Chapter Text
The car is silent, and Tommy’s nervous.
His knee bounces in response, a thrum of up and down that soothes the anxiety twisting it’s way around his heart and spreading into his gut. He feels like he could throw up, but this is normal when shopping with new foster parents.
Placements are temporary and so is he, so most parents wouldn’t bother buying him much, sometimes just throwing a quarter of their payment at him—that only has happened once—and leaving him to his own devices. He’s never had a cookie cutter, from the movies, family shopping trip, and it’s messing with him. Tommy just doesn’t know what to expect.
At least he’s sitting in the backseat, allowed to stare out the window and attempt to play the alphabet game—where you try to spot signs and make your way down the alphabet—by himself. It’s not working very well, not that he’s getting distracted but more on the forgetting side. He has to keep restarting, forgetting what letter he’s on.
Right now, Tommy’s on the letter M. They drive past a McDonald’s, and now he’s on the letter N. Wilbur and Phil are quietly murmuring to each other and music from the radio plays in the background, so there’s a lot going on, ignoring the disorder of Tommy’s own brain.
Techno isn’t here, which makes sense because he had a late shift the night before and is at school currently. Wilbur was at school but called Phil and asked to be picked up, saying something about an “anxiety attack” or something. He zoned out, really, but now Wilbur’s joining them on the shopping trip.
“Tommy?” Phil says from the front. “Is there any store you have in mind? Wil and I were thinking about just going to the mall.”
Shit. What letter is he on? “Not really,” Tommy mutters, searching his mind for the letter. Before Phil talked to him, what was he thinking about? Something about Techno, and he was thinking about his next letter, but for the love of god, he can’t think about what it could be.
“I’ve got plenty of stores we can go into,” Wilbur says excitedly, clapping his hands. Tommy only really pays half attention, preoccupied with his shitty mind not working. “Hot Topic, Spencer’s, Forever 21…”
“Wilbur,” Phil sighs, turning left. “Tommy probably doesn’t want to go into your edgy stores. You’re lucky Techno’s not here, he’d make fun of you.”
“Hmm?” Tommy’s head shoots up when he hears his name, looking back down at his hands when Wilbur and Phil continue their conversation. It doesn’t sound angry, just playful teasing but Tommy keeps an ear open for a snapping tone or a harsh retort.
What letter is he on? He had to start over, and made it to either G or H. Tommy can’t remember the letter he was on but they pass by a road sign with Harding Road on it and continues on with his game.
“We’re here, Tommy,” Wilbur announces, and Tommy jerks his head up. He didn’t even notice they arrived at the mall. The parking lot is sparse with cars, but it is the middle of the day on a Thursday. It probably gets busier on the weekends, when student’s schedules are empty and pockets full of their parent’s money.
The mall is nice, two stories that are decently clean and lots of decorations for various events. There is a good amount of people walking around, enough to where the stores aren’t empty, but Tommy’s glad it’s not as busy as it seems to get.
The first store they walk into is Hot Topic. Tommy’s not a loser, he knows what it is, he’s just never… been in there. It’s very edgy, jewelry in stacks in the middle and clothes all the way up to the ceiling.
Wilbur looks at home. Loser.
“Tommy?” It’s Phil. “Anything in here interest you? This place is more for Wilbur, but just in case.” Phil laughs at the end of his sentence, like he doesn’t even know that Tommy’s debating on how to answer.
On one hand, there is a really nice pair of butterfly studs, but he doesn’t even have his ears pierced. On that same note, he has no clue if Phil and his family are bigots, if they would call him a girl for wanting earrings and liking butterflies like previous families have done.
On the other hand, Phil’s been pretty nice so far, and Wilbur looks like the stereotypical gay kid—not that there is a stereotype that Tommy enforces on people, of course—with the cargo pants, baggy sweater, and beanie on his head, so…
“Not really,” Tommy mutters, taking the safe route. There’s a difference between him, foster kid, and Wilbur, actual kid. His thumb and pointer finger rub some dangly earrings and he drops his hand quickly when he notices Phil watching.
Luckily, Phil doesn’t say anything, and Wilbur bounces back towards them with nothing in his hands. At Tommy’s look of confusion, Wilbur says, “I just like to look.”
Phil shakes his head—and for a split second, he’s worried Phil’s mad at Wilbur for wasting his time—and smiles at Tommy. “He does this all the time.”
They leave Hot Topic, and it’s a short walk to the next store. It’s a repetition of before, Wilbur leaving, Tommy awkwardly standing with Phil, and leaving without buying anything.
That is, until they turn in JC Penney's and Tommy’s immediately overwhelmed. Flicking industrial lights overhead and the large amount of stuff on the racks overload him, and he swallows to try to the jittery feeling in his bones.
“We might be able to find things for you here,” Phil says, walking towards the teen boy’s area. Wilbur grabs a cart and follows. Apparently this place isn’t his style. “Just place what you like in the cart.”
Tommy doesn’t move a muscle even when Phil looks at him expectantly. It’s only when Wilbur clears his throat that he moves, reaching for the closest shirt on a rack. It’s two sizes too large and has a weird pattern he doesn’t care for but he places it in the cart anyways.
Phil raises an eyebrow, and Tommy moves quickly before he can speak. He walks down an aisle and grabs the first things on each rack he passes by and returns, throwing them into the shopping cart.
Slightly out of breath from nervousness, Tommy crosses his arms. “Done.”
Wilbur scoffs, picking up one of the shirts Tommy placed in the cart. Tommy immediately flushes. The shirt has a tv show he doesn’t recognize on it and is purposely torn in multiple places. “Really? Never thought you would be a…” Wilbur glances at the shirt. “Parks and Recreations fan.”
Tommy’s throat closes up in embarrassment, and he shrugs. His limbs feel on tingly, and he feels the urge to shake them out. But he’s been called weird for less, so he resists, snatching the shirt out of Wilbur’s hands and grimacing when the shirt says extra small.
Phil pulls all of the clothes Tommy haphazardly found out of the cart, and hands them to Wilbur. “Put these away.” He turns to Tommy, and gives him a kind but understanding look. Tommy hated pity. “Tommy, only pick a shirt if you like it and if it’s in your size, okay? Same with pants and shoes.”
Tommy nods, and they backtrack to the aisle they were in. Feeling Phil’s eyes on him, Tommy grabs the closest thing to him and looks down. The shirt is white with a red collar and red sleeves. It looks like something he’d wear, so after making sure the size is correct, Tommy places it in the cart.
They go in a line, Tommy in front of the cart while Phil pushes it. Tommy half expects his foster father to hit the cart into his ankles, a way to tell him to hurry up, but he never does. Even when Tommy takes a few minutes to pick up a few clothes he dropped, Phil waits patiently with nothing other than a small chuckle. And even that was nice and shit.
Wilbur returns at some point as well, holding a small sheep stuffy and claiming how “it looks like Friend and they need a friend—ha—so we have to get him.”
Tommy had even paused his shopping to hear Phil’s response. After all, Wilbur’s a senior in high school, eighteen years old, and all together too old for a plushie. But all Phil does is grab the sheep and place it in the cart, Tommy turning sharply to try to avoid the sick feeling rising in his throat.
The bright lights overhead don’t work, and neither does Wilbur’s incessant chattering. He’s learned over the years that ignoring the overwhelming shit helps keep it away—at least until later, when he’s in private and people can’t see hands gripping his hair and sharp, stuttering breaths.
“Are these okay?” Tommy asks, holding up a pair of blue jeans. They look nice, and are in his size, but the price tag didn’t agree with him.
Phi doesn’t even look at the price tag before gently grabbing them out of Tommy’s arms and putting them in the cart. “Anything else you need?”
Looking down at his shoes, Tommy notices that the green tile touching the white looks weird. There’s little flecks of red in both the green and the white, making it look like Christmas. It isn’t Christmas. Not for another two months, and Tommy hates Christmas.
Someone clears their throat, and Tommy jerks his head up, blushing when he remembers that Phil had asked him a question. “Uh, shoes? These are kinda fuckin’ small.”
Wilbur laughs, and Tommy freezes. What did he do wrong? Was Phil’s question not serious, a code to get him to say he’s done? Or—
“You can curse in front of me, mate,” Phil says, laughter lacing his words. Oh. Oh. Fuck. Shit. He did not mean to cuss right in front of Phil, this soon after meeting him. Foster parents have hated him for saying hell before.
Phil waves Tommy on ahead, and Tommy moves his feet involuntarily. “Find a pair of shoes you like and that are comfortable, and don’t.” Phil waves a finger at Tommy teasingly, “don’t look at the price tag.”
Tommy nods, and grabs a pair of hot pink converse off the shelf. At Phil’s deadpan look, he puts them back sheepishly.
“Tommy!” Wilbur says, head rising above the rows of shoes. “I found something for you. Only if you like it, of course,” Wilbur tacks on.
His foster brother is holding a pair of red tennis shoes, white accent marks and white laces on it. He doesn’t want to admit that he likes them, but his hand reaches out and he cradles the shoes, gently looking at the soles and tracing a finger along the white rim. They also seem to be very nice quality, meaning that they should last him a while.
His fingers itch to check the price tag, to make sure he’s not indebting himself into Phil further, but he stops himself.
“They’re cool,” Phil says. Tommy hands over the box when Phil reaches for it. His foster father sets it into the cart, and just the idea of not checking the price tag makes him uncomfortable. It’s like listening to music and not checking what song comes on next—he just doesn’t like it. He needs to do it or everything feels wrong.
The feeling extends to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes. Tommy just doesn’t like it, and he shakes out his hands to try to dispel the feeling. He really, really wants to get rid of it, the way it covers every inch of his bones under his skin provides a slimy feeling that definitely doesn’t bring tears to his eyes.
Tommy’s flapping his hands and arms to get rid of the revolting tingling under his skin when Phil walks towards him, eyes wide in concern. He’s afraid that Phil’s going to touch him, to grab his wrists to stop his embarrassing movements just like how Clara tried—
“It’s okay Tom, let it out, it’s fine,” Phil murmurs, hands held with the palms up. He’s not touching Tommy, just whispering words of reassurance and leaving his hands open if Tommy wants to grasp them.
Tommy doesn’t take the hands right away, but the want to do so is there. They’re his saving grace, his shield from the industrial lights and undeniable urge to tear off his skin and satiate the itching beneath. His head gets stuck in the shaking, and soon, his whole body is shaking.
Hands fly out, and Tommy’s pale white ones are holding onto Phil’s for dear life. The man is applying light pressure, grounding Tommy enough to focus on his breathing.
“Shhh,” Phil whispers, rubbing loose circles with his thumbs. “It’s okay.”
“Sorry–” Tommy gasps, “sorry. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, you’re fine,” Phil reassures. “Breathe with me. In and out.” Phil slowly takes one of Tommy’s hands and rests it against his heart. It’s so different from Tommy’s heart that’s beating 100 miles per hour, thumping slow and steady under his fingertips.
A sharp, stuttering breath and a deep, hitching inhale later, Tommy feels vaguely calmed down. He’s still breathing hard, chest rising up and down. “I’m fine,” Tommy stammers out, letting go of Phil’s hands.
He ignores Phil’s concerned frown, but is ultimately glad that panic thing—it wasn’t a panic attack, something… different—is mostly over. His hands still feel wrong, so Tommy shakes them out. He can feel Phil’s eyes watching him, making sure he isn’t going to be sent into another meltdown thing.
Swallowing hard, and then swallowing again, Tommy pushes his hand into his chest, trying to calm his breathing down to normal. It proves worse when the hand on his chest—his right hand—makes him feel uneven.
This has happened before, where he hits his left leg on something and has to turn around and hit his right or else it’s uneven. His shoes need to be tied to the same amount of tightness or else he’s off balance.
It’s annoying, and Tommy would rather not deal with being uneven at this moment, so he presses his left hand down on the other side of his chest, ignoring how it feels uneven again.
“I’m fine,” Tommy repeats, hands clasping the cart. He quickly picks up the shoe box and looks at the price. His heart lowers at the high number, but he sets it back in the cart. Already, Tommy feels a bit better, at least if he ignores the price.
“To—”
“Let’s keep going,” Tommy says, cutting off Phil. Wilbur gets the memo and pushes the cart forward, glancing sideways at Tommy and giving him a small smile when Tommy catches his eye. “Uh, you said decorations?”
“Yes,” Phil says graciously. Tommy cracks his fingers, trying to dispel the way his hands want to flap again. “Your room is yours, and you can decorate it however you like.” They turn into an aisle with lots of cheesy wall decor and curtains. “Well, anything that doesn’t damage yourself or property. And—”
Instantaneously, Tommy locks in on a pair of pink and purple butterfly curtains. Without thinking, he speedwalks over to them, and picks up the curtain, admiring the different colors. The butterflies aren’t scientifically correct as there is no species shaped or colored like this, but they’re pretty.
Just as fast as he focuses on the curtains, Tommy becomes aware of his surroundings. Phil’s attempting to keep a smile off his face, and Wilbur’s not even trying to hide anything at all. Tommy pulls his hands back, dropping the curtains and hiding his shaking hands.
His heart is still fluttering from the embarrassment earlier, and to be so outwardly liking something as girly and feminine as butterflies? Pink and purple butterflies? It’s a death sentence that has his heart jumping to his throat and threatening to spill out with excuses and lies.
“I just thought they looked silly,” Tommy lies. “Didn’t actually want them. They’re fu-frickin’ ugly anyways.” He should really just stop digging his grave deeper, should stop speaking until he damns himself even more.
“Tommy,” Phil says, pity and concern spewing out of his mouth that Tommy hates “If you like them, you should get them.”
“Plus,” Wilbur cuts in, a finger raised, “there’s no such thing as toxic masculinity or basic gender norms in this house.”
Tommy blinks, then blinks again. Cautiously, like it’s one huge joke that Tommy was excluded from, Tommy places the curtains in the cart. Phil smiles at him—that’s all he seems to ever do, honestly—and Tommy cracks his fingers.
“Do you like butterflies?” Wilbur asks innocently. Immediately, words threaten to overflow out of his mind, frantically pushing against his self made dam to share just how much he loves butterflies.
He settles for a single nod, clenching and cracking his knuckles. “Yes.” His lips pulse, wanting to burst out of the constricting stitches keeping him quiet. He can’t go on another rant, the last time he dumped a ton of information about butterflies on someone, he didn’t have a place to sit at lunch the next day.
Phil takes the answer, but Wilbur purses his lips. Tommy’s noticing a pattern here. “It seems like you love them a lot more than you’re letting on.”
Involuntarily, Tommy’s lips fragment, then shatter. “Yes I fuckin’ love butterflies,” he blurts. “They’re very… cool.” Cool is an understatement, but Tommy doesn’t want to share just how cool they are just yet.
“Alright,” Wilbur concedes. “There’s more butterfly decorations over there.” He points down the aisle, and Tommy’s eyes dart in that direction. Sure enough, wall decorations with butterflies and pillows with the lepidoptera are in a collection at the end.
Instead of breaking away from the two like he did before, Tommy glances back at Phil and waits for a nod. He walks over, calmly despite the urge to run, and picks up a butterfly figurine. It’s gorgeous, multiple butterflies resting on a fake stick. Tommy checks the price—ignoring Phil’s Look—and places it in the cart.
There’s a bedsheet set that has delicate monarch butterflies littering the white fabric, and Tommy falls in love. The price is a bit higher than he would like, but he also wants to avoid another episode so he places it in the cart.
A lamp with a butterfly shaped lampshade follows, and a pillow depicting a field of wildflowers with butterflies flying above them goes in next. A collection of different popular butterfly plushies—a tiger swallowtail, monarch butterfly, a viceroy butterfly (which is so similar to the monarch yet so different but that’s for later), and a blue morpho—also make their way into the cart. It’s gratifying, indulging in Tommy’s wants like this.
He stops, genuinely smiling at Phil as he says, “thank you.”
“Anytime,” Phil says easily, “is that all?”
Tommy nods, brushing his hand over the blue morpho, it’s almost neon blue wings fuzzy under his fingertips. “I should be good.”
“Me too,” Wilbur pipes in. Phil laughs.
“You aren’t even supposed to be here, mate,” Phil says. If it weren’t for Phil laughing, Tommy would take the tone seriously. He can safely assume Phil’s joking around though.
Yep, it’s proven when Wilbur smiles widely. “Shut up dad, can we get Mcdonald’s?”
Phil rolls his eyes, “sure. You okay with that Tommy?” Phil asks, turning to Tommy. He wasn’t expecting to be asked his opinion so he blanks, face feeling hot.
“Sure?” There’s a questioning lilt in his voice that somehow dims Phil’s smile a tad. Tommy was being genuine too, he just wasn’t expecting to be asked his opinion. “I mean, yes. Yes, that sounds good.”
“If you don’t want it Tommy, that’s fine,” Wilbur says. Tommy was being genuine, so he’s a bit confused on why Wilbur and Phil think he’s lying. He never lies—that’s a lie.
“No, I do want it. Chicken nuggets sound good,” he clarifies.
“Alright then,” Phil says, grabbing the cart. “Let’s check out.”
Wilbur only gets stopped once by an arrangement of music album covers that Tommy doesn’t recognize as they make their way to the register. Even Phil gets slightly distracted, a blanket with some birds or something on the front. Tommy just bobs his head to the nonsensical tune replaying in his head, cracking his knuckles whenever he gets the urge.
The cashier looks bored, red hair cropped close to their chin and lanyard around their neck that has rainbow frogs and THEY/THEM in all caps. Of course, Tommy’s going to respect their pronouns and shit, but he hopes Phil doesn’t notice in case he’s a dickhead.
“I like your hair,” Wilbur says. Tommy can only watch as Wilbur brings Phil’s attention to the cashier. Wilbur’s eyes flit down to the cashier’s nametag. “Hi Sally, I’m Wilbur. Nice to meet you.”
Sally smiles sweetly, sticking a hand out, “nice to meet you too! Is this your dad and brother?”
Tommy scowls, wringing his hands and cracking his knuckles, but it goes ignored as Sally and Wilbur flirt with each other. He does, however, keep an eye on Phil, but his foster father’s expression doesn’t change from the happy and content one.
“Close enough,” Wilbur hums, “would you care to go on a date with me?”
This is so disgusting to watch. Tommy wants to throw up.
“Sure!” Sally chirps, their face lighting up. Wilbur scribbles onto the back of a receipt, and Tommy exchanges a rare look of understanding with Phil. This is the worst thing he’s ever witnessed.
Tommy taps his feet together, twisting his knuckles and fingers as he waits impatiently. He can still feel the lingering panic and frustration from earlier in his very bones, so he tries to quell the want to sit down and exude that energy with the tapping. He even flicks his fingernails a few times to help with the unevenness he’s feeling.
Sally and Wilbur exchange numbers, and Tommy still feels disgusted by their romantic interest in each other. The idea of someone liking him and asking for his number? Absolutely revolting.
As they walk out of the store, Phil nudges Wilbur with his elbow. Tommy takes the reins of the cart, watching in amusement.
“When’s your date with them?” Phil asks, surprising Tommy with the casual ease of using Sally’s correct pronouns. Again, Tommy’s used to bigoted foster families using him for money and borderline abusing their own gay, biological, kids. Tommy doesn’t even have anything to worry about, he’s straight and his assigned gender at birth.
Wilbur shrugs, grinning, “I’m not too sure yet, they said they’ll text me after they get off. Sally’s so attractive though.” Wilbur sighs, looking at the paper with Sally’s number on it and thumbing a finger over it.
Romance. Gross.
Tommy makes eye contact with Phil, turning his mouth into a playful sound. Phil laughs in that HA! way Tommy’s becoming accustomed to hearing, and Tommy shivers. It’s getting colder out, and he’s grateful they bought him a couple sweatshirts for the start of winter. Otherwise, it’s not going to be a fun few months.
Or, weeks, Tommy won’t make months, so he shouldn’t expect to.
He helps load the bags into the car, eyeing Wilbur to make sure he doesn’t drop the butterfly lamp, and climbs into the car. Music plays from the radio as they drive to Mcdonald’s, Phil ordering for himself as Tommy and Wilbur look at the menu.
“Quarter pounder with cheese and ketchup and mustard, please,” Wilbur says, pulling out his phone. He taps away on it, smiling, when he continues, “with a fry and sprite.”
Wilbur’s probably texting Sally or some shit, not even glancing up to order. Tommy taps his hands against his thighs, biting the inside of his cheek. “Ten piece chicken nuggets with fries and a sprite?”
Phil nods, relaying the order to the drive thru person, and they make their way through the line. The drinks get passed back to Tommy, and he places the drink carrier on the seat next to him. Keeping one hand on the drinks, Tommy looks out the window.
He’s vaguely able to recognize where they are just from the drive to the store, but overall, Tommy’s got no fucking clue where they are. Soon enough, however, they pull into the two story house, and Tommy follows Phil’s lead to get out of the car.
As Tommy’s grabbing bags out of the trunk, Wilbur stays in the passenger seat, smiling down at his phone. He’s about to walk inside when Wilbur practically falls out of the car, holding his phone in the air.
“They said this Saturday! And jesus, Phil, they’re fucking perfect.” Wilbur sounds excited, and Tommy can’t help but feel excited for him as well. Well, other than the obvious grossness of romance and dates.
“Nice, Wil,” Phil says, “now help with bags.”
Tommy snorts, finishing his trek inside. He hesitates before setting the bags down the couch, quickly changing his mind and moving them to the floor. His hands out in front of him, Tommy double checks to make sure he isn’t breaking any rules Phil forgot to tell him or anything. Who knows, Tommy did have a family that said grocery bags only went in the kitchen.
Phil walks in with the rest of the bags and lamp in hand, while Wilbur follows with the food. The smell is wonderful, greasy and salty air flowing straight into Tommy’s nose. His stomach rumbles, but he ignores it, pulling a few articles of clothing out of one of the bags.
"Bro you can eat first.” Wilbur shoves a handful of fries into his mouth as if to prove a point. Tommy freezes, placing the shirt back in the bag and making his way into the kitchen. Phil’s there, on a stool and his burger unwrapped in front of him.
Cautiously, Tommy pulls his nuggets and fries out of the bag and sits down on the stool. The food is delicious, the perfect concoction of greasy but flavorful. It’s not often he gets Mcdonald’s, so the treat is nice.
Soon enough, everyone’s done eating, and Tommy expects to unpack the bags himself when Wilbur and Phil walk to the living room with him. Keeping one eye aware, just in case, Tommy puts his clothes into piles. They make sense to him, and he’s glad to see Phil and Wilbur following his lead.
They even help him carry the piles up to the guest room he’s staying in. “I can do the rest myself,” Tommy says, looking at the butterfly curtains and stuffies.
“You sure? We’d be happy to help,” Phil says. Tommy thinks he’s being genuine, but he could also be being sarcastic right now too. Based on what he’s seen of Phil, Tommy will take it as sincere.
Tommy nods once.
“Alright,” Phil says, “we’ll be downstairs if you need us. And you can place your clothes in the laundry basket over there and bring it to the laundry room to get them washed.”
Wilbur nods along, and his foster family exits, closing the door behind them. Tommy sighs, locking the door before placing his clothes in the drawers. He’s not going to bother Phil by asking for them to get washed.
The sheets go on his bed, butterfly patterned blankets thrown on top. Tommy places the plushies and pillow on the bed, and the curtains are relatively easy to put over his window. If you ignore him almost falling once.
Jumping on his freshly made bed, Tommy burrows into the blankets, not sleeping, but resting.