Chapter Text
“Call when you get there,” Tubbo reminds him, nudging his shoulder. “And text when you land.”
“Yeah,” Ranboo nods. “I hope you have fun.”
“Fuck off, you’re glad I’m going,” Tommy scoffs. “You get Tubbo all to yourself.”
“I’m right here,” Tubbo laughs. “And besides. We’ll still talk every day, Toms. Just cause you’re away doesn’t mean we’re not friends.”
“ And-“
“Shut up,” Tommy stands. “You two are getting sappy and it’s fuckin’... stupid. I’m only goin’ for a month, big men.”
“Probably more,” Tubbo’s eyes train to some spot on the floor. “You- I mean, you- yeah. You know.”
Tommy sighs. “I’ll text you when I land. Both of you. See you… in a month?”
Tubbo follows, standing to wrap his arms around Tommy. “Be safe,” He says. “And try not to fall out of any trees or shit like that.”
Ranboo gives him a smile, nodding his own goodbye. When Tommy turns to the line, it feels like his heart has jumped into his throat, like his entire being is screaming for this to go faster. He can feel them staring, whispering between each other, and it’s been so long since he had a conversation with someone that didn’t revolve around what he was doing next in life.
Even Tubbo- who dropped out earlier than him- had the whole ‘so Tommy, what’s the plan now?’ conversation with him. It was fucking weird, seeing as Tubbo’s ‘new friend’ Ranboo was half-there half-not, stuck between a call with his mother and being present in the conversation. That, and Tommy answered the same way he did for every other conversation he’d had about where his life was headed: he didn’t know .
The plan was to get out.
And then he did.
And then there was no plan.
He gets his ticket up on his phone, the muscle memory kicking in. He’s opened the ticket millions of times- sometimes just to stare at it, remind himself he has a semblance of a plan, and other times to show it to people. It pays off, because by the time he’s through the gate, he knows his seat by memory. It’s all autopilot from then on.
Sitting down, he finds himself drawn to the runway outside. It wasn’t that he hated school, no, he was pretty proud of how he did. It was just that, well, it didn’t seem… right. Before his farm experience, he’d been perfectly fine with taking care of himself when he was scared during storms or fending off loneliness during school holidays when Tubbo was off with family. He was perfectly okay to take care of himself.
And…
Well, there’s only one way to explain it; He stopped being okay.
-
The room is…
Exactly as Tommy remembers it.
The only few differences are the spider in the corner of the door being gone, and the heater isn’t even there- which doesn’t make much of a difference anyway- but the sheets are still folded the way he did on his last day, there’s still an old camera poking out from the bottom of the furthest bunk bed, and his small ‘BIG MAN TOMMY WAS HERE’ is still written in sharpie on the bottom of the top bunk above where he slept.
Putting his bags at the bottom of the bed, Tommy finds himself sitting with his back against the bottom bunk, watching as the wind spins the edges of the curtains. It feels like…
There’s a memory, somewhere in his mind. Tubbo and him, sat in their classroom, making lanterns for a winter festival. Their hands are covered in glue and it’s sticky, it’s uncomfortable, and the room is vaguely lit with the yellow glow of a fire to keep them warm. Tommy’s parents are late to picking him up- but Tubbo’s are too, so the world is free of problems, free of trouble.
It feels like that. Like he’s on his way to being okay again.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, sending a quick ‘got to the farm, you still want to call?’ to Tubbo. And then his phone falls to his lap, then to the floor, as he pulls one leg up and rests his chin on the knee. There’s the soft whistle of some birds outside his half-open window, and the sunlight streaming inside makes the house pleasantly cool.
His phone buzzes- probably a text from Tubbo, and he hums to himself as he flicks open the notification before answering the incoming call. “Tommy!” He hears from the other side- and then a deeper voice, probably Ranboo. For a few minutes, Tommy listens as they talk, before Tubbo turns back to him. “How’s the farm?”
“It’s good,” He responds. “What’re you doing?”
“Oh, Ranboo and I decided to go get ice cream,” He responds. “We’re heading home now. How was the flight?”
“Yeah, it was good,” He nods for a moment before remembering Tubbo can’t see him; “Yeah.”
“Cool,” Tubbo says. Tommy can imagine his face, that awkward look he gives when conversations are stilted. He doesn’t really know how to solve it, though. Not now- not with… “Ranboo says hi.”
It used to be ‘Tommy says hi’. When did that change?
“Uh, Hi Ranboo,” Tommy responds. “When… when do you get home, big man?”
“Oh, we’re… fifteen minutes away from my house?” Tubbo says. “Why?”
“No reason,” Tommy shrugs.
“Mhm,” Tubbo’s always got this distinctive ‘I-don't-believe-you’ hum. Tommy likes that about him- he’s easy to read. But sometimes, like right now, there’s just no point in facing what he actually means. And he hopes Tubbo knows that, hopes it comes across in the way Tommy sighs and comments on the birds outside. Because he can’t handle that. Not when he came here to get away, and not now. “Yeah. Birds are cool.”
“They are,” Tommy says. “Really cool. How was your ice cream?”
“It was alright. Some weird guy offered Ranboo a pamphlet for a local University because he looks old,” Tubbo laughs. “And another thought I was his kid. In fact, the cashier asked if I wanted a kiddie scoop.”
Tommy snorts; “Did you?”
“Well, no,” Tubbo responds. “I’m not actually a child.”
“You are the height of one, though, bitch.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy can hear the smile; it makes him smile, too. There’s familiarity in the banter, as if Ranboo were just one of their friends instead of being Tubbo’s new best thing . “I gotta leave now. You know Mum likes greetings at the door.”
“I do,” Tommy says. He does- it’s the one thing he’s always envied. Without fail, Tubbo greets his mum at the door when either of them come home. “Talk to you later, Big T.”
“Yeah, bye, Tommy!”
His phone lets out it’s familiar end-of-call chime as he leans his head back into his knee, dropping his phone once more. Wilbur will be home soon from whatever restaurant his friends decided to go eat at- Phil mentioned it when he came to pick Tommy up, but Tommy had been too tired to remember the name at the time- and they’ll all eat dinner. He needs to close the window at some point before then, so the bugs don’t creep in.
He needs to unpack, too. There’s still an assortment of tea on a shelf next to where he plugs his phone charger in, but this time, no kettle. Apparently Phil moved it to Wilbur’s room before Will did a gig at a local bar for the first time.
“Kid, you in here?” A familiar voice calls- Techno. He can hear the footsteps on the porch outside- which still has that damn creak in it’s planks- as the pinkette nears his door.
“Yeah?” He responds through a mumble, and finds his eyes have slipped closed somewhere in the course of all his thinking. “What do you want?”
He hears a huff. If Tommy’s dictionary of Techno expressions is up to date, it’s at least vaguely amused. “Phil said I should say hi.”
“Well,” Tommy finds a brighter world waiting for him as his eyes blink open. Facing Techno, he takes in the changes in the man before him- his hair is a faded, dull pink now, with the edges filtering into a bleached white. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Techno responds. “Uhh… how was your flight?”
“Good,” He says. “Why? What’s it to you, bitch?”
“Nothin’, just askin’,” Techno responds, a tilt of his lips. “You need help unpackin’?”
“Nah,” Tommy yawns, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna leave that for later. Future me’s got a fuckin’ problem on his hands, Tech. But present me? I’m a fuckin’ big man. I don’t need to unpack.”
“Uhuh,” Techno steps in, shoes discarded at the door. With a glance to the open window and the very bare floor, Techno says; “Nice place.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy responds. “It’s great, bitch.”
“I wasn’t sayin’ it was bad,” In a swift motion, Techno has some blankets down from the pile Tommy had made before. “Move, kid. Will’s gonna be pissed if you’re all cranky tomorrow cause you didn’t make your bed properly.”
“Hey! I’m not a fucking baby, I know how to make beds!” Tommy protests, moving despite himself. “This is so mean. I’m not a fucking baby! I’m a big man.”
“Mhm,” Techno hums, making quick work of laying the bed sheet over the mattress, then each of the layers before the duvet and finally, a blanket on top, stepping back to admire the well made bed. “There.”
“Thanks, I guess. I could’ve done that myself,” Tommy shrugs. “Looks nice, though.”
“Uhh… thanks,” Techno smiles. With a jerk of his thumb back towards the main house, he asks; “You comin’?”
Tommy shrugs. “Sure.”
-
Phil didn’t change much while Tommy was gone.
Then again, there probably isn’t much you’d want to change when you’re as old as him. Tommy’s considered it, really. Given thought to how he thinks Phil looked when he first came compared to now, and there’s no real difference. He has a scar on the back of his hand, which Tommy had noticed in the car ride over, but apparently he’s had it for years.
Maybe he has, and Tommy didn’t notice. Or maybe Phil’s memory is going a little wonky.
Either way, it’s not something for Tommy to worry about.
Phil still pats his back and smiles at Tommy like that , like Tommy means something to him. He still puts out marmite because he knows Tommy likes it even though no one else in the house really does, he still drinks from the same thermos.
The real man of change is Wilbur Soot.
Techno’s hair had been the only thing Tommy could note changing about the pinkette. Phil hardly changed at all. Wilbur? Wilbur gained three scars from falling out of a tree during one of his more stupid stunts, bought a red (the superior colour) beanie to wear with his yellow (the weaker colour) crew neck, and cut his hair along the sides so it frames his face a little better.
Which… it’s not much. But it’s a big change to when Tommy first saw him.
Despite all that, though, Will still lights up when he sees the blonde sitting by the fire in their main house. He hadn’t known Tommy was coming; Phil organised for it to be a surprise, and spoke the whole time about how Wilbur was going to be so surprised to see him. And he was!
Tommy even got a hug . Wilbur’s same old, all-encompassing, safe-big-brother hug. Tommy had latched into the memory of that hug night after night, whenever he lay in bed with a deep, soft ache in his bones to be held. And here he was, receiving it as if it were as easy as breathing, as effortless as walking.
“Toms! I’m so- wow, I’m so glad to see you, child,” Wilbur smiles, hands still planted on Tommy’s shoulders. “I- how are you? How’s school?”
“Stop being clingy, get your hands-“ Tommy steps away, laughing as Wilbur pretends to try and keep him planted in his previous spot. Neither really moves, so Wilbur’s hands remain on Tommy’s shoulders. “-I’m good, bitch boy. I’m an even bigger man now- turned seventeen, bitch.”
“Aww,” Wilbur responds. “You’re a slightly older child now!”
“What? Fuck no! I’m a big man- an adult, I’ll have you know!” Tommy laughs. This time, he does step away, Wilbur’s hands falling from their place on his shoulders.
“Mmmm- Seventeen’s still a child,” Wilbur concludes. “Right, Phil?”
“Hey, no! Don’t bring Phil into this!” Tommy crosses his arms. “That’s not fair! He’s old so of course he’ll side with you!”
“Wilbur’s actually got a point,” Techno pipes up from the couch.
“What- Techno! I trusted you!” Hand on his chest, Tommy can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. “You and I are young! You’re supposed to be on my team!”
“Uhhh… I’m good,” Techno says. “Wilbur’s the one who drives here. I’m siding with him.”
“Oh fuck- you’re all- fuck you all. I’m not a child,” Tommy concludes, folding his arms.
“You look like one,” Bitch boy says, brushing past him to put toast in the toaster. “It’s good to have you back, Toms.”
“Whatever. Fuck you, bitch boy.”
-
The little room away from the main house feels more like Tommy remembers it feeling at night. The spider doesn’t make a reappearance- which is a good thing, Tommy decides- and it’s just as cold as he remembers, but the shadows still fall in the same place and his blankets are surprisingly warmer the second time around.
Probably because he has more. But that’s just because Techno clearly doesn’t know how to balance sheets in case the temperature rapidly changes. Then again, there’s not much need for that in a place where the only fucking season is winter, apparently.
Tommy’s smile still hasn’t left. Even after he climbed into bed, eyes slipping shut as he curled up, his smile still remains there, ever so slightly. Getting to sleep isn’t as hard as it would be at home, but the buzzing excitement of I’m here combined with the thought that if he really wanted, he could be a douche and go wake any of the three people he’d been missing for the past few months up leaves him nearly wide awake despite his closed eyelids.
It was a good day. It definitely was.
He’d missed this. The farm, the people, having toast for dinner. It’s almost like returning home, if he weren’t afraid of leaving.
With a yawn, he finds himself pulled down, down, down, into sleep.
-
There are two things that Tommy forgot about waking up on the farm; it’s very bright, and very cold. Too cold.
And once he’s gathered enough energy to turn over, Wilbur is knocking on his door with a gleeful cheer of; “Toms! Child! Wake-y wake-y, it’s time for work!”
Yeah, maybe he missed being woken up when he was back in his room. Maybe he missed it a little more when he remembered that his parents always woke up earlier than him to leave for work, so no one would come to drag him out of bed. Maybe he missed it then, but now? When he’s only just gotten comfortable enough to fall back asleep?
It’s shit. He fucking hates it.
“Child,” Great. Wilbur’s opened the door now. “C’mon, child. Sun’s up, it’s time to rake some macadamia’s.”
“Fuck you,” he groans, but it comes out more as a jumble of words, turning to throw his pillow at Wilbur. The fucker catches it with a smile, so Tommy takes it upon himself to repeat himself; “Fuck you, bitch boy.”
“Awww,” Wilbur cooes. “Just like old times!”
“Fuck this,” Tommy groans, stretching as he shrugs the sleeping bag off of him. “Get the fuck out, Will. I’m changin’.”
“You’re gonna be late if you do,” Wilbur responds. “We don’t have much time. Gotta check if the weather last night knocked any trees over.”
Tommy grumbles, tugging on his shirt. “I can’t go over in my fuckin’ pajamas, Will.”
“Sure you can. C’mon, child.”
So he eats breakfast in his pajamas. Apparently, so do Techno and Phil.
-
That day, Wilbur drags him across the farm while Techno and Phil start on the opposite side, meaning they should pass each other somewhere around the middle of the week. “Techno and I’ll do the avocados,” Phil says to Tommy, handing him a rake and a bag that smells of dirt and sheep shit. “You and Will just worry about the macadamia’s.”
“Aight,” Tommy says, nodding as he takes his gear. “Good luck, old man. Don’t fall out of any trees.”
The other thing he didn’t miss- walks. There’s so much walking involved with being on a farm. The grass is damp from the night’s drizzle, which lets the sun dance across the blades as if they were stars, fallen to the ground. It’s beautiful, even if it gets his gumboots wet and muddy. But the air- oh, the air - it makes up for any uncomfortable sweating as he walks over a hill that he swears wasn’t as difficult the first time around, it outdoes any air he could’ve breathed back home. It’s crisp, as if he were drinking water after months of thirst, as if he were eating after weeks of fasting.
It leaves him feeling fresh, feeling free, a cool sensation sparking through his bones to calm any antsy fire he may have lit. It’s a different type of cold- a calm, soothing one compared to the desperate want for warmth he normally feels. “You good, child?’ Wilbur asks, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of birds and baa of sheep.
“Yeah,” Tommy says, sparing him a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be, bitch boy? I’m fit as hell.”
“Oh really?’ Wilbur asks, a smirk on his lips and glint in his eye. “Let’s race, then. Last one to the paddock has to do it all on their own!”
And just like that, he’s taken off, rake clinking against his side as he shifts to lift it onto his shoulder. Tommy makes the smart decision to do that before he starts running- His feet hit the ground one after the other, solid and free, and there’s that spark of a smile pouring through his features again. There’s a light in the air, a freedom in the stomp of his feet, his laughter as Wilbur trips trying to jump over the fence- which is already open- before sprinting off to make up for the lost distance between them.
When they finally reach the paddock, Wilbur is hardly breathless, and Tommy is coughing up a lung. “Wow, you’re so unfit,” Wilbur comments. Rake in hand, he stands there, haloed by the morning sun. Tommy laughs off his comment, because it’s Wilbur, because it’s all fun and games. “Looks like you’re doing the paddock, then, loser.”
“Fuck you!” Tommy responds, but it comes out mostly as a wheeze. “I only lost cause you- you have- freakishly long legs.”
There it is, the smile he’d missed. The smile that sits between a laugh and a joking punch; a smile that looks, vaguely, proud of Tommy. God, he’d missed it.
“Well, go on. Aren’t you gonna start? We don’t have all day.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy says, swinging his rake down before trudging off to start on the first tree. “You’re a bitch! I hate you!”
“Sure you do!” Wilbur calls back. The trees are halfway down a slope- if Tommy remembers, this was possibly his least favourite paddock, roughly the sixth one they did last time he was here. It’s always muddy, and it’s easy to slip in the sheep shit while you’re heading down. Plus, there are hardly ever any nuts, which means no break between paddocks.
So it’d be fair to say Tommy wasn’t excited about doing this shitty paddock alone.
Turns out, all it took was five minutes of silent working before Wilbur came along to help.
-
That evening, just minutes after dinner, he settles down with aching, tired bones to call Tubbo. After he gives up hope on an answer, Tubbo picks up, a jumble of sound pouring from the speaker- as if Tubbo’s listening to a movie behind him. He opens his mouth to greet his best friend, a smile on his lips-
“Sorry Tommy, I’m kinda busy right now. Can we talk later?”
“Oh- yeah. Sorry-” It doesn’t matter what he says next, he realises. Tubbo’s already hung up on him. Still, his muscle memory leads to him finishing his sentence regardless of the blank screen staring back at him. “-I’ll call you some other time, Tubzo.”
He doesn’t know why he expected it to be any different. Tubbo hasn’t been able to pick up on unscheduled phone calls in months, always busy- either with an apprenticeship he’s doing, that, hell , Tommy doesn’t even know that much about, or friends. Why’d he expect it to be different at the farm?
Dusk spreads it’s dark, cold tendrils across the landscape. Outside, moths and insects begin to buzz around, searching for food or shelter, and the sky above is littered with dim stars that Tommy can barely see through the blanket of clouds covering them. The cold- this time, just as familiar as cold normally is- worms its way into his bones, leaving him desperate for warmth.
Tubbo has a plan. Clearly, that plan doesn’t involve keeping a deadbeat like Tommy around- no matter how many years they’ve been friends for.
He doesn’t call again.