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TommyInnit doesn’t get sick.
Not to a severity that’ll knock him out anyway. He’s not weak, and he can handle himself better than anyone else has ever managed to, in his humble opinion. He’s got an immune system of steel, ole’ Tommy does.
He’s gotten good, over the years, at swallowing up his sickness and yelling it away. He’s a master of ignoring. Pounding headaches and queasy stomachs don’t exist if he pretends they don't, thank you very much. He’s got a very strong personal policy of “keep on keeping on”. When your lungs are tired and your eyes are heavy, stand up. Doesn’t matter if your bones feel like lead or your heart feels like it might pop in your chest, you have school or you have chores or you have something, so get your ass out of bed and go.
He’s a big man, he’s not gonna let some fucking disease take him out. Never mind the fact that he was never quite sure which foster families would let him sleep it off instead of shoving him up and out anyway. Or which would buy medicine. Or which would be there to do anything at all. Eventually, he decided not to bother testing the waters and get up before he found out.
So maybe it’s more than just not getting sick, maybe it’s deeper-rooted, in screams of old parents and red hand marks on cheeks and scars on his skin and nursing himself back to health. But Tommy’s not a fuckin therapist, okay? He’s a fourteen-year-old, it’s not his job to psychoanalyze himself.
So what if he wakes up nauseous? He’s fine. Who cares if he feels like someone’s drilling nails into his temples? TommyInnit doesn’t get sick.
It starts in the morning.
He wakes with a blaring headache, the kind that’s bright in his skull, all electric in its pain. There’s a wet sort of sickness in his throat, thick with mucus and burning with bile. He shuts his eyes again, hoping if he neglects to look at the sun peaking over the horizon, it’ll sink again and leave him to his shaky peace.
But the world isn’t lenient to kids who lie to themselves in beds that still barely feel like their own. The world has no care for fakes, for bluster or repression or sickness. And the sun rises even when you want to sleep. So it does, and with it comes a day that Tommy is very uninterested in participating in.
It’s gonna be shit. He can tell. The twisted-up nausea says that much at least.
He’s never been sick while staying with Phil. He has no clue how the man will react, and not knowing is something Tommy is not fond of. (He’s scared of the dark and he’s scared of what’s in it. The mystery makes him twitch. He slept with a nightlight until he was twelve, one his mom bought for him when he was really young, shaped like a little moth. It’s tucked in his shitty old backpack now, the one that’s stuffed with his belongings and ripping apart at its seams. He liked how it chased away the dark, circle of light a tiny beacon, a tiny haven in even the worst of places.)
On top of all the shit his body decided to deal him, his brain’s gone and fucked him over too. His hands shake and anxiety tears through him. He feels queasy with disease and with nerves. It’s like being fired at from all sides and it’s very unfair if he says so himself (And he does.)
He steels himself, staring tiredly at the cracks in his blinds, dusty light filtering through. He’s been through worse, much fucking worse. And it’s fine, TommyInnit doesn’t get sick. (If he thinks it, maybe it’ll be true. Mind over matter and all that.) TommyInnit doesn’t get sick.
He hears Wilbur’s voice call down the hallway, echoey and harsh, grating at Tommy’s ears in a foreign way. (Wilbur is soft, all gentle smiles and somber songs on scratchy guitars. He’s yellow and blue and careful. Round glasses, round edges. He’s never grated before. Tommy hates the feeling that pricks at his neck.) He presses his hands over his ears and blinks hard. His skin aches and crawls in that fevery way, of chills and uncomfortable warmth, too cold and too hot and too sensitive. The cool sheets hurt where the brush against him and it makes him feel terribly helpless. He groans, fear gnawing at his insides a little, and curls deeper into his blankets, his chest rattling.
“Tommy?” Wilbur calls again, marching up the stairs and down the hall. (It’s impossibly loud, the sound of his feet against the floor. And his voice makes Tommy want to go deaf, his headache making his vision blur. He pokes his head in Tommy’s door and Tommy can picture him in his mind, standing there with his ruffled hair and baggy sweater. “Get up,” he says, playfully aggressive.
Tommy stays under his blanket and ignores the panic racing in his veins. (It’s sort of ingrained into him, that fear. That Wilbur will get angry, somehow. That Wilbur won’t care. The past hasn’t been kind to him, and he’s unprepared for a present where that isn’t still true. He figures if he acts like it’s fine, maybe he won’t have to face his fears. After all, TommyInnit doesn’t get sick. )
“Comin’” he mumbles, and his throat cracks around the sound.
There’s a moment. He can't see it from his hiding place, but he can feel Wilbur pause, he can feel his deliberation like static in the air.
“You good, Toms?” He asks, just a bit of concern creeping in. Tommy's face goes red at the nickname. (He never had one of those before. He was Tommy and just that. ‘Toms’ makes him feel special somehow, stupidly. It makes him feel comfortable in a way he’s not quite sure how to remedy.)
“Fine.” He says as definitively as he can manage, and makes a point to sit up and smile, even when it makes his head spin and makes spots dance before his eyes.
Wilbur hesitates, looks him over. Tommy tries not to tense. “Okay,” he says, slowly. He shuts the door and Tommy falls back onto his bed, stares at the ceiling for a moment.
Fuck, he thinks, and nothing else.
He allows himself a few more minutes of wallowing before resigning to his fate and misfortune. He forces himself to get moving, pulls a shirt over his head, and bites his tongue to keep from crying out at the rough feeling of the fabric.
He walks slowly down the stairs, careful not to let his dizziness kill his ruse before it starts. He passes Techno’s room as quietly as he can. The guy’s observant, and Tommy doesn’t want to be studied right now, he doesn’t want someone to antagonize the details. He’s never been the best actor and bags under your eyes aren’t exactly something you can smile away.
“Morning, mate!” Says Phil as he plops down at the kitchen table. He feels heavy, like he’s weighed down somehow, like his bones are stone. Tommy rubs his eyes and mutters something nonsensical, hoping he can pass it off as grogginess from sleep.
“Yeah, okay,” Phil laughs and sips his coffee. “Techno’s gonna drive you today, is that okay?”
No , he thinks, panicking again, because Techno’s gonna know because Techno always knows and he’ll tell you because he tells you everything and I don’t want you to know because I don’t want to know what you think because nothing scares me more than losing this and if me getting sick is the thing that fucks it up I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
Tommy doesn’t say any of that though. He just nods, gnawing halfheartedly on a granola bar and pretending the sweetness isn’t making his stomach sick.
“You okay?” Phil asks, and curse this man for being so genuine. How is Tommy supposed to lie to this guy? He’s only been living here a few months but already Phil’s managed to weasel his little old man body into Tommy’s bleeding heart.
He eventually comes to the conclusion that silence is not technically lying, and blinks at Phil over his granola bar in the hazy morning light. He nods once and Phil squints at him before shrugging and going back to his coffee.
There’s a shitty feeling at the dismissal, for some stupid fucking reason. Because all Tommy can do is contradict himself. He tries not to feel dejected. Because this is what he wants, right? He doesn’t want Phil to worry about him, doesn’t want him to know that he feels like dogshit. It doesn’t hurt, he insists to himself, even as his stomach sinks a little, it doesn’t hurt at all. He makes a point to not think of families that neglected him, who didn’t even bother to look at him as he hacked up his own lungs. Phil isn’t like them. This isn’t like that. But he’s always gonna be afraid, he thinks. And it pisses him off that it’s left him scarred like this. That those assholes are ruining him even with years of distance between them. That they, of all people, are the ones who fucked him up. Nothing grand, nothing special. Just regular old dickheads who should by no means be allowed to foster kids.
Wilbur pats his head as he speeds in the room, and it takes everything in Tommy not to lean into the warmth of the touch. His eyes briefly flutter shut and he peels them open. Phil stares on all starry-eyed at the sight, and Tommy blushes.
“Tommy’s embarrassed,” Technoblade declares as he joins the rest of them in the kitchen. There’s a little lilt in his tone, the one he gets when he’s happy. He doesn’t smile with his teeth so much as it lives in his voice.
He sits on the counter beside Phil as Wilbur leans on the back of Tommy’s chair.
“You’re driving to school today. I’ve gotta be at work early.” Says Phil, casually. Tommy likes the feeling in the room, it eases the awful ache he feels in his whole body. It’s homey in a way he’s afraid to think about too hard. Warm but not suffocating, comfortable and genuine.
“Kay.” Says Techno.
“I can drive.” Wilbur pouts, but there’s a resounding and collective “no.” from the room and he shuts up.
“Sorry Wil,” he tries to breathe as steady as he can, but it feels like there’s an anvil sitting on his chest, steel weighing down his ribs. “I don’t have a death wish.”
Phil snorts, sips his coffee again. (Tommy notes now that he bought this particular mug for Phil, for Christmas. It says ‘I don’t age, I level up’ in obnoxious font. Wilbur thought it was funny at the store, laughed so hard he cried, so Tommy was quick to buy it. He feels a little pride upon seeing it in Phil’s hands.)
“Oh, come on.” Wilbur rests his chin on Tommy’s head and the contact feels ridiculously nice. “I’m not that bad.”
Techno looks at him. “You are.”
Wilbur looks to Phil, “Techno is bullying me,” he whines, drags out the 'e.' Phil laughs at him and he frowns. “This fuckin family,” Wil grumbles. “At least Tommy cares about me.”
Tommy pats his arm sympathetically. It’s currently taking all of his self-control to not fall asleep at the table. He sniffles as discreetly as he can.
They amble around the kitchen a while longer, make quiet conversation. Tommy just fights to stay awake, stay active enough to look natural. He’s fine. He can be fine. If he ignores the pain in his throat and the throbbing in his head and the ringing in his ears and the fog in his brain, he’s fine.
Techno looks at the clock on the wall next to the fridge. “We should go.” He says, and Tommy couldn’t agree less, but even so, he regretfully pulls away from Wilbur.
“Bye, guys.” Phil waves lightly as Techno ushers them out the door like one of those fucking guys who point airplanes the right way. “Love you.”
Techno and Wil echo it back. No one mentions that Tommy doesn’t, they’re kind like that. And quick to forgive Tommy and all his reluctance. He rubs a hand over his face.
It’s gonna be a long day.
The car ride is peaceful enough at the beginning, and he’s foolish enough to believe it’ll last.
Wilbur sits shotgun next to Techno. Tommy sits in the back next to Wil’s guitar, which gets its own seat for reasons beyond him. He leans his face against his arm as he rests against the window.
Wilbur fiddles with the radio, picking his songs “with intention,” whatever the fuck that means, and the music that fills the car is strummy, makes him think of flowers and cakes and Wilbur. It’s pink, he thinks, for some reason, like Techno’s hair. He likes the sound of it, it’s like calm. Techno taps the steering wheel to the beat and Wilbur hums along. It stirs up that same feeling from the kitchen. Like clicking into place, a puzzle piece that’s found its puzzle, or something equally cheesy.
“You’re such a baby,” Techno says to Wil.
Wilbur huffs and crosses his arms. “I’m not! I just have very specific tastes and they need to be met.”
“So more like a criminal with hostages, then? Play these songs in the car or else!” He wags his finger and Tommy smiles, his shoulders heavy.
“You’re guitar’s so fucking clunky, Wil,” he says, apropos of nothing. Because that’s the type of shit not sick Tommy would say, not that he is sick. Plus, feeling a little shitty is not an excuse to stop unnecessary complaints. He can be a little bastard even if he’s all under the weather.
“Fuck you, she’s beautiful.”
“She?” He and Techno say together, and Tommy’s heart stutters (he's unused to the connection still, to the comfort of it. Even after so long, it still feels strange to him.) He chews his lip and prays for the car ride to be over, his ears all hot from the ache that’s taken residence in his head.
“You guys are so disrespectful,” Wilbur starts and dissolves into a lengthy rant that Tommy has neither the energy nor the patience for. He tunes it out, let’s Techno take over.
When they pull up Wilbur dives out of the car, ducks in the back to snatch up his guitar. “Love you!” He calls, and Tommy smiles a little. He goes to open his door and get out but the lock clicks shut.
“Um, Techno?” He laughs nervously. “I kinda have to go to school, big man. Mind letting me out?”
Technoblade turns to face him. Tommy squirms under his gaze and it doesn’t ease up.
“What’s wrong with you?” He says bluntly.
“Me?” His voice pitches up and he clears his throat. “I’m all good man, dunno what you’re on about.”
Techno purses lips, “fine. Be like that.” Then he’s out of the car and Tommy’s left to silence and the weight of his own bullshit.
“You’re sick.” Tubbo says when he walks into class, all matter-of-factly. Tommy sits.
“‘M not fuckin sick.” Tommy lays his head down on his desk. Tubbo shoots him a look. He sniffles.
“False.” He says, simply, a worried smile playing on his lips. Tommy’s facade is no match for Tubbo and his earnest, little eyes. He looks all mopey and worried and it makes Tommy’s stomach turn with guilt. So fine. Tommy can pretend with everyone else, but at this point, Tubbo’s earned the right to the real shit.
“S’ not.” He lies anyway.
“It is,” he reaches over and presses the back of his hand against Tommy’s forehead. He pulls away from the cold feeling of it. He’s clammy, he feels like a furnace and a tundra all in one. “Holy shit, Tommy, you’re burning up. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Tommy squeezes his hands to fists. He feels like his lungs are collapsing in his chest, all tight and heavy, and on top of that, he feels sheepish at Tubbo's question, at his sudden urge to be honest.
“Didn’t wanna tell Phil I was sick.” He mutters against his arms.
Tubbo frowns sympathetically. Tommy likes the way it isn’t pitying.
“How come?” He tilts his head, twirls his pen.
“Dunno,” he breathes, shuts his eyes to block out the light. “I’ve never been sick while living with him.” He says slowly.
“Okay?” Tubbo prompts him to continue, but he doesn’t push too hard. Tommy doesn’t feel like it’s forced. He makes the words easy almost. It’s like he reaches into Tommy’s twisted-up fucking soul and unties the knots, makes it decipherable, lighter.
“I guess I’m just worried.” He mutters, just above a whisper. Like he’s scared if he says it too loud it’ll become true. “That this will fuck it up somehow. I’ve never stayed with someone so long, you know?” He sighs. “I just don’t want them to realize how much of a hassle I am.”
There’s a pause, brief and silent. The silence is comfortable, at least. It isn’t suffocating, Tommy doesn’t feel the need to fill it up.
Tubbo looks like he’s speedrunning the five stages of grief. He swallows.
“Tommy,” Tubbo says eventually. “You’re an idiot.”
Tommy smiles bitterly, tiredly. “I know.”
“Seriously.” Tubbo gently flicks his forehead. “Phil is a good person. He adores you.” He says it like it’s easy, and it eases the panic a little, to hear confidence in the words. “And even if he didn’t? Wil does, and so does Techno, in that weird way Techno gets attached to stuff. You’re freaking out for nothing.”
“And it’s okay that you are.” He rushes to say as Tommy bristles, ever reassuring. “But you’re wrong. They’re not like everyone else. You know that, right?”
And he does, logically. Because no one’s ever kept him this long. Because no one’s ever been this kind to him. They treat him like a person, and it’s validating in a way that makes his head spin. He spent his entire life all caged and chained and carted around. House to house to running away. And now he’s here, and they care, they love him even when he can’t say it back, it’s not conditional, it’s just honest.
But he’s afraid, despite himself. He’s terrified of the moment they change their minds, because that’s all he’s ever known, really. He’s afraid it’s all he’ll ever know.
“I do.” He chews his lip, wraps his arms around himself to brush away the chill.
Tubbo nods, satisfied. “You should go home.” He tries.
“Nope.” Tommy pops the ‘p.’
Tubbo sighs. “Yeah, I figured.”
Wilbur corners him around fifth period. He’s trudging his way down the hall, trying not to let his feet drag and sniffling a bunch. Wilbur’s eyes light up when he sees Tommy, and he tries to perk up even as his stomach swirls. He pinches himself.
“Toms!” He smiles and bounds right over. He thanks the universe that Tubbo’s class is on the opposite side of the school. He knows his friend would rat him out in an instant, brow all pinched in worry. Well-intentioned, of course, but perfectly willing to derail Tommy’s whole grand plan.
“Hey, Wil.” His throat stings.
“Hey,” he throws an arm around Tommy’s shoulder and the warmth is comfortable in a way Tommy didn’t quite expect. He doesn’t let himself lean into it, even though his body is screaming at him to relax.
“You look like shit.” He chirps, teasing. Tommy purposefully doesn’t tense.
“Thanks,” he says, clipped, “I’m tired.” He doesn’t wanna push his luck.
Wilbur stalls a second before seeming to accept the answer. He nods. “Go to bed earlier, gremlin.”
“The grind doesn’t stop when the sun goes down, Wilbur.”
Wil laughs and it makes Tommy’s chest all fluttery. He douses the feeling as it comes.
“I’m staying after school for a theatre thing, Techno’s gonna stay with me.” He says, peering at Tommy in the corner of his eye. “And Dad’s at work, so he can’t pick you up.”
Tommy internally winces at the idea of taking the bus home but shrugs nonetheless. “I can ride the bus.”
“You sure?”
Tommy nods. “Definitely.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, gives Tommy a once-over. Tommy pays no mind to the concern in his gaze. “Well, I have to go. I’ll see you later.”
Tommy offers a little salute, keeps his posture straight until he round the corner. Then he slumps back down and adjusts the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. He rubs his temple fruitlessly and continues his march to class.
Tommy thinks they can tell somethings up when he walks through the door and collapses.
The bus wasn’t so bad, but it was long. He was curled in a seat near the back, managed to glare at anyone who tried to sit by him hard enough to ward away everyone but Ranboo, who make awkward conversation with him for the duration of the ride.
( “Tubbo says you're sick.” He said, scratching the back of his neck.
Tommy scowls. “Traitor.”
Ranboo smiles a bit at that before his face falls back into worry. “Are you gonna be okay?”
Tommy crosses his arms.
“I’ll be fine. Always am.” )
In his rush to get inside though, his skin pricked and his limbs became lighter, vision going spotty.
It’s not his fault. It’s just, his body is tight from holding himself all day, he feels strung up, and when he goes in his house the strings snap and he falls to the ground. His head feels like it’s full of cotton: slow like molasses and scattered with that oh so familiar panic, just under his skin, red and frantic and desperate. He feels like he can’t think, like the sick that’s choking him is preventing him from sorting out his own thoughts.
(So maybe it is his fault a bit, but can you blame him for ducking behind old behaviors? He’s practiced in smothering things he doesn’t want to show until they’re clouded over, hidden enough for him to be safe. And it’s a runny nose and a headache, he’ll be fine. If it was any real danger he would’ve mentioned it.
Probably.)
So the jig is up if he’s being honest with himself. And what better place to be honest than laying on your foyer floor and staring up at the ceiling?
“‘M fine,” he mumbles in the echo of his crash against the ground. Phil is running to his side in an instant and Tommy wonders, dumbly, where he came from.
“What the hell?” He kneels beside him. Tommy points at him.
“You’re supposed to be at work.”
“They let me leave early." Phil blinks. "Christ, Tommy. Are you okay?”
He pushes himself up with shaky arms. “I’m fine,” he insists, but he knows Phil won’t believe it, he’s not an idiot. And there’s a slur to Tommy’s words that makes Phil give him this look that says bullshit.
Phil raises an eyebrow, his hands on Tommy’s arms, keeping him steady. “Mhm,” he hums, all skeptically. His eyebrows keep doing a dance between disbelieving and concerned, and this is exactly what Tommy was trying to avoid. It’s basically the nightmare scenario. He shrinks.
“Mhm,” he hums back at him, attempting to make his fuzzy eyes focus on his face. He’s gone all blurry. The room gives a dangerous spin around Tommy’s head and he tilts forward. Phil easily catches him, presses a hand to his forehead. He leans into the touch in a way that would be a little more embarrassing were he in his own body enough to notice. But he isn’t, the fog is filling him, he can’t concentrate on anything, it’s all cloudy at the edges and dark on the sides and bright in the middle. It’s nauseating to look at, like a pool of colors and sounds and smells and Phil’s hazy hand against Tommy’s hazy forehead. His consciousness is far above him, probably groaning at his foolish body’s need to lean into every touch like it’s all going to be okay when this is done.
“Toms, you’re burning up.” It’s all troubled, his voice. Wiggly. Tommy laughs.
“Hands...” Tommy says intelligently, “cold.”
Philza huffs in exasperation and Tommy stiffens, relaxes when Phil runs his hand through his hair to ease the stress. “Sorry, mate. How long have you been sick?” He frowns.
And Tommy doesn’t really see a point in lying, his whole brain is so fucked he probably couldn’t even manage it. “Morning,” he croaks. “Woke up bad.”
Phil’s frown deepens. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t wanna worry you.” He leans against the hand in his hair, then, “People aren’t nice.”
Phil stops in his movements just briefly before tugging Tommy to his feet.
“Let’s get you upstairs, okay kiddo?”
“M’kay,” he mumbles, as blood rushes past his ears. The world flickers in front of him before going dark. He hears Phil cry out and then he hears nothing at all.
The first time Tommy wakes he’s in his bed and he’s not quite sure how he got there. He still feels like shit, all squirmy and sick-like. He blinks slowly, adjusting his eyes to the light.
“‘All good,’ huh?”
Tommy freezes, and his eyes snap to the foot of his bed, where Techno is perched.
Tommy pulls his blanket up to his chin. “Maybe I was fine this morning.” He feels like being difficult, lifts his chin. “You don’t know.”
Techno shakes his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, then, louder, “actually, I do. Phil told me you said you woke up like this.”
Tommy pulls the blanket over his face. From under it, he says, “TommyInnit doesn’t get sick.”
“Well that’s just factually incorrect,” says Techno.
“Oh, lay off him,” the door creaks as Phil walks in the room. “You’re literally just as difficult. Kettle meet pot and all that jazz.” He walks to Tommy’s side, gently tugs at the blanket. “Can you move this, bud?”
Tommy does, and Phil puts a cold rag on his forehead. He’s so hot, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam came off it, if it hissed and sizzled against his skin. “You’ve got a fever,” he says softly. “And you’re shaking like a leaf. Why didn’t you tell anyone you weren’t feeling good?”
There’s a part of Tommy that hates this. That hates being coddled, hates the worry in Phil’s tone, in his eyes. He hates the way Techno is watching him like he’s gonna disappear, protective in his nerves. He hates the soft feeling of the blanket over him, the fan spinning on the ceiling, the room that’s littered with things that belong to him. He hates that he doesn’t hate this.
Because the thing about Tommy is that he’s grown so desperate for things, over the years. Touch and comfort and care and permanence. And it’s easier to isolate them and shove them off, convince yourself the only reason you’re not getting them is that you're choosing not to. It gives you control, even when it feels like garbage and you do too. It’s something he’s used to, at the end of the day.
But the not-so-hidden truth is, Tommy does want it. And he has since he was a kid. Someone to hold his hand when he cries and to take his temperature when he’s sick, someone to give a fuck. And somehow these people do, they choose to, and they’re offering it to him with open hands.
Something in him crumbles, his lip quivers and he lets it, and he lets the tears come and he lets Phil say “ oh, Tommy,” and pull him into a hug and he lets himself feel the ache of disease because he’s safe, and he knows he is.
“I’m sorry.” Crying makes his headache worse but he can’t make himself stop. “I didn’t know what you’d-people are shit. I know you’re different, I hope you are, but I’m all fucked up, Phil. I can’t do this right.”
Techno sits beside him, watches with something indiscernible on his face, something sad and a little angry.
“Don’t apologize, Tommy. It’s alright. It’s gonna be okay.” Phil’s words are strained like he’s crying too, and Tommy feels guilty on top of all of this until Techno speaks.
“Don’t do that, Tommy. He’s not crying because of you, he’s crying for you. It’s not your fault.” It’s just a whisper, but Tommy knows suddenly that Techno gets this, that he and Wil are probably the only ones who do.
“Okay.” He says and hopes it’s enough. “Okay.”
The next time Tommy wakes, Wilbur is staring at him. He jumps.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” He breathes, then breaks out into a coughing fit.
Wilbur’s eyes go all big, “shit, I- shit.” He fumbles for the glass of water on the nightstand, shakily passes it into Tommy’s hands. He drinks, heaving as the coughs subside, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, as Tommy drinks water and Wil fiddles with his fingers.
“Tech told me what happened.” Says Wilbur when he breaks it finally.
Tommy shuts his eyes. “Did he?”
Wilbur nods, messes with his hair. “We’re not like them, you know.”
He doesn’t need to elaborate.
“I know.”
“Okay.” He nods, satisfied. Tommy likes that he’s not demanding. Wilbur lays down beside him in bed, and Tommy curls into the warmth.
“You’re adorable, bubs,” he chuckles.
“Fuck you, Wilby.” He mumbles halfheartedly, his face going ruddy, and falls into his dreams again.
The third time he wakes he’s still curled up to Wilbur who dozes against him. It’s the little click of a phone camera that wakes him, shuffling feet on the floor. Techno’s holding the phone, of course, taking a picture of Tommy and Wil all cuddled together. He can’t find the energy to pretend to be mad.
Phil’s there too, holding some pills in his hand.
“What-“ he tries, but the words catch. Wilbur mumbles in his sleep and Tommy gently elbows him. (As gently as one can elbow, that is.)
He startles awake, a little gasp. He looks around the room and relaxes after taking it in. He leans against Tommy.
“You better not be contagious, gremlin boy.” He says and cuddles closer to Tommy anyway.
“I didn’t force you to lay here, that was all you, Big Dubs” Tommy leans into him too.
“Big Dubs? What happened to Wilby?” He teases.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.,” Tommy asserts, stubbornly.
“He called you Wilby?” Says Techno, clutching his heart.
“No.” Tommy says at the same time as Wilbur smiles and says “yes.” They glare at each other.
Phil sighs. “Alright, boys, enough.” He holds out a pill for Tommy. “You have to take this, the rest of you, out.” He shoos them with his hands. Wilbur frowns but peels himself away from Tommy’s side, gently pushes Tommy away when he tries to cling on, laughing lightly. They lurk by the door.
Tommy feels awkward as he swallows the pill, all eyes on him. But he’s exhausted, and his body aches and his throat hurts, so he doesn’t really give that much of a fuck.
“You can go back to sleep,” Phil says once the water is back on the table, and Tommy rests against the bed again, drowsiness weighing him down. His eyelids droop as Phil backs away towards the door.
“Dad?” He asks, the full intention of saying something, but no recollection of what it was he meant to say. The sentence dies on his tongue. He doesn’t notice the way Philza freezes, the way Wilbur smiles like the sun and Techno looks at him funny. He doesn’t notice that he’s never called Phil dad before, he’s never let himself, and that this is the first time and it came so easily from his lips, like he was born to say just that.
“Toms?” He says after a moment.
Tommy stops, still grasping at the straws of his own memory. “I don’t. Fuck. Never mind, I forgot.” His voice fades in and out, he’s on the precipice of sleep, clumsily walking the line.
“You sure?”
“Mhm,” he smiles, pushes his cheek against his pillow.
“Okay. Love you, Tommy,” he says.
And Tommy says “you too.”
And it’s not exactly right, but it’s something, something he’s never done before, somewhere he’s never been before. It’s not perfect but it doesn’t need to be, they don’t demand that of him, they’re not needy. They take him as he is. Wilbur likes his snark, his incessant clinginess. Techno likes his stupid jokes, childish anger. Philza likes how his eyes light up when he talks about Tubbo, how he cares enough to buy him mugs and collect rocks and keep old gifts from his parents.
They see his flaws in all their scarred and fucked glory, they see the parts that are ugly and tangled. And they like him anyway, they choose him anyway.
They like that he’s Tommy, nothing more, nothing less. And that’s all he needs to be.