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"Tommy's just so useless now, isn't he?"
There's a rumble of laughter, a barrage of soft giggles, and heartfelt chuckles. It's a lulling chorus for some, and yet one that has Tommy withering entirely underneath the vibrating sounds of it.
He feels as if his heart is being ruthlessly plucked from his aching chest, being pulled apart at the seams and torn into tiny, fragmented pieces. It hurts more than he could have expected, hurts more than he could have ever hoped for.
"I know! To think he at least had his slow falling, but now..."
Another burst of chuckles has Tommy curling into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, and the feathers lining his cheekbones ruffle wildly – almost as if they are hurt, too, almost as if they similarly feel the biting sting of the harshly spoken phrases and comments.
The words eat away at him, peel back at his rotting, decaying flesh and dig deep into the most delicate, softened parts of his thin, quivering body.
He wants it to stop. He wants the words to leave his mind and for his hands to stop shaking so manically by his sides. Not even deep crescents dug into gentle palms can put a halt to their movements, and it only makes Tommy's stomach churn even more.
"Is there even a need to keep him around at this point?"
They're only joking. They're only joking. They're only joking. They're only-
Tears rolled down Tommy's fuzzy cheeks, rivulets of the crystal beads cascading over his pale skin and playing a prominent role in showing off his anguished emotions at the time. They don't stop falling, no matter how many times he wipes away at them.
Tommy thinks that he wants to vomit.
Why do they have to be like that? Why do they have to say those things, make those comments, utter those words, knowing full well that he's in the same house as them? He's there too; he's upstairs, he's curled up in his tight, shaking ball as they laugh amongst each other and swap lighthearted jabs.
He's there too. Why don't they stop?
"We have Tubbo now, right? He can do what Tommy can and more, essentially."
Tommy swallowed roughly – sheets of sandpaper lining the expanse of his throat and sending repetitive shockwaves of pain throughout the teen's somewhat skeletal form.
It was Tubbo's 'coming of age' day, in a wide, broad sense. He wasn't yet an adult, still thriving at the young age of seventeen, but they've all sort of reworked the saying to more so fit their hybrid-esque statuses and less so what the rest of the world might use for their own children.
Tubbo Underscore, originally thought to have been a young Shulker-Hybrid in the making, had woken up on that dewy Tuesday morning to find delicately buzzing bee-like wings to have sprouted from his back as he'd slept, amongst other new traits. It was surprising and shocking, something completely unexpected, and something that Tubbo had told everyone about immediately.
And Tommy had been excited for his best friend. He had, truly!
He was a bee! Tubbo was one of his most favourite insects in the whole entire world – who wouldn't be pleased with that new outcome?
They'd celebrated the brilliant news together, all of them meeting up within the welcoming environment of the Pub (or the 'Pube,' as Wilbur had kindly renamed it to), and shared laughs and drinks – cold orange juice for the minors, obviously.
Tommy and Tubbo, Ranboo and Phil, Jack and Niki – everyone and anyone had been invited. It'd been great, it'd been lovely, and Tommy had been so, so supportive.
But then it'd come to testing out Tubbo's new perks.
Then it'd come to reading up on the old scriptures that would inform them of a Bee-Hybrid's traits, and then- and then, oh. Then, Tommy's heart had sunk to his chest, a lump had grown within his constricting throat, and his hands had begun to shake rapidly at his sides.
Because Tubbo was everything that Tommy was and more.
Tubbo had the slow falling, he had the fewer hearts and a – somewhat annoying – preference for things that are typically... less meaty, to put it lightly.
He was like Tommy in so many ways, but unlike him in so many others.
Tubbo had addons and traits that Tommy could only ever dream of having. He had his poison and his regeneration; he had his kamikaze and his saturation. He had flowers that seemed to be consistently pulled towards him, letting out alluring and sickly-sweet scents that stuck to Tubbo's clothes for days and days to come.
Tubbo was soft and careful; he was determined and strong.
He was what Tommy aspired to be like.
And the worst of all? Tubbo had wings.
Tommy had physically been there as Tubbo had run over to Phil, ran over to Tommy's dad, an excited expression splashed across his brightly flushed face as he had gripped onto the older Avian's sleeve and tugged. There had been genuine joy jolting between the two as Tubbo begged for flying lessons, and Tommy's heart had sunk down, down, down.
Jealousy had been the primary emotion raging through Tommy's bleeding soul.
He'd always wanted to have Phil teach him how to fly. Ever since he was a little boy, ever since he was young and joyful - still waiting on his Avian traits to come in, Tommy had wanted his dad to take him up into those soaring blue skies and those fluffy white clouds.
He'd wanted to flap his large, grey wings and join his father as they ruled over the heavens together, wearing matching smiles and linked hands.
But then Tommy's traits had hit, and he had never developed wings.
He'd never developed anything, really.
Sure, he had 'mock-wings,' he had feathers lining his delicate cheekbones and emerging from his exposed ankles in shocking bursts, but his back had unfortunately remained ever-still, remained ever-unbroken. His shoulder blades had never developed that burning rash, and he'd never had the urge to curl up inside of a messy nest.
Perhaps Tubbo growing wings were Tommy's karma for being such a useless Avian, such a useless son.
Tommy had a boost of speed and oddly placed silly, chicken-like feathers, and that was it.
That was it.
All he had was that and the harsh words of his peers and family.
Tommy's knees pulled closer to his chest, his thin arms shaking, and sharp nails were leaving crimson crescents deeply embedded into soft palms. The group was still talking downstairs, chattering amongst themselves, and whether it was about him and how he was useless, he didn't really know.
Tommy had sort of tuned it out, tried to block out their comments and laughter in a weak attempt to save his own sanity, to save his heart and his weakly laced emotions.
Tommy wasn't as uncaring as he liked to exude.
He was sensitive – there was truly no denying that. He wasn't as loudmouthed and as cocky as he typically tried to portray. Tommy was more so quiet and maintained; he was gentle and careful and preferred to trace his calloused fingertips over colourful flowers instead of arguing with anyone who came near him.
Tommy wasn't snarky and cruel; he was just... occasionally defensive. Protective. Wary.
And for good reason, too.
If Tommy continued to portray an unmoved, detached, and rather insolent exterior, then his insecurities wouldn't be used against him. Nobody would be able to pick at him for his lack of wings, for his lack of uniqueness, for his lack of... anything, really.
Nobody would-
Or he'd thought that nobody would.
Tommy had hoped and prayed and assumed that the last people to turn on him in such a brutal way (whether initially intended like that or not) would be his family. But here he was, here he was, curled up in the upstairs area of the 'Pube,' as the people he cared for jested and joked about him and how he was nothing.
Tommy was nothing. He wasn't special. He wasn't interesting. He wasn't unique. He was useless and flightless; he was foul and plain. He wasn't like Ranboo or Tubbo or Jack or Niki or-
"Tommy! You coming down, kid? We're about to help Tubbo with collecting some flowers, and then he might try flying!"
A hitch in breath.
A pause.
The blonde wiped ruthlessly at his red-rimmed eyes, pushing away at the flowing tears, and he did his best to stop the tremors in his narrow arms.
A smile pulled carefully at his chapped lips, ever fake and ever falling.
Tommy could pretend that everything was okay. He was good at that, after all.
"Yeah! I'm coming!"