Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not like with Phil. Or Schlatt. He can’t just take a few deep breaths and put the cork back into the bottle.

No more scrubbing at his eyes, no more shrugging it off.

Truth be told, he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants it to mean something.

All his anguish and pain, every faked smile and perfect lie – he wants someone to look at him and tell him that they know it’s been hard. That he’s been very good and very brave, but it’s all over now. More so, he wants to actually believe it when someone says it will never happen again.

Because it hurts all the fucking time

And that ugly, visceral truth is out now. It’s…it’s everywhere.

It’s a puddle of tears on the carpet and his wailing clinging to the walls. The air is just putrid and sick with his heartache.

And the grief: it just hangs over him, no matter how tightly he hides himself in Wilbur’s side. And there was a brief reprieve from the initial wave. A blinding white moment where the air finally reaches his lungs, which reaches his blood which reaches his brain.

It’s not a long break, however. It’s a striking clarity that he can’t keep outrunning the grief and pain; he can’t keep smoking and drinking it away.

Because really, it’s not just one thing. It’s everything; it’s that his whole life is built on the singular notion that he does not belong to anything nice; that he does not deserve nice things –

And it’s awful to say aloud, to admit the depth of his self-loathing really just go to the rock bottom of self-esteem and yet –

He cries because if, big if, he really did deserve nice things, why has it taken so long to get them? Why did he get hits and bruises, yelled at, and kicked out over and over – what the fuck has he done wrong, his whole life? What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

(What could he have done differently? How many please just one more chance; I promise to be good, I'm not trying to be a fuck-up, I’m sorry I’m a fuck-up – how much pride should he have let beaten out of him in order to stay? Give him a number, a penance with promise, and he’d do it. Anything to just stay)

“No, darling, nothing,” Wilbur says, thumb swiping again at his raw cheeks, “Nothing could ever justify what has happened to you – and I’m sorry it happened love, I’m so sorry.”

Voices dance above him – he knows he’s somewhere on the ground, probably halfway in Wilbur’s lap like a child – but Toby can’t focus; he doesn’t want to focus anymore.

“I – I – I ah I d-don’t know h-hu-how to get past this.” He croaks, words trembling and fearful as they fall out of his mouth.

Wilbur attempts to shush him, to make him stop and breathe first, but for the first time in his life, Toby needs to say this. If he’s dying, and it feels like he is, he needs to say this, or else all this flood of emotion won’t have existed - like it was all for nothing.

“Toby, please. Breathe fir – “

“NO. No. No, listen! I don’t, I don’t know h-how to not be, not be t-this.” He wails, “I don’t wanna be this.”

He’s pounding a weak fist against Wilbur’s chest because Wilbur’s still just shushing his protest. He’s not listening, not getting it. He doesn’t understand; none of them do. And that’s mean, and it’s stupid because, of course, they can empathize and imagine, and they have literal reports of all the worst parts of Toby’s life.

And Wilbur’s lost his mother! How could he forget? The older boy has had more than his share of heartaches and tribulations. And here he is crying because he’s being taken care of properly. How pathetic.

But he’s so tired of being self-loathing, of berating himself for the way he feels because he can’t help it. He’s trying – holy fuck he swears he’s trying but –

“C’mon, take a breather,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t do much except fucking whine like some stupid puppy in response. “I know, I know – but you’ll feel better, I promise.”

He hears words and phrases through a faint tunnel, a far-off, watery voice going Tubso? And someone else saying c’mon Theseus and more shuffling above him.

He feels fingers on his chest, light and warm, and a faint humming above his head.

Everything’s blurry and dull, with tears still streaming down his face no matter how hard he tries to will it to stop.

It’s like the earth is fissuring right below his feet, like water slipping through his fingertips. It’s the breaking and shakedown and the fact that he can’t keep living in the moments between tragedy.

He’s pounding on something, and it’s solid and warm; he’s melting into a heap somewhere on the ground, praying that the carpet might swallow him whole – anything to just make it all just stop.

Please just make it stop.

“You’re through the AA agency?”

She smiles. “I’m not through the AA agency Tubbo.”

He quirks a brow, “Why not? It’s part of the benefits, innit? Besides the financial siphon and the tax break, they offer counseling services free of charge.” He gives the woman a once over. She only smiles. “How much is Philza paying you?”

He’s in a therapy office, and it smells like lavender and chloride, and he’s on a grey futon couch thingy that probably cost more than his life.

And there’s nothing wrong with therapy – Ranboo’s gone to therapy – but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need it. He’s not all these things people try to say he is – he’s just…he’s something else.

Her expression doesn’t change, though he’d bet her patience is already running thin. “I’m Cara.”

“Do you like have a last name? Like Miss Blank. Or like Dr. Something?”

She grins, looking all smug and happy. He was right to guess that she’s one of those pencil-pushing therapists who like kids with textbook issues and are all polite –

“You can call me Captain Puffy.”

“…Excuse me?”

Her shoulder straightens with pride, and she points to one of the framed certificates on the wall behind him. Above her bachelor’s degree, Ph.D., and residency certificate is a Captain’s License. It doesn’t have gold foil seals or a fancy scrawl from a Harvard dean, but it’s in the most ornate frame, matted neatly on boat-print scrapbook paper. It’s quite nicely done, Toby will admit.

“My colleague’s boyfriend did that for me.” She says proudly. “Isn't that sweet?”

“So um…” He’s still enthralled with the fact she’s actually a captain. “Right so, you go by Captain Puffy. Doctor? Doctor. Puffy?”

She smiles, a bit softer. “You can call me whatever feels right. Miss. Collins, Cara, or – most of the younger kids, but you too – call me Captain Puffy.” She refocuses the scene: settling back into her chair, catching his gaze, and repositions her notebook. “In any case, perhaps it’s a good thing I’m not from the AA; It says on file: you bit the last AA psychiatrist.” It almost looks like she’s trying to hide a laugh.

“I was 10,” He reasons, “They were trying to explain some shit and treating me like I was stupid.”

“Oh?” She clicks her pen at the ready. “What did they tell you? How did they make you feel stupid?”

He feels like a bug under a microscope – something to be dissected and picked at – but he promised Ranboo he’d try, and ya know, happy wife, happy life.

“Dunno. It was a long time ago.” He crosses his arms, a little Ranboo voice is saying Tubbooo, this isn’t trying, and an echo of Tommy’s wish of fitting in. He wants to try, for them at least. “Do I have to talk about it?”

Her face softens; she looks far less like a shark now, “Toby, I’m here to listen to whatever you want to tell me about.”

And it’s the same thing, again and again, and again – he doesn’t understand how to process nice.

“Can I talk about Ranboo?”

“Go for it.”

“Well, for one thing, I’m only here because he thought I should go – “

“Is he also the reason I remain unbitten?” She teases, and Toby exhales a laugh.

“Yeah, Bosman probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear that I bit another therapist.”  Toby could imagine the scold and hidden smile, however.  “He’s my best friend. And he’s like super tall and his hairs’ like crazy, man. Like it’s a bush. And –” He sees her grinning as she’s scribbling down notes, “– Are you taking notes about Ranboo?”

“He’s important to you.” She says like that’s some sort of blatant reason.

“Well, he is, but he’s also like really bad at fashion and stuff. All he wears is like Hawaiian shirts and vans; it’s awful.”

“’ Hawaiian shirts and vans,’” She mutters under her breath, copying his description word for word, “Duly noted."

Her hair’s in a messy bun, and she’s not dressed in beige slacks, and a frilly blouse like most of the counselors usually are. She’s curled in an oversized plush chair in a loose hoodie and jeans, interjecting questions and comments as Toby regales story after story about his friend.

“Our time is up, Tubbo.” She says finally, uncurling from her seat to walk him out. “Same time next week?”

He smiles up at her with a curt nod.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good because you never explained exactly how Tommy ended up with a hand down the toilet.”

They decide to move the urn to Wilbur’s room – temporary at least. And it’s not much Toby’s final decision as much as it disappears a day after he broke down in tears, and he’s too tired to ask when it’ll be back.

He can’t say he’s too upset. Tommy assured him it was safe in Wilbur’s room but just out of sight.

“It was a total cock block, man,” Tommy laments at the breakfast when Toby asks about it with a too-small voice. “I mean when the flocks of girls come in and ask – what should I say, it’s a vase?”

The cereal’s soggy and gross because it’s been sitting in milk for too long because Toby’s just pushing it around in the bowl, but at least he feels mild disgust besides grief. “I mean, it does kinda look like one. But where are these flock of girls, big man?”

“OH TUBBO,” Tommy squawks, nearly draping himself over his friend because he finished breakfast ages ago. Still, they’re waiting for Techno to finish getting ready so they can go to school. “IT WAS TRAGIC –”

“Was it now?”
“YES.  THEY THOUGHT I WAS A WIDOW AFTER SEEING THE URN AND WAS IMMEDIATELY RAN OFF.”

He chokes on Cap’n Crunch and laughter. “A widow? You’d be like Uncle and my dad. Wilbur would be like dad and Uncle too.”

“Pog,” Tommy says with a smile. “We could play battleship for custody rights.”

He snorts, “Who’d win?

And Tommy’s got a mischievous smile and nothing but trouble and love glowing in his eyes as he crunches a fistful of dry cheerios unapologetically.

“Me, of course,” He retorts. “Do I look like some Wrongen who’s ass at battleship? No, Big Man Tommy never loses.”

“…unless it’s women.”

“OHH, WHY MUST YOU REMIND ME!”

“So there I am: green as fucking grass as the priest is shaking, like, like, like this wand of holy water and shouting about how the end is nigh, and right as he gets to the part about the devil, I projectile vomit that shitty egg salad onto the pews.”

Puffy’s eyes go big, and she stifles a laugh with her hand. He can tell she’s trying to maintain a cool and profession façade. She clears her throat and swallows down a grin, but he’s all smug and toothy. This is one of Tommy’s favorite stories.

“Yeah, it was gross, but everyone’s face was hilarious; they all thought I was the anti-Christ.”

“And then what happened?”

He pauses, the chuckle dying in his throat. "What?”

And she looks less amused now too. Not pity, but maybe a bit sad. “After you got sick. Did your foster parents take you home?”

“Nah.” He says, and he hates how everything suddenly becomes less funny. The experience goes back to being all dull and grey and fucking sad because no, he didn’t go home. “Uh, well, eventually we went. But I mean mass had just started, and these people were like real god-fearing zealots, and It was Sunday, so….”

“Okay,” She amends, “What happened you got home?”

“Oh, you know,” he says with a shrug. “I got in trouble for making a scene or whatever.”

“What was your punishment?”

“Oh, you know.”

“No,” she says, all soft and honest. “I really don’t.”

“Puffy, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

And he stops, probably for the first time since he’s been going, and he just stares right out the window, unable to meet her eyes. But Puffy doesn’t look like his answer’s gonna break anything. Like his honesty won’t shake his world like a snow globe in the name of doing what’s best for you.

But he thinks back to that day with a grimace. The heat under his skin and feeling awful and dizzy. And it makes him feel….

So, he moves on to the next day.  Of seeing Tommy with worried furrowed brows, hopping from foot to foot with where did you go, I thought you were gone and how easily Toby turned that confused frown into a grin.

“Tommy thought it was funny. He could not stop laughing. And it’s a funny story, even you laughed!”

Toby can't help but be filled with pride because he remembers every over-the-top expression Tommy made when he told it. The ear-piercing laugh and the god-awful whistling his braces made at the time

“Your life is not a punchline, Tubbo. So why do you reduce all the bad things to one?”

He shrugs, memories of the church lights buzzing and sharp welt on his skin still worm through his happier highlight reel. “I dunno. It’s easier. It’s better than telling your best friend you got beaten with a fucking belt for puking in church. I mean, no one wants to hear that – I don’t even want to say it, I didn’t even want it to fucking happen!”

“Have you ever told Tommy that?” She asks.

“No. I love Tommy, he’s my best friend, my brother. It wouldn’t be nice to tell him; he’d just be all sad for me. I don’t want his pity.”

She lets out a dissatisfied hum and taps her pen.

“Tubbo,” She starts, “I want you to imagine someone named Sam.”

“Okay?”

“Let's say that Sam was Tommy’s foster parent.”

“No. Phil adopted Tommy; Tommy doesn’t need to be in foster care.”

“Humor me.” And he concedes with a frown and a nod. “Great. Sam is Tommy’s foster parent, and let’s say Tommy fell asleep and forgot to unload the dishwasher, so Sam hits Tommy as a punishment.”

Toby hates where this is going.

“Do you think Tommy would tell you?”

“Don’t fucking ask me that.” He warns. “Of course, he would; he’s my best friend and – no, you know what? This is a shit example; we’re different people. Tommy tells me everything. So, what if I don’t tell him everything? I tell him important stuff!”

“Do you think Sam hitting Tommy is an important thing?”
“Fuck Sam.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He scowls, but it’s hard to do with a quivering chin.

“It’s in the past.” He defends. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Alright,” She acquiesces, “Will you tell Tommy that story then? The full one – no jokes, nothing.”

He’s silent, staring out the window. It’ll be spring soon. The snow’s just starting to thaw on the trees, and the sun is no longer obscured by rainclouds all the time.

“What would that solve?”

“You have trauma, and I don’t think you’ve accepted it.”

“I don’t….” He was about to say I don’t have trauma, but even if he doubles down, she doesn’t seem easily persuaded. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re in denial.” She says, “And you might think others will reject you because of what you’ve been through, but they won’t.”

“How do you know.”

“Give them a chance.”

He was silent for the remaining 23 minutes. They sit them and watch the clock move and the sun set. She doesn’t ask any more questions, doesn’t prod at his paper-thin wall anymore.

(He’s equal parts relieved and disappointed. Even he wasn’t sure what might have come out. He just knows that Puffy maybe just a tiny bit cool and maybe even right, but he would never tell Tommy about what had happened. Ignorance is more of a kindness than either can imagine.)

“She missed home.”

Techno gives him a funny look from his bed. Toby just sorta wandered in white knuckles tensed at his side and a determined jut of his lip.

“She never quite made it back to England.”

It’s midday on a Saturday and, Techno’s gone silent from his place on the bed – attention pulled from his novel and now set on the boy in front of him.

“She’d save money in this old pickle jar – just like coins and cash and shit – but it was her going home fund.” He thinks of sitting in her lap as she regaled stories of her childhood in Sussex. Of the Brighton shores and vacations to the Highlands. “She…she missed home. A lot. She left when she was 18, can you believe it? Barely older than you.”

Techno nods tentatively, mouth pinned in a weary smile.

“I think she didn’t get along with her mum and dad.” He speaks softer now like he almost can’t bear to say it. “I think…I think they were the type to hit her too.”

“Toby,” Techno says through a hard swallow, “You…Do you want to tell me this?”

“It’s just – “He pauses, still too tense, still wondering what his thoughts will turn to words. “She loved the Beatles. And white chocolate. And the rain.” He smiles just a bit. There were so many good things about her. “One time, it rained so hard, they put sandbags on the sidewalks, and we had to put bowls under the leaks in the ceiling. And, and, and everyone complained about the cold, especially Lani. And Lani was like, god she was like, I don’t know: small? Small enough for me to carry around.” He laughs because there was a time when Lani’s whole fist could just fit in the palm of his hand. “I guess I was pretty small too. But she and Teagan and I were huddled under this big quilt thing and watched her from the window because my mum…my mum was so happy. She danced out in the puddles in her dressing gown for…I swear it was hours. She was so happy; I don’t think I’d ever seen her that excited.”

There’s a silence.

“That’s lovely, Tubbo.” Techno says, “She sounds lovely.”

“She was high.”

There’s a sigh.

“I…I figured.”

“I just…I wanted to say something good. About my mum.” He shudders, grief working its way down his back, “She wasn’t all bad.”

“Tubbo,” Techno looks horribly uncomfortable; he rubs at the back of his head and tenses his shoulders. “I…people aren’t just bad and good.” He pauses, still struggling for words. “Sun Tzu said it’s easy to love your best friend; it’s hard to love your enemy.”

“She’s not my enemy,” He croaks, voice wreaked by the ghost that haunts him, not at all comforted by some stupid proverb.

But then Techno smiles tiredly and sighs so heavily. He’s aged into someone who’s heard too many bad things and not seen enough good ones.

“Maybe not yours,” He says, “But she’s can be mine.”

And Toby nods slowly, not entirely understanding why but relieved that his shoulders feel so much lighter.

And he slinks away – off to go chase memories with video games and Tommy – but Techno’s not that ashamed to admit he cried a little bit. Equal parts frustrated and confused – maybe it got lost in translation, but he thinks perhaps the saying goes it’s actually hard to hate your enemy.

Because how can you hate someone who has been hurt too? Someone who had a favorite band and a best friend and probably missed their home but not their parents.

And Techno stares at the same page of his book for a very long time. He stares at it unseeing and hears the echoes of one brother’s indignant cries and the other’s quieter taunts.

How do you love someone who bought drugs instead of food for their family? Someone who never ever – not even once – applied for guardianship again after losing their kids. Someone who lets a kid like Toby get away twice.

And truth be told, he never figures it out. He stares at the words on the pages, but it never answers. And eventually, he gets up and goes on. He eats dinner and laughs and sleeps and lives – all the while loving and hating his enemy too.

But he sees Toby get better little by little. He settles back down; he thrives. Techno hears Toby call Phil, dad, in very, very quiet moments when Toby thinks no one can hear. He asks for new socks, no longer flinching to throw out his old threadbare holey ones. He even takes blue tack to stick tiny old photos on the wall.

And so yeah, sue him; Techno never does figure it out. But he’s more than willing to hold it heavy so that kid can stop holding on to it altogether.

He thinks Sun Tzu can go jump into a lake.

He walked to his appointment today. Papers and pencils shoved down into his backpack, a scowl on his face the whole way there.

He told Tommy, who only nodded with tight lips and certainly did not pass Ranboo, who was still red-eyed and angry when he limped out of the office.

He rides the bus and walks 2 miles to Puffy’s office with his jaw set and eyes hard.

“I fucking hate school.” He says with a swollen eye staring her down and bruised knuckles still flexing into a fist. It’s been a long time since this has happened. If she looks startled by his appearance, she doesn’t say anything.

“Oh?” A pen clicks, “Were the ABS kids being dickwads again?”

He exhales a laugh; his jaw slackens with surprise. Hardly ever does she use his vulgar vernacular. But he moves after a beat and launches into his day. Talks about his locker mate, who he swears is growing weed based on the smell emitting from the vent, and the prissy bitch in math class who was shocked to see him get a better grade on their test. He talks about Tommy spraying chocolate milk from his nose at lunch and the substitute teacher accidentally displaying some anime instead of Buscando a Nemo in Spanish class.

And Cara nods along, laughing occasionally and asking questions as expected. She looks him in the eyes but never winces away or sulks with sympathy. And surely, she must see the bruise; it was starting to purple when he left, and at least it must still be swollen.

“You’ve really not gonna say anything?” He says during a lull in the conversation. His index finger points and circles the bruise almost mockingly. “This whole thing, we can just ignore it?”

She smiles, “If that’s what you want.”

“It wasn’t Wilbur or Phil or anything.” He blurts out. She smiles again, nodding.
“I know. Well, I figured as much.” She must see something in his expression because her brows furrow a bit, “If you did have something to rep –“

“It was at school.” He blurts because no one should ever even suspect that one of the Watson’s would lay a hand on him. “They sometimes pick on Ranboo. Like when he has a bad day and stuff and wears a mask to school and like….” His blood boils just thinking about it; his nails bite crescent moons into his palms. “I can’t fucking stand it; it’s not fair.”

“Life isn't fair, Tubbo.”

“I know that.” He snaps, almost snarling.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“He hasn’t had a bad day in a long while.” Toby pouts a bit, “I thought he was getting better and stuff.”

“Healing isn’t linear, Tubbo,” She says, “Sometimes, it has to be two steps forward and one step back.”

“That’s dumb.”

She has a waning smile. An eyebrow raised as if to say, well, fighting’s dumb Tubbo.

He clicks his tongue preemptively. “Well, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell an adult? A teacher you trust?”

He scoffs and rolls his eye, “Right, because that will help.”

“Did punching the guy help?”

Toby scowls, worrying his split lip between his teeth. Stopping when he tastes metal and mud.

Cara sighs and flips through some notes. “Was Ranboo alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s all like passive-aggressive bullshit, so he just kinda takes it. I mean, he’s mad at me.” He admits gruffly. “He doesn’t like it when I get into fights.” He takes another breath, and Cara lets him. “I don’t get it, though. They’ll stop now – if no one does anything, then Ranboo will just get picked on tomorrow and the next day and the next day – even if it’s not a bad day. But now they’ll leave him alone for at least a few months.”

She smiles again, something sweet and kind. It doesn’t feel like pity.

“And it’s not like it’s like a pride thing – well, I don’t think.”

“Oh?”

He unfolds his arms, wincing when his muscles ache. “Like…I don’t know. Maybe he feels like weak or something. I mean, like it’s unlikely he’d win in a fight; he’s pretty scrawny. But like…I don’t know…I wouldn’t like it if he was fighting someone on my behalf. But that’s because I’ll actually fight my own fights! He fucking won’t!”

Cara skips to pages in her notes. She told him once that she has a special section just for Tommy and Ranboo since he talks about them so much. Apparently, she wasn’t joking.

“So, if you don’t intervene, what happens?”
“They just keep at it!” He shouts, “It’s fucking bullshit! Ranboo doesn’t say anything to them; he’s just fucking existing, and he like hates himself for how he looks and these asswipes just make jokes and stuff and make it all worse, and it’s like this…this…this spiral of shit.”

She never flinches at his vulgarity, and he kinda loves her for it.

“Spiral of shit.” She mutters, pen dutifully scratching out the words, breaking him from his tirade.

“You – I…” A laugh escapes before he can stop it. “That…why did you write that down?”

She smiles, something mischievous and young glittering in her eyes. “I quite like that phrase; I’m saving it for later.”

And then his eyes are watering, and his stomach’s aching from the laughter because it’s so fucking ridiculous. The tension dispels from the room, and he settles back into the chair.

“Tubbo,” She starts, “have you ever considered that Ranboo just doesn't like seeing you get hurt?”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “But I’m not… it’s not like that.”

“Oh?”

He thinks of the tears swelling in his friend’s eyes only hours earlier. The way he ripped off his glasses with a sneering Do I look like I’m joking, Toby?! You never listen!

“I’m not hurt.” She gives another impressively arched brow. “Okay, but like I’ve had worse – and I know how that sounds – but it’s true! And it’s not like the rest, so it’s fine.”

He sees her slowly turn to another page. A small, barely filled page with only a few bullets. He knows it’s his page. He can tell by her carefully neutral expression.

“Tell me how it’s different.”

She looks at him like he’s a spooked animal. Like this is a rare eclipsing moment where he actually talks about what he’s supposed to.

And he’s so keenly aware of it that he can only snap his jaw tight and breathe. There’s a lulling silence, and he knows he’s supposed to say stuff. He’s supposed to talk about the nice, but stern family who withheld food when he cried or the otherwise lovely woman who sometimes got too drunk and shouted things he never understood. He was supposed to tell her that getting hurt and being hurt are two very different things that he’s learned quite intimately.

He’s supposed to teach her the lessons he taught himself. And she’ll look at him patiently and gently explain that he learned the wrong things from the wrong punishments.

And he knows this. He knows he grew up wrong, that the very core of himself is made of concrete and starvation and the idea that the world is supposed to hurt.

But knowing what’s wrong is apparently only half the battle. And instead of flashes of fists just a hair too close and fear cold in his stomach – he thinks of Ranboo's eyes all shiny with tears and that soft little quake in his voice because he never had to learn how to yell.

“Fighting is supposed to hurt,” he says, “Family…family, isn’t. There’s your difference.” A beat, “Besides, I’m choosing to fight them, okay? You don’t…it’s not like I wanted to get fucking hit in…in the foster homes.”

He tempers under her silent gaze. Eye darting everywhere but her judgmental face till he just boils with rage, and he finally meets her eyes head-on.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that she’s glancing at his bruise. At the flush red ringlets, tenderly swollen, and his pupil blown wide. She looks at it with a sigh that only adults seem to make and then hurries to look away.

“What,” He spits, “Never seen a bruise before?”

She smiles placatingly and counts to ten in her head, “I have.” A beat. “I just hate seeing it on someone so young.”

“I’ll be 16 soon.”

“It’s another 6 months, Tubbo.”

“I’m closer to 20 than I am to 10.” He bites.

“Yes,” She concedes, still smiling, “But I bet you had bruises at age 10 too.”

“Yeah,” He says, but it doesn’t come out as sharp as he meant it. It sounds too much like defeat. “I did.”

There’s another lull, but it’s not heavy.  They stew in it for the rest of the time. And maybe it’s just a waste of time; maybe this is him trying. Whatever it is, he’s learning to accept it.

“I didn’t think you’d admit it.” She says, just a minute or two left. “about when you were 10.”

He exhales a slight chuckle, “Maybe a month ago, I wouldn’t have.” A pause, “So why is Ranboo mad at me?”

She grins, warm and chiding like a mother might, “I think you need to ask him that. And I think you need to tell him why you think he’s wrong.”

Toby bristles a bit, acutely aware of the clock, “I don’t like arguing.”

“I think you dislike fighting with him more.”

“This isn’t fighting,” He scoffs, and her eyes twinkle.

“Fighting shouldn’t hurt either, you know.”

He has more than a black eye today. He did not ask Ranboo why he was mad, but he did get Schlatt to help him make cookies via facetime and earned a forgiving hair ruff from his beloved.

He has a black eye from days prior, aching ribs, and blood rusting on his collar from twin streaks down his nose.

His knuckles, however, are clean. But his eyes – his one good eye – is narrow and sharp. Face flushed with shame to match the darken splotch on his jaw.

Ranboo was not angry this time; he was crying.

(Toby thinks he’s still learning the wrong lessons from the wrong punishment, and what the hell is Phil paying Puffy for?)

Meanwhile, the principal is rubbing a thumb into his temple and sighing too loudly.

“Toby, if you could please just tell us what happened.”
“I didn’t start it.” He answers. “I didn’t even fight back; why am I here?”

The principal doesn’t answer, he just keeps sighing.

A needle-nosed secretary flutter in all huffed with her perfect hair and heel tottering on the carpet.

“Miss. Minx is here Principal Cunningham.” She says, and Toby widens his one good eye in surprise.

“No need to shout love,” A voice – Minx – calls as she saunters in. “I can announce myself.”

She’s dressed in black and leather with eyeliner sharp as knives. She all but collapses into the chair next to him. And really, he’s trying to keep his jaw from slackening, but it’s been months, and she’s here looking apathetically at his principal like he is in her office.

“Well, why am I here?” She prefaces impatiently, and for half a minute he thinks she’s mad at him, and there’s something sinking cold in his stomach because Tommy and Ranboo are gonna be watching him get slapped right on the front steps of the school when this is over.

But then she turns to him with soft, warm eyes and a sweet smile. No pity, no sadness – just a little relieved sigh like it’s been so long since she’s seen him. And to be fair, it’s been almost 4 months.

“Well, you see, Toby was in a fight,” The principal says lamely, and she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, I can see.” She scathes, “What I don’t understand is where the other kid is? Why is my kid the one in trouble?”

Principal Cunningham shifts nervously, “Well the other boys say Toby started the fight and well Toby has been very uncooperative.”

Her eyes narrow into incredulous squints saying how stupid can you be before she claps her hands together, rings and bracelets tinkling together.  “Right, so a group of boys beats up my kid, claim they didn’t start it and so they went back to class?”

“…Right.”

Another round of wow you’re even stupider than I first thought

“Right, and do they also look like they went through a meat grinder?”
“Well no.” He pauses, hearing exactly how it sounds, “Well see this isn’t the first time Toby has had issues with these boys; he’s a bit of a problematic student ma’am. And Toby is usually the one to instigate these things it’s just…” He finally looks at the damage: the split lip and dirt on Toby's ruddy cheek. “I suppose they went a bit far in the…self-defense.”

Minx is quiet by his side, and he’s just hiding behind a curtain of sweaty bangs. This isn’t the first adult to sit in that chair; this isn’t the first time he’s been called troublesome. But he never learns how to quell that rush of disappointment, that innate shame at thefollowing silence.

“Can I go now?” He interrupts, voice rough and impatient, “This is like what, a month of detention? A 3-day suspension?”

The principal starts to answer when a red-polished finger cuts him off, “No.” She says, “My son got beat up, not for the first time apparently. He’s not getting a punishment unless the other kids do. And what do you mean he’s ‘problematic’ – does the rest of your faculty use this kind of bullshit language, is this how you address my son in class?!”

And she’s standing at her full 6ft glory with red fingers curling in an indignant fist at her side and eyes ablaze – ready to rip him a new one when the secretary skidders in annoyed.

“Principal Cunningham,” She rushes to say, “A Phil Watson is here for Tobias? He says Toby’s foster parent. His other son Tommy called him about this…issue.”

And a significantly less scary, well-dressed Phil Watson padders in with a raised hand and shy smile.

“Hey mate!” He greets, eyes sweeping the room till he sees blood and Toby's head pinned to his chest. “Tubbo?”

Toby can’t tell if he’s grateful, embarrassed, or confused.

“Wait,” Interrupts Cunningham, “Who is Tobias Smith’s legal guardian.”

The two go silent, exchanging glances. Phil has the tact to look a little ashamed. Minx does not.

“Toby is my foster grand…son…official. My biological older son Wilbur is fostering him and his brother – my adopted son – Tommy called me when he heard Toby was escorted to the office.”

And it’s odd – it takes all parties a minute to understand – before they turn a sly eye to Minx who falters just a tad.

“Well,” She starts, and Toby knows that tone means she’s going to cop up to some sneaky tactic because really she was a good mum, and all mums have tricks up their sleeves. “I was Tubbo’s foster mum for a wee bit and when he was in my care, I made sure that the school had my number as an emergency contact.” She turns a teasing glare to Toby, “Some little pest had gone behind my back and changed the numbers to gibberish, but I double-checked.” She turns a not-so-teasing glare to Cunningham, “And it’s a good thing that your staff was too incompetent to change it when he left my care.”

So, it’s his not-dad and his not-mom on each side of his chair glaring at his principal, and he thinks this must be what privilege feels like.

“Right,” The principal says, “Perhaps when Toby’s legal guardian can be present, we can sort this out. In the meantime, Toby you’re free to go home.”

“Wait,” Phil interjects, eyes looking severe, “I still don’t understand what’s going on. Where are the kids that did this?”

The principal goes back to heavy sighs, “They told us, Toby instigated the fight and it’s 5 – “

“Sorry, 5 kids did this?” Minx scoffs, “Kiddo tell me you hit back, right?”

“Ma’am we have a policy of non-violence –

“Can it.” She bites before turning those soft eyes to him, and he melts. “Kiddo?”

“…Usually yeah, but…whatever.”

“No,” She says, and it’s achingly familiar. “I would like the truth.”

“…I just…”

“I’m not mad,” She says, and he flickers a glance up to see her relaxed jaw and easy breaths. “I just want to know what you were thinking; I want to understand.”

He doesn’t look at her though. Not Phil or his principal. He looks out at the trees and road, the blue sky, and spring.

“They pick on Ranboo, and sometimes I get in their face, and we fight,” He sees green buds on frosted vines and wonders how they know exactly when to bloom, “But Ranboo doesn’t like it when I get in fights – even though it makes it them stop – but anyways…they were making fun of him, I got in their face and…and Ranboo doesn’t like it when I fight.” He shrugs, feeling the weight of too many eyes, “I guess I did start it.”

“Go wait in the hall,” Minx says, and no one dares to oppose her.

He doesn’t hear most of what’s said, but the door makes a little rattle sound when she talks. 10 minutes later, Phil exits with a small smile and Minx is scowling but ruffles his hair gently.

“Right mate,” Phil says as they push open the main doors, “Let’s go, Tubbo.”

Almost on cue, Ranboo and Tommy tackle him in a hug.

“You idiot,” Ranboo says, but it’s not quite mean. Not really nice either. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks!” He says with a smile and Ranboo mumbles idiot on the top of his head.

“C’mon boys,” Tommy says, wiggling in between the two, “Let’s go play Roblox and hit on women.”

“Wait Tubbo!” Minx calls, and he turns to see her nervously wringing her hands. By the steps, Phil stood rubbing at his neck sheepishly next to her. “Can I talk to you?”

Tommy has fire in his eyes, and Ranboo’s hand is softly tugging at his, but he flashes a smile and pulls away.

“C’mon boys, I’ll take you home. Ranboo did you tell your mom where you are?”

“Oh shoot.”

“Ha loser, you have a mum.”

“Car.” Phil deadpans, “Now.”

Toby exhales a laugh before focusing back on Minx.

“Did you see that picture of Cornelius I sent? You still one of the only people he’s sweet on.”

He coughs, remembering the pixels flashing in the dark as he finally opened the message at 3 am because he was too cowardly to open it a week earlier. “Yeah. I like that cat too.”

“Emma’s afraid of Sylum; she thinks he’s ugly.” Minx has her hands folded across her stomach and rubs the ring on her pinky. It vaguely reminds him of Nikki. “She wants to meet you, Emma.”

“Right,” He says hollowly as if he understands why some random kid would want to meet him.

“Tubbo,” she starts before closing her mouth. Then opening it to start again. “Tubbo, I’m not fostering Emma anymore, she was also a short stay like you but she’s back with her biological mom, away from the person who gave her those bruises.”

“Oh.” He says, and it aches a little.

“But I still get to see her once a week. She and her mom come over for dinner. Liza, my oldest girl, the one with the apartment, she comes around too when she has time.” Minx pauses again, trying to gauge Toby's reaction but he’s still just a blank face and bruises, “What I’m trying to say, is that it’s important to me what you have adults you can trust in your life; you stay close to people who care about you. I want you to come to dinner with us.”

Toby looks back and sees Ranboo and Tommy rocking out to some song in the car as Phil happily bops along. And he thinks of trust and love. Something light and easy flutters inside; he realizes just how lucky he is.

And he so desperately wants to say yes. And…And he does.

“I’d like that,” he says all shy and cautious, “I miss Sylum.”

Minx’s smile is blinding, “Oh he misses you too bud.”

And she reaches out to put a hand on his head, and it’s been a long time since he’s felt so at peace.

“No more fights young man,” She scolds lightly.

“Yes ma’am.” He mumbles, still relishing in the moment. He wonders if this is what a mum is supposed to be. He thinks Minx and Kristen would have gotten along famously.

“Good lad, now go run along.”

Tommy wakes up nearly screaming and drowning in sweat, so Toby shuffles over and makes room under the covers. This isn’t the first time it’s happened; it was a bigger problem when they were younger. Still, it’s this is the third night in a row.

No matter. Toby knows exactly what to do.

His friend’s heart is too fast, and it's too warm under the sheet, but Toby always runs cold, so if anything, it’s a welcomed shock.

“I had a dream you were gone,” Tommy said because he’s never needed coaxing and prompting. No poker face, no sense of self-preservation. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and Toby never needs to ask what’s wrong.  Still, Toby stops wriggling around for a second before turning over to face his friend.

“What?”

“I…I had a dream that you had to go away again.” And Tommy’s blue eyes are all grey and stormy with tears, and Toby’s quick to shuffle closer to headbutt his chest. “And the next place was just….”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He mumbles. Like that isn’t his fear too. “And Toms, they weren’t all bad either. Remember Minx? Or that lady with all the dogs? That one family who owned that trampoline park thing?” He laughs, for both their sakes. “I broke my arm because I landed all wrong, and you were all freaked out because the bone was like so not in my bod –”

“You got stabbed, Tubbo.” Tommy retorts. His voice too sad and dead. “I mean…god, I didn’t forget I just….” They shuffle around on the too-small bed. Pulling away and then squirming closer. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make jokes –”

 “I don’t joke about it; it wasn’t fun –”

 “I know that shithead! It’s just... “

“What?!”

They’re best friends. Always have been. Always will be.

“You never told me about how bad it would get. I mean, you came to school with like a cast once, and bruises and, and, and just smiled and laughed, and I used to think maybe it didn’t bother you – like you moved on quick or it was just looked worse than it was but….” He pulls back – almost guilty. “I didn’t mean to read them. The reports. I didn’t mean to do it, really. I just…they were just….”

Like stones, something cold and heavy drops in his stomach. A visceral whine stuck beneath them. His heart curls deep inside to hide. Because Tommy is his younger brother, Tommy has been through his own hell and back – he does not need the weight of Toby’s too.

“You had no right to read it.” He says – he thinks he says, his voice is so flat and cold. “Thomas fucking Watson you had – “

“It was an accident – “

“No right – “

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tommy’s stuttering with tears; he never knows when to quit; he just keeps talking, almost undeterred by the tears. “Toby, I thought I was your best friend – “

“You are my best friend!”

“– then why didn’t you tell me!”

Toby can only swipe at the tears and cling closer to his chest. The thumping is too fast and irregular.

And Toby is angry. And sorry, he didn’t mean to make Tommy cry.

“Please stop,” He begs, “It’s not worth it.

“S-shuh, shut th-the f-f-cuk up.”

It reminds Toby of himself even. Of being curled around Wilbur like a lifeline. Of falling apart because some things are just fucking sad and terrible and there’s no way to make it better.

There’s only the ground breaking beneath your feet, your world melting in the rain. No way to prevent the inevitable.

 “Tommy,” He says through a sigh, “Tommy, it’s in the past; there’s nothing you or I can do to fix it.”

That only seems to make it worse. It makes his shoulder hitch in violent shakes. And all Toby can think about is Cara’s gentle smile, her little nudge to just give them a chance.

So, he pulls one of Tommy’s clammy hands up to a little rough puckered line right by his collarbone. And Tommy quails and goes quiet, his fingertips just barely grazing it.

"I got this when I was 13, at that one home...right before you guys let me stay here." And it's stupid because Tommy knows the background to this. "I didn’t get it at first,” He says. Tongue numb, lips barely able to form the words. It’s just pictures in his head, and he can see it so clearly, over and over. “It was dark.”

And Tommy stays quiet and still. Hand in hand, they both trace the scar up and down.

“Laura was like…I don’t know: 9? I don’t even know why I was in here; I think I was just checking on her.” He pauses; it was so fucking long ago, “She was upset about something earlier – I didn’t know it was…that.” He takes a breath, and it doesn’t taste like ash and smoke. He smells peanut butter and fabric softener, and it grounds him back to the present. “There were noises, and I mean, I wasn’t stupid but I…I didn’t know that was happening. She was crying, and he was…he was…Anyways.”

He can't seem to say everything he wants to, can't describe it right. Not even today, not even with Tommy. He feels his friend squeeze his hand in reassurance, and Toby moves on.

“Anyways, I started shouting and pulling him off because she was crying and I knew something was wrong, but then he starts shouting, and she’s like crying and…like not wearing…. I was so confused.”

He never talks about it. And mostly it’s because he can’t even find the words. Over and over, in his head: I really didn’t know, I would have done something sooner,  but I didn’t know

 “Anyways,” He says, shaking the thought like dust, feeling it just settle right back where it usually does. “He’s just kicking, and shit, and I’m pissed off, so I start cuffing him, and then I just see this…the…It was just like this shiny thing coming and….”

And it hurt a lot. It was a blistering heat right in his shoulder before another boot to his ribs. It was him gasping for air and then feeling blood just slick and warm on his hands, of snaking and twisting away, screaming as he gets to his feet and just running.

The slamming pain as every stride made it jolt and move and burn. Panting and shaking until he’s all but collapsed in Alex’s arms, heedless of the carpet stains or the sticky feeling when he grabbed Alex’s hand and wouldn't let go.

“I ran to Quackity’s after. I didn’t even stick around to help her or anything – I just fucking ran.” He swallows down bile and blood and sick. “Karl stitched me up and…and that was that.”

“There’s no report of it,” Tommy says, voice so raw and grave. Like he’s been running and panting and screaming too. “Did anyone kno– “

“Never told anyone.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Toby echoes, “Oh.”

Tommy holds his hand tighter, Toby squeezes back.

“I never want you to think I'm different.” He says to the dark. To the open window and the sweat-soaked sheets. To the book in the corner and the pencils on the desk, “I didn’t want everything to be so serious and sad.”

“I don’t pity you Tubbo.” Tommy says, “I think you’ve been through a lot; I think you’re strong.”

 “I can’t even tell that story right.” He rasps, tears welling but not falling. “I don’t wanna be better for this shit; I want it gone.”

And Tommy looks him dead in the eyes with a drawn face. The same expression as when he confided in him that sometimes he hates his birth parents. The same face as when he told Toby that he sometimes wonders if Phil actually loves him like he loves Wil and Techno.

The same ocean blue eyes go as wide as the Atlantic when he’s happy but stormy like a shipwreck when he’s not.

And now his eyes are lapis and obsidian in the dark; set firm and determined like his words could move mountains and part seas. Toby would follow those eyes anywhere – not because he trusts them – but because he knows he won’t be able to stop Tommy once he gets that look. He could only have that determined look to the ends of the earth.

“You can’t wish it away Tubbo; that shit is gonna be there forever.” He says, “But you can give some of it to me.”

“You were crying earlier,” He defends.

“I’d only wished you told me sooner; told me after it happened. I could have helped.”

And Toby thinks of limping under the covers at all hours and allowing himself the comfort of breathing without fear. He thinks of feeling normal when he’s at the dinner table or at the desk doing homework. He thinks of the family Tommy’s given him.

“Toms,” He says, eyes all aglow with determination too, “You did more than you know."

They sit in the lull sharing a breath like a blood pact.

“You’re my best friend.”

“Mm. Yeah. You’re mine too.”

Schlatt comes to visit as soon as classes get out for spring break. He boards the first bus and greets Toby by snatching the hat right off his head with a grin. 

"How you doing kiddo," He drawls in the early hours, breath frosting the air. But it's calm. 

And it's strange; they've never really been able to have thisbefore. Nothing is desperate; nothing is tense. Phil always has an open door and Toby's more than happy to deal with two people snoring if it means he gets to see his brother. 

Only now Schlatt's looking nervous and strange as they stand in front of Minx's apartment building with flowers.

"I dunno kiddo, can't we just go get McDonald's or sumfin?"

"No," He whines, "I told Minx you'd go; she wanted to meet you."

And Schlatt looks oddly uncomfortable and keeps moving his hat from his head to his hands. 

"Bah alright, c'mon lead the way."

And it's up to the second to the top floor and to the door with the little homemade wreath and chewed-up welcome mat. Emma opens the door after half a knock. 

Toby quite likes Emma. She's little like Ranboo's sister but not nearly as loud. She likes to dance when Minx puts records on but mainly curls up all shy next to her mom. Still, Emma opens the door with big curious eyes, and before Toby can even greet her with a soft Hullo! Schlatt is glaring down with a Who the fuck is this?

Which doesn't bode well for someone skittish and timid like her. She lets out a squeal and runs straight into Minx who was only a few steps behind.

It takes Toby braiding her hair and her mom in constant eyesight in order for her to calm down. Meanwhile, Schlatt and Minx acquaint themselves in the kitchen. Toby can't hear all of it properly - he's busy chatting with Emma's mom about school and her job like a proper adult - but he does hear snippets of the rather juvenile conversation. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you," Minx opens with. "Why would you say that to a child."

"I don't know," Schlatt rebukes, "I was excepting a grown-ass woman, not a toddler to be greeting us."

And then the conversation fades out. And back in. 

"No, I don't think everything's somehow better just because you bought me flowers."

"Well fuck you, these were like 3 dollars."

"You only spend 3 dollars?!"

And later, as he and Emma play with her Barbies:

"Something's wrong with your cat."

"What?"

"It's giving me evil looks."

Dinner is just Emma's mom hiding a smile behind her bites of pasta and Schlatt and Minx trading scathing remarks via Toby as they've ceased direct contact. 

All in all, Toby thinks it was a riveting success. Later, when Schlatt's cleaning the kitchen even though I'm the fucking guest?!  and Minx is outside smoking cigarettes with Toby because I cooked you dinner, you owe me Toby looks up and sees the skyline view he missed. 

"God, Tubbo," Minx sighs, "You both are children, I don't know how he could have taken care of you."

He exhales a puff and ignores her disapproving side-eye, "He's good though; I promise."

"Sure, sure."

And Toby smiles, thinking about Schlatt shrieking fuck you at CPS when they were young. Of Minx standing tall and proud, I can take care of them both! 

"You two are similar I think." He says. 

She cocks an eyebrow and takes her own drag of smoke. "I day I act like him, fucking shoot me, kid."

"He taught me to throw a punch," He muses, "And used to sit with me at the library teaching me to read. He's wicked smart if you can believe it. Really good at writing. Used to let me read his stuff as a reward for practicing." 

She huffs and smiles a bit, maybe not believing the story but believing the fond tone her foster son uses. 

"Fine," She concedes, "Maybe not so bad."

“I…” He doesn’t squirm, but he swallows the nerves like nails in his throat. “What…do you have you written?”

“It’s been 8 sessions, Tubbo.”

“Well yeah,” He scoffs defensively, still eyeing the 5 singular bullets and the few lines below it. “But like…what’s…like – like what’s wrong with me?”

She raises a brow but doesn’t say anything as she turns more pages, skimming another set of notes with a neutral expression. “I wrote ‘suspected PTSD from abusive and neglectful childhood homes, disorganized attachment and developed anxiety around maintaining healthy relations’ – “

“So, I’m basically fucked up?”

“No.” She tuts with a huff. “You didn’t let me finish. ‘Very developed EQ, able to accept physical affections and healthy boundaries of trust with some authority figures. Could benefit from grief counseling and DBT. No long-term diagnosis.”

He doesn’t say anything; it actually wasn’t what he was expecting, at least not her second bit. And he’s…he’s numb.

“Even if I had written something else, ‘worse’ news – Tubbo, it does not make you ‘fucked up.’ You are a person who’s been through some traumatic experiences which have affected you for a long time. It would be abnormal if you didn’t have any difficulty transitioning from one environment to another.”

“I’m not getting better though,” He pouts.

She doesn’t frown, but she doesn’t have that pleasant, patient smile either. It’s the closest he’s seen to her being sad.

“You talk quite a bit Tubbo. Usually about your day or the Watson’s or Ranboo.” A beat, “But that’s not why you’re here, right honey?”

He curls his fingers into his palm, “No, it’s not.”

“Wounds won’t heal unless you let them breathe Toby,” She says with a sigh.

He thinks of a half-finished story still open on Tommy’s bed. The spine aching from being folded, the words melting off the page.

He swallows once, then again.

“Can I talk about Laura today?”

He was actually 4 the first time he got hit. And maybe he’d say it’s the first time he remembers – but more accurately, it was the first time his mom remembers.

He can’t really say what happened before or really what happened after. He just remembers looking all the way up to see big brown eyes peering back and her tense frown.

She had Lani on her hip and Teagan doing homework at the table.

“Toby,” She started with a sigh, “You can’t say stuff like that to your teacher, okay?”

“I know,” He mumbled meekly. Something snappy and angry scolded him for being so timid. Still, he hates when she says his name like that. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs again, free hand reaching into what looked like ground beef in a bowl.

“You made her worried and now there’s a social worker coming and he’s gonna try and take you away from me: is that what you want?” She asked another sigh coming out on reflex, “You can’t do that stuff when he comes okay? Just…”

He remembers seeing how tired she looked. How strung out and frazzled her expression was. The way her jaw was clenched tight, and her fingertips were bloody and red all the time.

“Just, can you please just behave?!”

“I said I was sorry!” He said a tad too loud. The baby looked fearfully from his mom to him, and he forced down any negative emotion in favor of making a silly face.

Cross eyes and tongue out, the resulting coos and laughs have them both exhaling with relief.  His mum, however, makes a strange expression, something indecipherable that makes his skin crawl.

“Mum I can take her,” Teagan murmured from the table. Her papers shuffled and rearranged out of a toddler’s reach. Her crooked glasses smushed up the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt also keep them out of reach.

“I’ve got it Teagan,” She snapped, Lani now looking from her sister’s startled eyes to her mom’s narrowed ones. “Just do your homework.”

“Well don’t yell at her!” Toby interrupted, face red and hot. A 4 year who hasn’t learned when to keep quiet.

And it was so strange to watch Teagan’s whole expression change. As if in slow motion, she went pale and rigid. Her tongue darting out, bitten between her set of baby teeth before her mouth clicked shut.

“God danm it, Toby, what did I say?!” His mom shouted. Dinner long forgotten; one hand clenching the tile countertop in a white-knuckle grip, the other not so gently squeezing Lani who began to huff and squeal under the weight of the tension.  “Why can’t you just behave for once in your fucking life?”

“Just calm down Mum,” Teagan interjects warily, already rising from her seat, arms outstretched as if she could catch the other shoe when it drops. “I’ll put him in timeout, okay? Me and him can sit in our room for a bit; he’ll calm down in a bit.”

And he remembers so vividly how violently his mom turned to sneer at Teagan too. How Teagan was only 7 years old and swallowing every acrid insult with a nod, how visibly pained and watery her eyes got.

“DON’T YELL AT HER!” He yelled back.

(Why did he yell back? Where did he even learn to be protective, to fight back? Is this where he lost that courage? A random Tuesday after-school special?)

And of course, then something looming and angry got in his face – someone’s breath was hot and heavy, clawing words he couldn’t even begin to hear over his own shrieks.

 “STOP!”  He shouted, and something had him by the arm it hurt, and it didn’t let go, even when he dropped to the floor.

And then it’s a blur of tears and the world turning far too fast. It’s Teagan’s chair scrapping harshly on already scuffed floors; it’s his mom’s voice going rough and dark, and Lani still hasn’t stopped screaming, but all he can really make out is his blood pounding in his ears.

He was kicking and squirming and fighting as the world kept spinning over and over and –

And then silence. Something throbbing and aching on his cheek. A voice all high and breathy in his ear. Someone is crying, but it’s not him. Why would he be crying?

And the same someone has a shaking, clammy hand on his head, whispering strange apologies into his ear.

“Darling, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Does it hurt? Are you hurt?”

And through one good eye, he sees his mom’s face all red and blotchy. He reaches out to touch her cheek, and it’s hot and sticky with tear tracks and snot. Behind her, he saw Teagan on their mom’s bed playing with Lani and wiping at her nose like she was trying not to cry.

“Mummy?” He said, but the words taste metallic and strange. “Why are you crying? Why…”

And his mom is just crying more and more, pressing kisses and babbling words into his skin. So, he crawled into her lap, wiping a tiny little thumb on her cheek, and let the reassurances fall from a split lip.

“Mummy, it’s fine, don’t cry. It’s okay.” He said, not really understanding any of it, not getting why Teagan finally let out a sob, taking just a second to collect herself before peeling him away.

His mom was still on bruised knees, crying on the floor.

And it was Teagan who was the first person to press ice cubes to his cheek and brush back his hair. It was her who cooked dinner that night and warmed Lani’s bottle on the stove.

Who shielded him behind her back when a very tall bald man in a suit and tie came to the apartment the next day and knelt down to inspect his face.

And maybe it was love – the same love that got him bruised in the first place – but it was her who was hollering and hitting with baby fat fists when the man tried to talk to him in a separate room.

(There’s a water-stained, pink copy of Mr. Drexel’s report in Phil’s office. Wilbur has since added an unintentional grease stain when he found it by accident. But there’s a note that Toby has a mild red splotch on his cheek and a small cut on his lip but doesn’t seem to know where it’s from. Teagan is hostile and violent when Toby or Lani is removed from the room and denies that mom was the cause of Toby’s injuries. Teagan is often hungry and tired in class, but no physical injuries have been noticed in the past. No other signs of physical or emotional abuse. Toby’s kindergarten teacher reported Toby talking about his mother being passed out drunk at night and electricity getting shut off. Mom claims all these to be misunderstandings and her son had difficulty with nighttime routines.)

Because the day Mr. Drexel came, his face was still achingly red and stinging, but he really didn’t know what had happened. And Teagan just wanted them all to stay so she lied and lied – sneaking glances to her hungover mom as she rattled on about how my son thinks the sun is on a dimmer! But the apartment checked enough boxes; no one likes removing kids from their home.

It would be another 3 years before they got separated. And he’ll be the only one to go back a second and final time.

(He’ll jump at the chance, so confused when he doesn’t see Teagan or Lani, but happy enough to have his mum all to himself. He’ll unpack and measure his height on the walls. He’ll demand she hang every math test and painted picture on the fridge.

He’ll insist on giving away the nice suitcase his last home let him keep; why would he ever need to leave again?)

But sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t yelled back.  If Teagan hadn’t lied thinking it was a kindness.Or if his mom whaled on him days before the social worker came.

Because the following week his face became a perfect shade of molten purple and ink stain black that swallowed half his face.

(And his mom would burst into tears every time she saw it. She’d cry and cry and then raged because why couldn’t you have just shut up I didn’t mean to hit you, and he really didn’t understand.)

And truth be told, he used to care a lot about that singular moment in time and space.

But now: as he sits taciturnly and still on the floor and listens to the soft hums of Wilbur's voice above, he realizes that all that shit has led him exactly where he was supposed to be.

That standing up for his sister and having the favor returned was one of the best things to ever happen to him.

Not that his mom should have ever struck him, not that he was meant to be separated from his sisters so young. 

But that it wasn't pain and suffering that got him here – not the pity of a grieving father or the solemn promise of a best friend.

It was love and kindness – it was a visceral urge to protect selflessly and hold your loved ones close.

And now – now age 15 – as Wilbur holds him close, he thinks he gets it.

“Hey Tubbo,” Wilbur says, a hand tilting his chin up and thumbing away more tears, “I know it must feel like you’re still alone – like you can’t trust anyone like everyone’s just going to lie to you and let you down.” Wilbur pauses, trying to catch Toby's gaze but the younger's eyes are flicking off to blink away the tears. “But – hey look at me, look at me – just once, trust me.”

And through this smear of watercolors and lights; after the wretched halting breaths – he looks back, and it’s Wilbur’s kind eyes and soft smile. His hair all askew, and his face blotchy and pale too.

Tubbo's hand is splayed over Wil’s chest, thumb at his collar bone, pinky tucked by his shoulder. A heartbeat thrumming slow and steady, up and down, right on his palm.

“Just look at me, and we'll breathe together.”

And he makes that change. He keeps looking at Wilbur and breathes in and out to the rhythm under his hand. In and out. In and out.

The fog dissipates slowly, receding back into his mind. He blinks away crusted salt, and the world becomes sharp and clear.

They’re on the floor. He’s tangled somewhere under Wilbur’s shoulder, a bracing arm across his chest that’s stopped heaving out sobs.

Wilbur squeezes his hand, bringing him back to reality. There are tears in his eyes, a single drop sliding down his face.

Almost reflexively, Toby reaches out to brush it off.

“Well, w-we can’t both be crying.”

And Wilbur laughs, watery and sad. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Sorry.”

And they sit in silence for a minute. Toby finally catches his breath; Wilbur just keeps him grounded in a hold.

“Do you remember when Alex dropped you off that one day?”

Toby blinks away the haze and thinks. He remembers the silent exchange, the faint reflection of his confused face in the car window. “Yeah?”

Wilbur pauses, coffee breath huffed into Toby’s hair, “He warned Phil about this; he thought we should have you see someone, talk about everything.”

Toby wrinkles his nose because he can’t imagine Quackity of all people advocating for it.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur says, not nearly as incredulous as Toby, just demure. “I think he’s right.” His voice shakes a bit, only landsliding the more he speaks, “Toby you thought we were giving you back like we didn’t want you – like I’d let that happen.”

“Schlatt did.” Toby says dully, like an echo of that day nearly 8 years ago, “It’s what happens sometimes. Like with Minx, with Schlatt…with my mum.”

There’s a small little squeeze and a drop of something wet on his hair. “That’s not fair.”

“Yeah.” He says almost laughing because Wilbur is almost 21 for god sake’s, this can’t possibly be his first lesson in the irony of life, “Tell me about it.”

“I still think you should see someone.” He says, “You smoke whenever you feel anxious right? You were going to Alex’s to smoke so you’d stop a panic attack.”

The words are numb on his tongue, “Panic attack?”

Another squeeze. “Yeah kiddo, that’s what those are called.”

“Will it help?” He hears himself say, words still thick on his tongue, strange and foreign. Is this what moving on is?

“I don’t know,” Wilbur says into his hair, “But I think you should give yourself a try for once.”

And they watch the sunrise through the living room window and breathe.