse. Or even fix it for you.”
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| “Please don’t.” Tommy laughed and headed into the room Tubbo rushed into.
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| Tubbo’s room looked exactly like Tommy predicted. It was painted differently from the rest of the house, with mint green walls that blended into the pale blue ceiling, which was decorated with star constellations and planets. Knowing Tubbo, it was probably accurate (seeing as though the painting resembling Pluto had a sad face on it because it wasn’t an actual planet). There were shelves of collectables, ranging from snow globes, bee items from year eight to printed pictures of CS:GO gun skins.
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| As Tubbo turned on his PC, Ranboo waltzed into the room and jumped onto the double bed. And then took his face mask off.
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| Tommy covered his eyes. “Woah, woah, let’s not undress ourselves here.”
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| “Tommy, I’m just taking my mask off.” He dropped his hands that covered his eyes and scowled at Ranboo. The mask-less man just looked like a standard, white Sims 4 character with sunglasses on.
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| “Exactly! Have some decency, Jesus Christ.”
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| “You’re gonna lose your shit when you see his eyes,” Tubbo stated, not bothered by a mask-less Ranboo.
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| “I’ll leave that for another day, we don’t want Tommy to explode on us,” Ranboo said.
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| “Or do we?”
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| “Don’t talk about wanting to watch me explode when I’m right fucking here!” Tommy exclaimed, disturbed by this entire conversation.
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| “Would you rather me do it behind your back?” Tubbo asked.
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| “No! Don’t do it at all, what the fuck man!”
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| Tubbo smothered his laugh.
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| “What happened to my wholesome bee boy?”
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| “I will skin you alive,” Tubbo said, still laughing but with murder in his eyes.
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| “Just be glad no one in this household trusts him enough to let him have knives,” Ranboo inputted.
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| Tommy stood up from the edge of the bed. “I want to go home.”
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| “Too late! It’s Mario Kart time.”
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