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They're on the news. Again.
Tommy finds this out because when he goes down to the breakfast buffet in the morning, leaving Tubbo fast asleep with his face in the pillow and the room's other keycard on the side table, his blurry face is front and centre on every hotel TV screen.
He pauses, for a moment, in the hallway. Families shepherd their children around him. Chatter continues noisily in the dining areas. He can hear the clanking of silverware being mass-sorted and plates being dished up by the dozen - all to be expected of such a large and high-status hotel, serving hundreds every morning.
God, he's not even dressed yet, and he's watching himself on the news.
More specifically, he's watching himself get toppled off of his piano stool and into the hardwood stage, the lid of the grand piano smashing unceremoniously shut above him, because somebody's violin bow happened to hit him in the face, because somebody else happened to get bored and decide to attack first chair for no reason. At least, that's what he heard from Phil's brief and harried recap as he was herding everybody back to the hotel after it all went down.
The screen flips back to the newsreader, and she moves on to another story. Tommy keeps walking to breakfast.
Except, of course, there's Wilbur, sitting in a booth with Techno and Fundy, all eyes trained on him as he approaches.
"What."
They don't reply.
"Fucking what?"
"On the news, eh?"
"Fuck off."
He puts his phone down to bag the spot at the table and goes to get a tray for breakfast.
The thing about hotel chain breakfasts is that, no matter how much your conductor and surrogate dad spends on the rooms, the food is inevitably going to be a bit shit. Tommy opts for a full English, minus the sausages - he's always been more one for bacon - and strongly considers also getting a waffle (because they have a machine!) before simply picking up a little bottle of orange juice and heading back over to the family.
"So how does it feel to be famous?" Fundy grins, eyebrows moving at a rate no man should ever reach. Tommy scowls and digs into his toast.
"To be fair, this is not the first time that's happened. I mean, not that specifically, but we do always have something, don't we?"
"Just the first time I've been front and centre," Tommy complains, mouth full of slightly burnt bread.
"Welcome to the world of infamy! You'll get over it. There'll be a couple of memes - I think somebody started a subreddit about us! - they'll move on in a day or two."
"Which means," Fundy follows on, "I don't have all that long to get my jokes in. Hey, Tommy, what's your favourite season?"
Tommy blinks. "Autumn?"
"That's weird, I'd have thought it would be Fall."
"Autumn is Fall, you dickhead," he protests over Fundy's high and head-thrown-back laugh.
"Tommy, Tommy," Fundy continues, when he's recovered, "What did the, uh - what did the piano lid say when the stool asked it on a date?"
"Huh?"
"I'm -" he can barely finish "- I'm down if you're down!"
Techno sits between Fundy and a nominally disapproving Wilbur, who is the main link between Tommy's end of the stage and the woodwinds as a people. He's still yet to look back up from his phone after the first time Tommy arrived - probably checking their indirects so Tommy doesn't have to see the worldwide mockery. Is it worldwide? He's not sure. Might as well be if they're on the bloody news.
"Techno," he complains, "help me out here!"
Techno doesn't look up. "With what?"
"Fundy's being a bitch."
"Fundy, shut up."
"What are you gonna do about it?"
Techno silently reaches up for the knife that lies on top of his empty plate, his other hand still scrolling. Fundy retreats.
Wilbur, on the other hand, reaches across the table to give Tommy what he assumes is supposed to be a reassuring pat on the head. It comes out patronising and Tommy considers, as he has so many times before, devoting himself to a life of crime to get away from his stupid brother.
"You're alright, mate. Talk to Phil about it if you want company - he's the one who always gets into shit for these kinds of things."
"Even though it was Alex who actually did the attacking?"
"Yeah. Happens when you're in charge. People expect you to be responsible for the young adults you conduct."
Phil's not even that old, if Tommy's honest (he thinks, finishing his breakfast while Fundy leaves and Techno keeps scrolling and Wilbur goes on about something or other unrelated to the news). He's only thirty something. Most of them in the SMP Orchestra are prodigies - Tommy and Tubbo, notably the last two kids left in the roster, have been under Phil's tutelage for a good few years now, but he's genuinely been going since before Tommy could pronounce the word arpeggio, and it has to have started young.
Him and Bad (famously nicknamed for his sweetness and goodness) did some sort of merger before Tommy really knew what was going on at a managerial level, and suddenly he wasn't just playing for a company of about ten, he was in a symphony of thirty-odd performers, Tommy himself at the keys to lead the melody for all the others. Merging with Bad's lot had been a little rough (God knew he'd clashed with Sapnap, who was a drummer, and Techno would never let Dream live it down that he'd been the one to maintain his first chair violin status, let alone the spats that George and Wilbur used to have almost daily about dividing up the woodwinds. Wilbur was lucky he was the only clarinetist, honestly, he'd probably die if somebody else tried to take his spot.) but now they're as well-oiled of a machine as they're probably ever gonna be. Barring, of course, the inevitable Incident that shakes up every show - and this time Tommy is front and centre of the news coverage for falling on his arse.
But Phil's not even that old, and he's already responsible for all these still-children, pretty much. Must do his head in.
This is why he pops out of the hotel down the street to the nearest Spar, still technically in his pyjamas (thank goodness the climate's warm this far south of Europe) and brandishing Wilbur's contactless card - and it's why, when he does knock on room 201 a few minutes later, Phil opens it to see Tommy holding a bunch of flowers.
"Sorry I fucked your show," he offers, brandishing the bouquet.
Phil, whose hair is an utter mess and who is clearly less ready for the day than even Tommy is, blinks down at the flowers. "Good morning."
"Good morning. Sorry I - yeah."
"You… you bought flowers?"
"Yeah." He shoves them a little bit further forward, in case Phil's not got the message that they're for him.
"Tommy, we're on tour," Phil responds blearily, and with the weird "tewer" pronunciation his stupid accent gives him. "Where are those supposed to go?"
"I don't know. You can bin them later. It was just to say sorry."
Well, thank you," says Phil, finally grabbing the stems (yellow tulips) and turning to toss them on his double bed for one. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah. We've been at breakfast. I was on the news, did you know that?"
"I did not know that." His eyes suddenly look a little wider.
"Yeah, me and my blurry face getting slapped with a bow."
"They got pictures?"
"They got video."
Phil curses under his breath. "That's so not on. We need to have a chat with the venue, there's a no cameras rule in place for a reason."
"Are you gonna call them? Can I sit in? Please, I love it when you get all shouty."
"No, you can't sit in on my contract negotiations, Tommy. Get Darryl if you're getting anyone, or else go get dressed. You look like a bird's nest."
And, well, Tommy isn't exactly sure where Bad is sleeping, so he elects instead to fuck back off to 207 and hope that Tubbo’s awake.
"You've gone to breakfast without me."
"Well, good morning to you too, Tubbo," Tommy frowns.
"Whatever, I woke up and you'd vanished. Did getting bashed in the head make you forget to wait for me or what?"
"I'm on the news, you know."
"Yeah, I got a notification. You're famous."
"We're already famous, Tubbo, we're -" he overenunciates the words "- child p-rodigies. You're never on the news, though."
"Yeah, cause all the drama happens at your end of the strings."
"Bloody Tory, aren't you."
"How is that remotely relevant?"
"No crime down your ends. Everyone behaves and shit. Who do you even sit with?"
"Eret and HBomb. He's nice, by the way, not that you two ever talk."
"Okay, bass section."
"Not all of us can be lead piano, Thomas."
"What's got you pissed off?"
"You went to breakfast without me!"
"Yeah, cause it was gone half eight, and I was bored."
"You have a phone for a reason."
"I'm not sitting here for another two hours while you wake up just to look at - at Tik Toks, or whatever you expect me to do."
"Well, what's got you pissed off?"
"I'm on the news, I told you!"
Tubbo pauses. "Isn't that a good thing?"
And, well. Tommy's been acting like it is.
Truth is, though, he's pretty fucking scared.
"No. Pictures, everywhere. Me, blurry face, thwacked in the head with Techno's bow, flat on my arse in front of at least a thousand people and however many viewers at home. Retweets and reposts and fucking edits to the tune of Gwen Stefani's Holla Back Girl, is that what you want, Tubbo?"
"...No?"
"Well, tough shit, because that's what I'm in for! Because this fucking company is never in the news for being poggers, for having sixteen year olds on lead melody, for selling out shows across Europe - no, the moment something goes south is the only time anyone ever pays attention to us. I'm not -"
I'm not ready for it.
It's coming, like an inescapable tide. Tommy's time in the spotlight has arrived and he's gonna be infamous for a while. And he's only ever wanted that on his own terms - getting hit in the face is decidedly not the way he wanted to gain notoriety. But it's coming, whether or not he thinks he's ready.
Tubbo sits on the bed. Tommy follows.
"S'alright," he says, by way of counsel, "you're not the first one of us to get shit for whatever went wrong. Look at the time George fell asleep, people still make jokes about that one."
"Fuck George and his fucking oboe. At least he looked good in his time of crisis. And he might as well have slept through the memes, too, we weren't even touring for that one."
"Tommy."
"What."
"It's alright," he repeats, uselessly.
Tommy flops back into the bed (Tubbo's - they have twins. Tommy claimed the one closest to the big screen, not noticing it was furthest from the charging ports, and not knowing what was going to be on that exact screen the very next day if he happened to turn it on.) and sighs, putting as much grit into it as he can manage. "I hate it here. I should have been a Minecraft YouTuber."
"Minecraft's dead."
"I could revive it. Single handed. I bet I could and all."
"You're definitely loud enough. Maybe if you gave up piano as a kid and trained in PvP instead, you'd be the next Captain Sparklez."
"I could have done it, Tubbo. But instead I'm fuckin' here, and my biggest claim to fame is being shot in the head with a violin bow."
"At least you got back up and started playing again after."
"I did. Dream was probably thrilled to take over while they got Techno's bow back."
"Probably. I didn't see."
"Yeah, you and your bloody harp. Sometimes I reckon you're in love with your harp."
"Why?"
"Can't take your eyes off it, innit? I'm always trying to catch your eye on stage, you're never paying attention."
"It's called being a focused part of an orchestra, Tommy. Just because you have the superhuman ability to play a perfect concerto and talk about stabbing people at the same time doesn't mean the rest of us can multitask."
"Yeah, you can't even read."
Tubbo hits him in the thigh.
There's a pause. The ventilator buzzes faintly.
"What am I gonna do?"
Tubbo shifts up on the bed. "I don't know. Stay off social media. Keep playing. Beat up Alex if you need to. Ride it out."
And yeah, sure, those are all the right answers, but it doesn't stop Tommy from feeling all cold and shivery and heavy. He didn't plan to cry, but something tells him his eyes are not up to date with the program.
"You want something?"
Tommy blinks the errant tears away with vigour. "I want to be off the news."
"I wish I could do that for you, Tommy. Really, I do."
"You fucking prick."
"I love you too, Tommy. I'm gonna go get breakfast, if you don't mind."
"Is the buffet even open, still?"
"Tommy, this is a five star hotel, the buffet won't close till gone eleven. I bet Bad's lot are eating right now."
"Yeah, probably." Tommy sinks further into the bed, if that's possible.
"Bye!"
Goodbye, Tubbo.
And then -
What, so you're just gonna leave me alone like that? Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.
And then -
He's not forgotten his keycard, has he? Would be funny if he did and he had to come back. I'd laugh at that. I would.
And then -
Come back, come back, come back, come back, I'm sorry I called you a prick, it's too quiet.
And then -
I hate it here.
And then not much beyond the overshadowing, all-encompassing, despair-inducing I'm on the fucking news.
And then he falls asleep on Tubbo's bed in the middle of the day.
Rehearsals are… tense.
He's been allowed to sit with whoever he wants (Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur) while Phil goes over the events of last night, the ensuing media coverage, and his intent to make sure this doesn't happen again. Tommy feels very small and childish hearing Phil explain that Bad's going to take his spot at the piano until they "recover" from all this, his arms wrapped around one of Wilbur's and his head buried in the soft fabric of Wilbur's jumper sleeve, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the ensemble. He feels like a spectacle - which is stupid, because these people have seen him fuck up a hundred times in a hundred funnier ways before… but this one was on the news.
Everyone's quiet. Even the people who usually joke around and whisper while Phil's talking. It feels like everyone is pitying him, and he hates it, and he hates that he needs to cling to Wilbur like a fucking baby because of it.
"You know what?" Phil interrupts himself from going over their short-term arrangements again, "Tune up, warm up, I don't know, do whatever needs doing for tonight. I'm getting a drink."
He grabs his empty waterbottle off the lid of the piano and vanishes into the hallway.
The performers look around, a little lost, at one another for a few seconds when Phil leaves.
Then, breaking the spell, Niki starts messing with the strings on her viola, and they collapse into muted chatter. Bad, at the piano, starts tapping out some scales, getting back a feel for the instrument that he hasn't needed to play in several months, because Tommy took over as soon as he was able and never looked back. He hears a brass instrument sound from across the room - that's definitely Ponk's trumpet - and he knows, if people were looking at him before, they won't be now.
He pulls his head out of Wilbur's arm.
And there's Alex.
"Hey, man," Quackity begins, and it's all he can say before Tommy retreats right back into the trenches.
"Fuck you," he announces, muffled.
"Come on, Tommy, I'm here to apologise!"
"Don't care. Fuck you."
"Hey, look, it's not my fault someone got a video, but it is my fault you looked stupid in the first place, so can you at least forgive me for that?"
"No. You should apologise to Techno."
"I did, I did, he said it's whatever! Well, he didn't really say anything at all, but I assume that means the best. He doesn't seem to like talking to me all that much. Not that I ever really try to talk to him, because he's, y'know, he's kind of a little bit intimidating, but when I do - nevermind. I said sorry to him and I'm saying sorry to you."
"And I'm saying fuck you, fuck off, you fucking prick."
"Jeez, fine. I'll be over here. You let me know if you wanna talk."
Damn it did he hate these Americans. Every last one of them, except Techno. And Techno was only exempt because he had been on their side before the merger.
"Well," Wilbur murmurs into his head, "that was a bit of a shitshow."
"I hate Americans."
"You know Mexico is the next country down, right?"
"It's still America. It's the whole continent I hate. Even the Canadians."
"Yeah, fuck 'em."
"Except Techno."
"Except Techno."
Wilbur's nice like that, letting Tommy hide in his sleeve and obstruct his ability to play the clarinet entirely for the sake of Tommy's comfort. He always threatens to cry when Tommy says they're like brothers - but as Phil's second star performer after Techno, they've known each other for a long time, and Tommy basically grew up on Wilbur's lap, so they might as well be blood related by this point. His presence comforts Tommy in a way nobody else can really manage, even Tubbo.
Tubbo is somewhere on the other side of the room, probably hanging out with Eret and HBomb. Bastards, the lot of them. Abandoning him in his time of crisis.
"Right," Phil summons everyone's attention, entering the room, "off your phones, off your arses, let's get back to business."
Wilbur seems to hesitate before gently pulling his arm out of Tommy's hold, which was appreciated. "What do you want, Toms?"
"What?"
"You wanna stick with me? You wanna go outside? Whatever you're doing..."
"I want to go back to bed," he mutters. It isn't true. He wants to fast-travel to two weeks from now when everyone's forgotten about this mess and is focusing on the next stupid thing that's happened at an SMP performance. He wants to get in a coma and wake up when it's all over and he can just focus on playing the piano and not worry about fucking hashtag cringe and video edits with the JoJo "to be continued" arrow. He wants to just - just drop out of existence, for a bit, just return to the void and avoid all the mockery.
"You can go back to the hotel if you know the way, Tommy."
"No."
"Well, you're not getting back home any time soon, so whatever you're doing, work it out."
Tommy nods and scrambles off the rehearsal stage, into the wings, before Wilbur can make things worse.
He doesn't want to go to the hotel. He doesn't want to go back home, because his family won't be there. He wants everyone to stop what they're doing and make him feel better - but that's selfish. They're all professionals, Tommy included, and a little fuckup like last night isn't stopping the rest of them from getting on with their jobs, so why is it so hard for Tommy?
Phil's calm, clear voice carries through the auditorium and leads everybody to raise their instruments. They start playing. A well-oiled machine, without Tommy.
Tommy has always loved the moment they start playing - it feels, for a moment, like the whole world stills, hanging in the balance by Phil's fingertips, minds focused on that first count before they all flow into the music as one. He loves it and he loves being the one to break that silence with his keystrokes, leading the melody ahead of the ensemble, driving the song and letting everybody else keep up alongside him. Phil sets the pace, but Tommy sets the mood, and he adores the feeling of knowing he was in charge.
Bad is good at the piano, sure, but he isn't Tommy, and it makes him hate hearing everybody play.
And, no, he doesn't actually cry this time, he's not stupid, he's not about to burst into tears behind thirty working people who know him as the conductor's golden child who never gets too upset about anything, and if he does it manifests as anger. He doesn't cry - he just stands in the wings and listens to the music and hates every second and maybe leaves some fingernail-shaped dents in the palms of his hands.
And when Wilbur comes backstage the moment he's able, ignoring Phil's notes, quietly checking that Tommy is still okay and whether he needs anything yet, Tommy still doesn't cry. He wants to leave with Wilbur and go wherever the hell they won't be bothered - but Wilbur has to work. So he doesn't cry, he promises he's alright, and he lets Wilbur get back to his job.
He hates it here.
He keeps reaching for his phone and then remembering that he left it in the room so he wouldn't be able to doomscroll through a timeline of his failures immortalised. He keeps grabbing at his clothes and his hair, looking for something to hold, tapping out the notes on his hipbone because he's not at the keys, and don't they know he could do it so much better than Bad? He keeps clenching his fists around his plans, grasping for what he wants, coming up empty.
He's restless. He needs to work this off.
He doesn't look back to see who watches him stride off, semi-directionless, in search of the stage door.
Eventually, he finds the little corridor that leads to the door at the back of the venue, and pushes on the escape lever to open it, hoping it won't trigger a fire alarm. Thankfully the building does not announce his disappearance. It smells like smoke - like tobacco, like years of burning cigarettes from the tired actors and instrumentalists that have frequented this theatre, and the employees, too, most likely. If it wasn't too cold to go out in his pyjamas this morning it's certainly not too cold now he's fully clothed and actually got some socks on, but the same chill of unrelated fear runs down him nonetheless. It smells like smoke and his nose wrinkles and it almost makes him drop the door shut behind him - but he doesn't, because he's not sure if there's a way back in.
He doesn't cry, either, even now. He wants to - should, probably, should let out all this nervous energy - but the air out here dries his eyes and he'd feel too much like he was taking up the space with heavy breaths and hiccups if he made more noise than he already is. Even the taps of his hands on the rest of his body, on the door and the weathered brick wall, the click of fingernails on cement, feels a little too loud in this weird back alley where nobody's come to check on him, come to pay him the attention he feels he needs right now.
Except that is selfish, isn't it, expecting people to drop their jobs, drop their livelihood to make some kid happy, haven't they done enough, hasn't Phil done enough by giving the venue a good talking-to and finding a replacement so Tommy can sit out and not blaming him for his fuckup like he probably should, hasn't Wilbur been looking after him all day and he's refused it, hasn't Quackity tried and failed to say sorry, haven't they all -
He's so rude. He hopes they're getting on better without him. Americans and normal people.
It really is quiet. Even if he holds his breath, the walls are too thick and insulated to tell him how rehearsals are going back in there. It's quiet and warm and there's air conditioning that's bleeding out from the crack in the door that he holds steady in his other hand, air conditioning fucking up his body temperature regulation, air conditioning costing the venue just a few more pennies every moment, which they deserve, for not catching the bloody videographer.
He bites the inside of his lip, wondering if they've even noticed he left yet.
They might as well not - somebody filled his role so quickly, so seamlessly, that he might as well stay out here until night, until morning, until the next plane ticket, after, if he doesn't care about wasting Phil's money and his time. He might as well stay out here forever and not even rot, just dry up, because the air's so parched from smoke and hot sun that nothing could survive to eat him, unless it was like a rat or something, god, imagine that, eaten by the rats, wouldn't that just be the perfect end to this little saga, bullied into running away and dying of thirst and getting -
"There you are, jeez."
He feels the door pull away from his hand suddenly, and there's Sapnap, of all people.
There is no Wilbur's sleeve to hide in this time. All he does is stare.
"C'mon, man, what are you doing out here?"
Tommy doesn't answer. Fantasising about my gory death feels a little ridiculous now he's got someone to stop him spiralling.
"You're chill with me being here, right? Cause I can go…"
No answer. Tommy hopes he'll take it as affirmation, because that's what his silence is supposed to be at this particular moment.
"Your brother said he figured you'd want some space, but I was pretty sure he didn't see where you went. But I did."
And that's why he's here. Now. Bridging the gap. Forging past the rivalry.
"Besides, it's good to have some company, right? I mean, when it happened to me -"
"It happened to you?"
They both blink at each other, for a moment. Tommy's voice is dry.
"You're kidding. You're telling me you don't remember that?"
He shakes his head, silently inviting elaboration. Sapnap steps down out of the doorway and sits against it, holding it open with his body weight. Something about the gesture compels Tommy to do the same - and then they're both sitting on the slightly dusty ground, leaning into a wall and a door, staring each other down.
"It was way back when, like, right after the whole merger thing. We were in Finland - we were kinda getting famous already, just for being such a, like, a weird combination. But it was all cool for like a couple of weeks, and then - and then Jack… fucked it up. He broke my, my drum. Live on stage. And I was pissed, right, so I kinda started…" Sapnap breaks into nervous laughter, "beating the shit out him. And then I was on the news."
If Tommy thinks back, he does remember that. He usually considers the rivalry between the Americans and the rest of them to have sprung fully-formed from the ether, just something they always did, although he knows there was a before-time when things were at least civil. But, yes, he remembers Jack's vitriol, remembers a black eye and the way that reserved greetings turned into dirty looks overnight, remembers the first days of the war that never ends. It's become background noise to a group of young professionals, but it interferes with every day of their lives one way or another.
And it started with somebody on the news.
"And it - it's fucking crazy, right?" Tommy nods along with Sapnap's gesturing. "It's super crazy, you don't know if you're gonna get recognised, you don't know if people are gonna forget, or if all this… falls through, and you need a job interview, if the guy in the chair's gonna say "Hey, man, I wanted to ask about the time you beat the shit out of your coworker and it went viral," and then you're gonna be homeless forever. It's crazy to see that shit happen, and people you don't even know are talking about you, and you can't get the whole world to shut up all at the same time. And they say they get it, cause we're always in the news for shit like that, but you'll never get it until it's actually you in the photos, till it's you in the hot seat."
Sapnap pauses, looking for his next train of thought. Tommy puts his head to the side and his hand behind his neck, tapping on his spinal cord.
"Yeah, all of that's true. It's weird and it's crazy and it's hard. But you're acting like you're all alone, like nobody's ever been where you are, at the center of attention. Tommy, you're not alone. All you had to do was ask."
Tommy clears his throat. "How long did it take?"
"What, for people to move on? A week, maybe two weeks. Crazier shit happens in Florida all the time. Somebody's gonna look stupider, and they're gonna latch on to that, and you're gonna be fine. But you gotta stop thinking you're the only one this has happened to, and you gotta talk to people about it, because this ain't the kind of thing that you can ride out without company. We're all here to help, man. Your side, my side, it's all the SMP. Just because you're Phil's kid doesn't mean we think you're any different."
Tommy nods. He doesn't try to speak - the sense has suddenly hit him that if he does, he might actually get to that crying session he was thinking about earlier, and… come on. Not in front of the American.
The American that's been nice to him, that's come to check on him, when none of the others did.
"Are you gonna come back in with me?"
He nods again, and stands.
Sapnap leads the way back to their family.
The internet forgets, as it always does.
Phil ends up doing an interview, after their tour - they invite him on This Morning to chat about the history of the orchestra, how two very different crowds came together to form one iconic company, and how they got their fame from something always seeming to go wrong, but that they know the world is starting to appreciate their talent. Tommy watches at Wilbur and Tubbo's side, because Tubbo insisted that if Tommy got to have a sleepover while his dad was in London then Tubbo ought to be allowed to sleep over too, and his parents were apparently in agreement. Phil calls Tommy as soon as he's off the screen and they congratulate him as a trio for his magnificent performance, the first time he's spoken live on air. It trends.
They become more familiar with the Americans, making the effort to greet Dream and Punz and Ranboo (one of the newer recruits, super shy, but somehow taller than Wilbur) whenever they pass. Unlikely friendships form - Ranboo is adopted by Tubbo at some point or another, Sam and Ponk develop a love that Tommy's not quite sure he wants to know the details of, Dream and George… Well, Dream and George were already like that.
They keep touring and they keep getting bigger and they fall in line as a team even better than they did before.
He's not sure whose idea the vlog channel was. He is sure that it's a brilliant one.
Win win situation, he reckons - SMPVlogs gets a modest following, their performances get more attention, he's finally able to bring to light some of the cursed things that happen when they're not on stage, and his face is much better known for laughing hysterically at whatever his bandmates are doing than getting smacked in the head with the bow of Techno's violin.
So when they're on the news again - and they are, again and again and again - Tommy doesn't feel scared or negatively perceived.
He just feels like he's not alone.