Chapter Text
“Tubbo?”
“Hiya Tommy.”
“You’re in bed with me.”
“Indeed, I am big man.”
“…Yeah, alright, just don’t hog all the fucking blankets.”
“Mkay.”
“You smell weird.”
They don’t talk about it in the morning; they never do.
Toby’s already awake, head resting on Tommy’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beats of his best friend’s heart. Eyes open, dark circles all too prominent.
“Did something happen with Nikki?” Tommy asks quietly, sleepy fingers daftly running through sweaty brown hair. “Was it about Schlatt?”
It’s a Monday morning because Nikki is a good caseworker and works on Sundays if there’s an emergency. But even then, Toby thinks, yesterday wasn’t an emergency. It was whatever comes after an emergency.
He shoves his face further down into the crook of Tommy’s neck, not speaking.
“Tommy!” A voice calls from behind the bedroom door. It’s Techno, Toby realizes. “Come downstairs; I’m taking you to school.”
“Shut up!” Tommy yells back before turning to look down at his friend. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Yeah,” Toby mumbles through a poorly concealed yawn. “He let me in last night.”
Tommy sputters, rubbing his eyes, muttering curses under his breath. Toby’s still curled against him, hanging on far too tight.
“C’mon clingy bitch,” Tommy says with far too much enthusiasm for 7 in the morning, “School’s awaiting, and if Techno’s driving – we get to take the Cadillac, and that always gets the ladies.”
And Tommy shoves Toby off the bed, laughing loudly when Toby happily takes all the blankets down with him.
He gets ready quietly. He riffles through the bottom drawer of Tommy’s dresser because Tommy once insisted he keeps his spare clothes here. He finds his ziplock bag with a toothbrush and toothpaste, taking care to clean off the white specks that land on the bathroom sink.
Wilbur ruffles his hair with a smug oh Tubbo, when did you get here, and Phil pretends like he hasn’t heard the boy sneak in early that morning.
And Toby smiles despite the aching lip and bloody cuts, fumbling to catch the toaster waffle Tommy throws his way. Meanwhile, Phil finishes his second cup of coffee before taking his keys to head to work. And Wilbur waves off the kids, still lazing around in his p.js, reading some book he has as a summer assignment for college.
It’s sweet, familiar – more familiar than the group home on the other side of the city.
From the mismatched mugs of orange juice to Techno’s exasperated, we will not be taking the Cadillac because Tommy will just stick his head out the window like a dog, and I don’t have kiddy locks.
“Tubbo,” Techno says, catching the younger’s attention before he can get out of the car. Tommy’s already clambering out, singing some absurd Minecraft parody song to amuse himself.
“Uh, yeah?” He flickers nervous glances to the older.
They’re not very close, neither quite as outgoing as Wilbur or Tommy; neither can fill empty silence when together. But it was Techno who always lets him in at random hours when he knocks far too quietly at the door. It’s him who pointed at the chair at 1 am and stuck band-aids on his face – both in stark silence; there was no need for words.
He fiddles with the steering wheel for a moment, drumming his thumb on the plush leather and digging his nails in. “You looked high when I let you in.” He comments casually, eyebrow flicking up, a rare change from his ordinarily bored expression.
“Oh um yeah, sorry. I don’t smoke in the house, and it wasn’t on me, I swear I never – “
Techno shakes his head, wincing like Toby’s hurried, panicked rambles are physically paining him, “Toby, I know.” He sighs, “And I don’t normally care about your habits, but….”
Techno grimaces, a hand sweeping the pink strand by his bangs almost nervously.
“Is everything alright?” He finishes awkwardly.
Toby swallows back a wince. Techno’s just being too kind and too soft; he doesn’t actually care. And why should he? He’s just his little brother’s friends and a lousy leeching one at that.
He starts to rearrange his expression into a happy smile before Tommy breaks the tense spell for him.
The youngest face smashes his hand into the glass, making obnoxious tapping, and flips them both off.
“We’re gonna be late bitch!”
Techno sighs, waving off the conversation entirely. And that’s that.
School, surprisingly, isn’t terrible. He and Ranboo are so wildly unpopular that even bullies don’t pick on them. They just sit in the back of the class and take notes they’ll never actually review and scrape by with grades consisting of a variety of letters in the alphabet.
No one really bothers them, and they never do much that needs bothering. Tommy, on the other hand…
“Hey, fellas.” He shouts nervously. “Do guys already have a group for the project?”
Ranboo and Toby only watch in bewilderment from afar. It’s Tommy’s friends from ASB, the ones who aren’t mean per se, but they’re dull and judgy. He does this, Tommy, because he’s energic and friendly – popular in every little niche group except the Popular One™.
“Sorry,” One of the girls, the VP of ASB maybe, says with an apologetic smile. “We’ve already made our group Tom.”
“Yeah,” Another girl chimes in, looking a lot less sorry. “Besides, when we worked together last time for Bio, you know it was so hard trying to match all our schedules.” She flicks a winced glance to Toby, who glares right back. “Maybe next time.”
It was him during that project that had a hard time. It was last year when he was transferred to Nikki as his social worker. Too many appointments and meetings. The let’s just chat! And I don’t understand where this bruise came from? And what do you mean you didn’t say anything?
And now, watching Tommy’s face fall for a split second before moaning out some absurd joke which everyone cringes at – he kinda hates Nikki for it.
“Why do you even bother?” Toby drones, riffling through his backpack for a colored pencil, frowning slightly when he can only procure crumpled papers. “They’re kinda assholes.”
“C’mon Tubs,” Tommy scowls, “Those are my friends.”
Ranboo scoffs, holding out an orange crayon to Toby, who smiles gratefully. “We’re your friends.”
“Whatever,” Tommy dismisses bitterly, waving their attention back to the rubric. “What’s wrong with trying to fit in.”
Ranboo adjusts his mask self-consciously, pushing up his glasses as well. Meanwhile, Toby just continues coloring the page, praying the juvenile effort will help him fucking read, and sighs.
He has his last period alone. He has a few friends in it, though. Aimley from drama, Jack from history. They don’t sit together; the other two are still off in their own cliques, but he’s partnered up with them occasionally.
They’re the kind of friends who are too polite to ask questions and try not to let their stares linger too long. He’s learned not to scowl at them too much anymore.
He doesn’t mind having math class alone. It’s mainly just lectures and worksheets – no reading, so he doesn’t need to secretly color the pages orange.
He likes the invisibility, the peace. Though, perhaps, a bit too much considering he overlooks the principal of all people thundering into his classroom this Monday morning.
A few wandering eyes look up, especially when the man marches to their teacher, whispering furiously. Shit really hits the fan when an officer saunters in as well.
The radio walkie-talkie crackles loud enough to rouse Toby from his concentration. He pauses a moment, nearly impressed. It’s actually a deputy, not some rent-a-cop security guard.
“Tobias.” His teacher calls, her thin lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed.
It’s heavy: the weight of all those eyes watching him walk up from the back of the class. Their thin whispers are not so concealed but too quiet to make out what they’re saying. They all can see the thin white band-aids over the cut on his brow, the purpling rings around his left eye – it’s in perfect view for them to see.
“Your backpack too, Toby.” She sighs.
“Wha-sorry what?”
“Your stuff,” She snaps, “You won’t be returning to class.
“R-right.”
And then it’s snickers and giggles awkwardly filling the silence as he’s forced to walk down the aisle, go get his stuff and walk back. All the while, the teacher, the principal, and the cop frown at his incomprehensible stupidity.
The shame burns bright red on his ears, and he’s nearly screaming when the policeman places a heavy hand on his neck. He swallows bile and sick – everything too close and too bright. This is not fitting in; he thinks miserably.
They march him up to the office, two fingers constantly squeezing his neck just a breath too tight. But still, he knows better than to complain lest he justifies their cautionary measure.
A few student skidders by, stealing glances at Toby, trying to profile a description for the rumor mill. The administrative staff looks less than pleased to have so many people trailing in mud, even more, soured to see his banged-up face.
Toby sees her face lights up with concern and relief wrapped in one. “Toby!” Nikki calls, clickity heels jogging down towards them in the main office.
He lunges towards her open arms, halted by the sudden awareness of the hand still on him,
“Sorry, ma’am.” The policeman apologizes with an apathetic shrug. “With kids like him….”
“Is there anything else we can do, Miss. Nihachu?” The principal interrupts, a plastic smile breaking the tension before it can morph into something smelling of a lawsuit. “We can appreciate the hardships of all our students and actively work towards what’s best for them.”
Toby can’t help the audible scoff and pointedly ignores the exasperated glare headed his way.
“No thanks,” Nikki says curtly. “I’m gratefully we were able to find him so quickly. Your security was so kind and helpful at locating Toby.”
Everyone, sans Toby, lets out a frosty chuckle; their narrow smiles remain glued on.
“Well, Toby,” Nikki says much more gently. “I think it’s time we go.”
“Whatever,” He mumbles, shrugging her hand off his shoulder and shuffling out the main doors to her car.
He has no intention of trying to play nice with anyone, and honestly, why should he?
He gets into the back and waits, half-glazed eyes focusing on the trees in the parking lot. There are still a few red and brown oak leaves hanging on, but most have shriven up on the ground. It’s the end of summer; everything’s starting to wither and die.
“Ugh,” Nikki shudders as she settles into the driver’s seat. “God, I just..ugh.”
“That’s high school for you.” He remarks dryly.
“Toby,” She sighs, turning around to look at him.
He can feel her eyes, her pitying eyes, on him. He hunches in more, pulling the edges of his jacket closer in. He shifts tensely around in his seat before he spies his duffle bag on the passenger’s seat.
And oh, that’s why she pulled me out early.
It means Nikki probably called and asked his group home why he came to her office looking like he lost three rounds with a garbage truck. And they must have answered that he was a troublesome teen and problematic kid – they were more than ready to return him before State got wind of the situation.
Probably didn’t help that he was technically missing last night when she called.
This sorta thing never happened with Mr. Drexel or Ms. Miller. But then again, no one ever bothered to make informal follow-up appointments on his living conditions. No one cared when he’d disappear to Tommy’s house at night or long weekends. They were either too busy with the little ones or too drunk and drugged to distinguish one punching bag from another.
“I wish you had said something before Sunday.”
…
“It’ll be different this time.” She says softly.
…
“I know it’s been a turbulent couple of days.
“Whatever,” He mumbles; cold eyes usually reserved only for adults were pointedly aimed out the car window. Though, Nikki’s concerned gaze peers through the rearview mirror, hoping to see his face.
He grumbles; a single glare shot her way, “You still won’t tell me why I can’t go with Schlatt.”
She sighs, adjusting her wide rim glasses and smoothing the stressed fly-away strands of hair.
“Toby, we have been over this. Jay is not in a suitable position to become your legal guardian.”
“Oh, and that child beater was?!”
Her manicured nails tap against the steering wheel as she anxiously peers through the review window. An ugly black eye and clean butterfly bandages stare back. She has the decency to look sorry. It sparks guilt and satisfaction in equal measures.
“Toby,” She sighs, words catching on tears. “Toby, I know – “
“What do you know?” He bites. “Just throw me in some group home and just…just leave it alone.”
“No,” She grits fiercely, “you deserve better than that, Toby.”
She says it so…earnestly, loving even. Like she actually believes that, like any of that emotional crap, can get him somewhere else but disappointed. Like any of that is even true.
He catches the hurt look in her eye, and guilt aches in his chest. He wants to spit out rancid curses, hit, and yell till she dumps him off with someone who can at least match his ugliness rather than stare back like a kicked puppy.
“I know you’re upset.” She amends, “And I wanna help.”
Pricks of annoyance slither under his skin because now she’s just lying, treating him with the kiddy gloves because she feels bad.
“Really, why would I be upset?”
“Toby – “
“No, seriously, what the fuck do I have to be upset about? That fucker wasn’t even the worse place I’ve been at.”
“Toby, ju – “
“I’M NOT UPSET!”
“Toby.” She says, voice so tender and kind, it’s so sickly that the following words burning on his tongue are the long over-due ‘fuck you.’
“– Please.”
He stops at the please – it’s too soft and sing-songy. The squishy, delicate, weak corner of his heart begs him not to say it.
Because it reminds him of his little sister, of her lying on their dirty mattress and calling out to him in the dark. Of her whining that she’s too cold, I’m cold Tubbo and him rolling her over so she’d be safe and warm tucked in the middle between himself and their oldest sister.
And it’s been so long since then, so long since he’s seen either of them.
“You’re crying.”
His hand flies to his face, fingers tracing the surprising wetness on his cheek. He’s shuddering, finally noticing how erratic his own breaths have been.
But then the rest of him beats that pathetic bit back into its place. “Fuck you.” He growls, piercingly cold gaze daring her to see what happens the next time she even tries to pretend to be on his side. “Just fucking take me home or some shit, whatever.”
But her sad shiny eyes don’t lose their lust and match his heated fury. Instead, her frown twist even further, and she sighs again but says nothing more.
The window glass is cool with the start of fall rains, but he’s wearing the thick coat Tommy gave him last Christmas.
It’s warm, and he’s tired; the anger, leaving him utterly spent.
He huffs warm breaths against the glass, watching the world go fuzzy through the fog, and falls into an uneasy sleep.
He wakes to her quiet voice and a hesitant hand hovering around his shoulders. She’s pretty when she smiles, but there’s something tense knit between her brows.
“Hey Toby, we’re here.”
He rubs the sleep from his eyes, but his mind is still disoriented with rest. His fingers are thick and numb as he fumbles with the seatbelt.
It’s not light anymore when he falls out of the car. Instead, faint pink hues of early sunset peek through the clouds.
He looks around to see Nikki talking to a woman outside an apartment building. A thin cigarette rolled in her hand, and anxious eyes giving him a once over.
She’s older than Nikki, with purple-streaked hair and thick eyeliner. Tubbo never likes having foster moms; he never quite knows how to act.
But Nikki ushers him forward, so he slings his duffle and marches over.
“I’m Minx,” She says, a light Irish accent coating her words, “You’re Toby, right?”
“He goes by Tubbo.” Nikki hurries to correct. Toby smiles amusingly because Nikki hates using nicknames but tries to make sure his foster families know his ahead of time. He figures it won’t be a problem based on Minx’s approving nod and quick smile.
“Tubbo it is.” She agrees.
“Hullo.”
They go inside, and then there’s the obligatory paperwork and rules.
They sit at a rickety dining table and stare awkwardly at each other while Nikki speaks too loudly to fill the silence.
“This is a longer placement,” Nikki says solemnly, “A couple of weeks, hopefully.”
Toby scoffs, red-rimmed eyes narrowed still, and the bitterness from before lingers on his tongue. “Yeah, right.”
Minx looks cautiously from Toby’s snarling face to Nikki’s anxious smile.
“Tubbo is usually in group homes.” She hurries to explain. “Usually, foster homes are by emergency placement, short stays,” Nikki hums sheepishly, eyes lingering on the blackened bruises.
“I see.”
After that, it goes by faster. Nikki presses another business card into his hands before leaving. Minx softens a bit, going room by room to explain where everything is.
It’s not a big apartment, Toby finds out. His bedroom for the night is electric blue with too many moving boxes, and a few clothes still strung around. It’s not the worst he’s seen, but Minx looks apologetic as she shoves odds and ends in the closet.
“Sorry, kid, I got the call about a few hours ago.” She explains, “I was more concerned about having clean towels and cereals for ya.”
He laughs despite himself – he really isn’t good with foster moms – but makes sure not to smile for the rest of the tour.
“The bathroom has a lock,” She says carefully, demonstrating how the middle part of the knob clicks in and out. “There’s nothing sharp in there, kiddo, and I don’t wanna have to search your things…but I need to know now if there might be a problem.”
He grimaces at the thought and shakes his head no. His mind, thankfully, didn’t deal with stress that way.
“I smoke weed.” He blurts out instead; a near-silent groan escapes his chest at his idiocy. “To like…I guess, uh instead of um…knives.”
Minx’s expression curls into a jaw-dropped half-smile. Arms crossed and eyebrow raised.
“I don’t condone minors smoking pot,” She starts, but even he can hear that her heart’s not in the reprimand, “But if it works for a foster kid, hypothetically named Tubbo, then right on.”
He hides another smile in a spoonful of Cheerios and says nothing more.
Her bathroom is clean. No strange grimy spots or medicine bottles overflowing the cabinet. The showerhead leaks but gushes out warm water after a minute or two. He leaves the bathroom smelling like expensive roses and cinnamon in his hair.
He changes for bed and fumbles around, trying to charge his phone. It’s an ugly flip phone, but it’s yet to break despite the numerous falls down various platforms.
His ratty charging cord, on the other hand, has certainly seen better days. It used to be an off-white but now is bitterly stained a grey. There’s a portion where the rubber coating stretches out, another where the wires are frayed and exposed.
It only works if he holds the device perfectly upright and wiggles the charging block, so it’s half in half out. It’s a marvel he hasn’t electrocuted himself by now.
But the phone turns on and immediately erupts with impatient messages. 47 from BIG_MAN (Tommy) and 3 from Ranboo_my_Beloved
They range in length and capitalization, spanning throughout the afternoon and early evening.
Mostly it was Tommy’s concern growing more and more aggressive and wholesome every passing hour, coupled with Ranboo’s quiet comforts.
He presses the call button all too quick.
“BEE BOI!”
“Hiya Tommy.”
“New fucking foster fam?”
Toby pauses, hearing Minx singing badly as she washes up the dishes.
“She’s nice.”
“Hmm.” Tommy scorns, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Toby swallows the bitter lump in his throat and laughs wetly. He wishes Tommy was there. He’d cram himself on the small twin bed, taking up too much space but pulling Toby closer, so they all fit.
“I’m somewhere in the city,” He admits, looking out the skyscraper window to see the night lights aglow, “She lives in an apartment.”
“Fucking tory, I bet,”
“An Irishwoman,” He corrects, wincing slightly as her voice roars through the halls. “Like to sing too.”
“Ooh, I bet she drinks,” Tommy conspires, “We could get shit fac – AHHHH.”
The high-pitched shriek prinks at his ear but worth it to hear Wilbur’s crooning laugh from afar.
“Hi Tubbo, it’s Wilbur!”
“Hi Wilbur, it’s Tubbo!”
The laughter fades out, replaced by Tommy’s indignant cries.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m talking to MY best friend!”
“CLINGY!” Another voice calls in the distance. “CRINGE!”
“Hiya Techno!”
Tommy scoffs all too fondly.
“Fucking traitors, all of ya.”
Minx, he learns, is a radio D.J in the city. She tells him when they’re out shopping the next day. She takes him to the grocery store and buys his favorite fruits and vegetables. And then drags him to the department stores to window shopping for fancy clothes and finally into Walmart for a few more hoodies and jeans.
He doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t mind. In fact, she actively ignores his frowns and sides eyes. She doesn’t point out his rogue smile or surprised laugh. Instead, she joins in and continues her running dialogue like nothing happened.
He tries to quell the warmth blooming in his chest; Minx is painfully nice. It’s too good of a home for a teenage boy like him to stay in.
Even so, the next three days are spent with radio silence from Nikki and far too much care from Minx.
They bond over beans and toast, argue about sports teams, and lament the tragedy that is American phrases.
“I mean, what in the hell is a couch.” She barks without bite one evening. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun as she attempts to cook mac and cheese from scratch. “It’s a sofa! Sofa.”
“Oh my god, and sweatshirts? Like gross, no. It’s a jumper!”
The steam wafts up as she strains the overcooked pasta and it fogs up her glasses. Still, she beams a fond smile to Toby as he perches on the barstool to watch her.
“Kiddo,” She says, “I think you’re my favorite.”
And it’s all lithe and gentle in her Irish brogue and rosy wine drunk cheeks that remind him of his mother on her good days. She painted his nails a lovely shade of blue that night, and her cats just melt into his lap when they settle for a movie night.
It’s been almost a week, but he latched on quick. He’s sorta just weak like that. And yeah, he hates himself for it too.
She’s strict, though, he learns. Lights out at 10, no exceptions. No shoes in the house, trash is taken out on Tuesday, laundry is done on Thursday, and nothing except water is allowed in his room.
“You gremlin children are messy fuckers.” She explains, waving a bottle of laundry detergent at him. “You seem like a good kid, but I swear to god, if I see any stains on my carpet, you’ll be sleeping in the litterbox.”
He smiles up from his homework, the makeup assignments emailed from Ranboo spilling all over the kitchen table, and tries not to grimace. She’s joking after all, but something cold still pools inside of him.
But every night, she bids him goodnight and lets him leave the hall light on. It’s too good, it can’t last. It’s just a matter of time.
He’s back at school only 3 days later. Tommy greets him with a bone-crushing hug, Ranboo ruffling his hair softly. He's been texting and calling constantly with them both, but it’s nothing compared to being with them in person.
“It was badass, ya know,” Tommy declares, “People wouldn’t shut up about how the principal personally escorted you to the office. You’re earning street cred, big man.”
Ranboo’s shoulders shake with laughter as they walk down the halls.
“Hardly,” He corrects, “Honestly, Tubbo, no one even noticed.”
He catches the side of Ranboo’s slate-grey eyes, giving him a side-wink, and something like relief untangles in his chest.
As much as Tommy likes to give a grandiose version of every story, Toby never liked being the center of attention, especially when it came to his home life.
The day passes slowly, English droning on and math all too easy. They spend study hall huddled in the left-back corner where no one really goes and send too many memes back and forth.
Of course, Toby takes the time to catch up on makeup work and painstakingly focuses on his reading assignments.
But Ranboo likes to rest a masked cheek on his head sometimes, and Tommy glosses over the page every now and then.
“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.” Tommy reads aloud the passage with vigor, much to Toby’s tired relief. “Romeo and Juliet?
“Yeah,” He sighs, “It’s for my remedial class.”
Ranboo clicks his tongue, finally pulling out his own scattered notes to study.
“I forgot you were in there.”
“Yeah, it’s my elective for the year.” He huffs darkly, “If I stay here, that is.”
The younger two wince, the mood turning somber. They all quietly knew that it was getting harder and harder for Tubbo to stay at the same school. Before Minx, it was a 90-minute bus ride in each direction. He had not-so-politely declined switching schools.
“What’s your foster mom’s name again?”
“Minx,” He fiddles with the page, thumb smeared with ink. “She’s has cats.”
Tommy shifts in his seat but says nothing more. And Toby’s sorry, he curls out to place a hand over Tommy’s. Ranboo follows suit.
“She’s nice.” He says softly. “Really, Tommy, she’s a good one.”
He hums, bristling all the same. He was a foster kid too. But Phil had adopted him in the UK when he was only 4.
Still, unlike Toby, he was born into the system. Born into two deadbeat drug addicts but raised with two brothers, a father, and their loving memory of a wife and mother.
He and Toby had met in the US, however. Toby was 7 when the State pawned him off to his father in Brooklyn. His half-brother Schlatt was 13 and not so happy to meet the fucker that spawned from my dad cheating on my ma.
Of course, it was Wilbur who knocked sense into him. It’s not Tubbo’s fault, you prick. He scoffs sharply in the week that followed Toby’s untimely arrival.
And the two older boys lived close enough at the time, and it was inevitable that their younger siblings met.
Toby was sent back to his mom the following year. But Schlatt still made the extra 3 subway spots to pick him up and bring him to Phil’s house on the weekends. Just because Tommy gets in our way whenever no one’s there to play with him
And then soon, when Schlatt and Wilbur when off to college, it was Toby going alone on the subway platforms to see Tommy. By then, Tommy figured out where the band-aids and blood came from; he knew what abuse looked like.
He’d yell and cry at every new bruise and cut, each time demanding justice for his friend. Tears in his eyes and a tremble hidden by a white-knuckle fist.
But really, it’s Toby being protective of Tommy. Placating smiles and easy excuses. Even at the last house, Toby never let on until the evidence was unmistakable. He dodged the questions and gave vague enough answers.
At least this time, he can tell the truth.
“She lets me eat mac and cheese outta a Disney Princess bowl.” He says softly, relishing in Tommy’s watery smile.
“No fucking way.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s what qualifies as a good foster parent?”
“I gave you fucking cubes, ya know.” She says from the doorframe. She makes a point not to go into his room unless she knocks or he tells her it’s okay. She’s not sure if he notices; he does.
“I’m grateful for it,” He rushes to say, cringing at the fright present in his words – which only furthers her frown – but still crams his neatly folded clothes into the depth of his duffle. It’s been 3 weeks since he got there.
“Look, Tubbo – may I come in?” He nods, and she plops herself on the plush carpet next to him. “I’ve loved having ya here, and you seem to be gettin’ comfortable round here ya?”
Another nod.
“So, I wanted to ask Nikki if I could stay on as your long-term foster mom.” She pauses to gauge his reaction, but his expression remains untouched. “I don’t know much about...Schlatt or why you can’t be with him right now, but in the meantime, why don’t you stay here with me?”
Toby flexes his fingers, wishing for a joint right about now, but says nothing more. If he opened his mouth to explain, he’s pretty sure mourning wails would come out instead.
She doesn’t sigh, but she lets out a hum and just heaves herself off the floor.
“Just think about it, okay?”
“Okay.” He agrees.
But dutifully, he packs away his cleaned clothes and zips up the bag when he’s done. They eat dinner and talk about their days like the conversation never happened.
“Kiddo,” Schlatt sighs through the phone. “I heard what happened; I called Nikki.”
It’s late even for Schlatt; there’s an hour time difference. Toby’s under the covers, hoping it’ll muffle the noises – lights out at 10 Tubbo, you have school in the morning – but he’s more focused on the voice on the other end of the phone, wishing it was more than just a tinny echo.
“Jay.” His voice breaks, the heel of his hand pressing the tears back from his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about Sunday… “Schlatt, I don’t wanna talk about it...”
“Tubbo, your ma –”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
It’s nearly 4am, but he doesn’t get to talk to Schlatt often anymore. Between his brother’s University schedule and long hours at various part-time jobs – there just isn’t any time.
But it’s 3:48, and he’s tired from school and wants to forget about the stupid group project with too many stupid people who aren’t Tommy or Ranboo. He wants to talk about Tekkit and baseball – wants to laugh so loud that Minx catches him, maybe ground him with dish duty for the week, but it’s okay because pretending to be happy is way better than dragging people down with him.
Because instead, he’s here: shivering under bedsheets, trying to convince them both it’s okay.
“I got approval for time off, okay?” Schlatt sighs, “I’ll be there on New Year.”
“You promis –” He cuts himself off, folding himself all small and tiny under the covers. Last time they talked, Schlatt had promised Christmas. And it stings more than he’d ever care to admit. “New Year is nice.”
“We’ll have a second Christmas. I’ll put up the light again, and Dad can make like…pot roast or some shit.”
“You know he doesn’t like me coming over….” Toby says softly, voice all pulpy and tired. “You don’t even like staying with dad.”
“Well, why don’t you take the train up to me, huh? Maybe spend the week there over your break?”
“I don’t think Nikki will let me, at least not alone.”
There’s a pause; Toby can hear a lighter click even though Jay promises he’s cutting down. He supposed that he just has the tendency to stress people out. Making them drink or hit him – make them smoke just to take the edge off.
For the record, he is sorry.
“This new home treating you right?” Schlatt asks far too causally, but Toby thinks it’s fair since the rest of the conversation is off the table. “I uh, I thought you promised to tell me when you get hit, huh?”
“You’d just tell Nikki. But um ya know Minx is nice...” He trails off. He sees his beat-up duffle bag straining to hold up, but the empty closet… something inside him just longs to fill it.
“Uh yeah.” An inhale, an exhale – a cough. “That’s what you fucking said about the last place too.”
Toby winces; if he’s coughing, that means he’s not used to the smoke anymore, and if he’s not used to the smoke, then – “And they were nice, I just…I wasn’t a good kid, okay? My fault or whatever.”
“That doesn’t explain why you didn’t say something when some asswipe foster sib pushed you down a flight of stairs.”
Toby sighs, closing his eyes tight like he could wish away this conversation, wish away the bitter truth that is so close to being pulled from his teeth. He had been at that home for almost a year, one of the longest and not the worst – nothing ever enough to really warrant Nikki taking notice. It had been a revolving door of little kids and long-term troubled teens – an easy place to get lost in. He stayed a Tommy’s mostly and kept out of sight – it was just bad luck that Nikki called him in.
“I wanted…” His voice catches in that awful way that Schlatt knows to means his brother’s trying not to cry; he’s trying (failing) not to be honest. “I wanted to stay in one place. I was tired of moving around.”
“But they fucking hit you? The other bastard kids? And the fucking guardians too? Tubbo, I saw Nikki’s report….” He sighs wetly, breath trembling. “We had a long fucking conversation; after fucking weeks of phone tag, I shoulda fucking – “
“It’s okay.” He whispers all miserable and self-loathing – shame filling him to the brim. “It wasn’t…it was only sometimes, and I just stayed outta the way, stayed with Tommy.”
“But kiddo…It shouldn’t happen.”
“I wanted to stay.” He whispers, and that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Minx is nice – far too nice – and so is Phil for letting him leech off of his family. But that place, with all its scrapes and bruise, is probably what he deserved.
“Jesus, Tubbo, is that really what you wanted?”
Schlatt sighs, sniffling from the other side of the line. And Toby…he can’t do much but listen.
He pulls at his hair, hurried reassurance desperate to reach his brother, but it doesn’t work. They’re miles away, and there’s nothing anyone can do. And he’s sorry so desperately, inconsolable sorry.
“Schlatt,” He pleas, “It’s okay, I’m fine, okay? Nikki was just…being dramatic, I’m okay, barely a scratch!”
But Schlatt never answers; he just cries quietly over the phone through broken sentences that he never finishes.
Toby hadn’t heard him cry since he was taken by CPS when they were kids. Physically clawed away from each other. Wilbur had been there, holding back Schlatt, shoving tissues at his bloody nose – one of the officers had decked him in the face.
But now there’s no one to help him, and it’s two brothers just alone together with their grief.
Sometimes all you can do is cry.
“Minx is okay you with coming over after school?” Tommy asks warily as they walk to the car.
“Yeah. She can’t pick me up from school anyway, and the bus doesn’t go into the city.” Toby says. “Phil’s okay with me coming over again?”
Tommy blows a raspberry, slinging an arm over Toby and ruffling his hair.
“Oh, my young friend- “
“I’m older than you….”
“OH, MY SMALL GREMLIN FRIEND!” Tommy shouts, gathering stares in the parking lot. Tommy doesn’t notice. “You are always welcomed.”
They share a wholesome stare, pink dusting both their cheeks, but Toby shrugs off the arm.
“Thanks,” He says quickly, “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too.”
“C’mon before Techno drives off without us.”
I don’t understand why we can’t just buy this shit.” He mumbles rudely.
Still, Minx just smiles knowingly with ruby-stained lips in silence, watches how delicately her new son tills the soil and tucks the seed into the earth. He’s wearing her old sun hat despite the harsh side-eyes and clicking tongue protesting. I don’t like purple.
He didn’t necessarily complain when she pulled out a pink one.
She clears her throat, eyes barely raised in reprimand. “Well, home-grown food is better, you’ll see.”
Something in him just… doesn’t…understand. He looks at the lump of wet soil in the flower bed and the mud under his nails. It’s by no means a tomato plant, not even sprouting yet. Even the pumpkins – which Minx swears will be pumpkins by next fall – are still just slimy wet seeds with baby green buds as big as his fingernail.
“But… it’s nearly winter.”
She smiles, and it’s worse because it’s like she knows something he doesn’t. Like it’s so simple, but he just doesn’t get it.
“Yeah, but it’ll be sprouting by spring, probably ready to eat in the summer.”
He scoffs, almost nearly disappointed. “Yeah, I’ll be gone by then for sure.”
“You wanna go back?” She looks a tad hurt, and it aches to see her face so down.
“Well, no,” He admits with a frown of his own. “I mean, it’s whatever, but that’s months down the road, Minx…I probably won’t be there.”
“Says who?”
He watches a bee land on her wilting sunflowers. It flies away once it sees there’s nothing left. It makes him sad for some reason, but there’s no more pollen; it’s just a dry, empty husk – he can’t blame it for leaving.
“Well?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are tangled and wrong. He never does answer, just resumes his careful planting.
Some things just can’t be explained.
They’re at Ranboo's today playing Mario Kart instead of doing homework.
“How is Tubbo so good at this?” Ranboo says with exasperation, gasping when a perfectly aimed green shell knocks him down a spot to fourth place. “HOW DID HE EVEN DO THAT? HE THREW THAT FROM FIRST.”
“Dunno!” He responds with a happy shrug, “Watch your left, Tommy.”
“My le- HOW THE FUCK!”
The split screens were full of tears save for Dry Bones, who takes a victory lap.
“Sore losers,” He says with a tongue stuck out. “I believe to the victor, the spoils?”
Ranboo and Tommy sigh, looking at each other with matching frowns, but there’s far too much fondness in their eyes.
“Do we have to?” Tommy pleas.
“We’d be stealing the last juice box from my sister technically….”
As if on cue, the younger girl runs into Ranboo’s room with welling tears and an accusatory finger pointed at the trio.
“MARK.” She whines, “Mom said to have to let me play too.”
“Mom didn’t say that.” Ranboo objects, “Mark?” Tommy questions, “Hello!” Tubbo waves.
“Hi, Tubbo!” The girl chirps back to Toby. She has long honey blonde hair and a crooked grin, not quite unlike Ranboo’s when he takes off his mask.
“Your name is not Mark!” Tommy protests, ignoring the girl entirely.
“Wha- Yes, it is,” Ranboo scoffs, “You know this, teachers call me Mark during roll call.”
She’s young, maybe 6 or 7, but –
“Would you like some of my apple juice?” Toby asks, holding out his winning prize.
“Hey!” She pouts, “That’s mine!”
He smiles mischievously, “Not anymore; I won it when I beat your brother at Mario Kart.”
“Well, I wanna play too!”
Toby flickers a glance to Tommy and Ranboo – who are now arguing about whether their Art teacher has a girl-stache or not – before picking up the vacant controllers with a smile.
“Alright, if you win, you can have the juice box, but if I win….”
“Okay, okay, okay!” She says, breaking into a toothy grin, “Imma win!”
Toby restarts the game as she settles to sit in front of him on the floor.
“Do you know what the buttons do?”
“Nope!”
“It’s okay. I’ll teach you.”
The black screen blinks to life with too many colors, and the music starts with gusto.
“Which player am I?” She demands, looking up at the different characters on the screen.
Toby gives a gentle laugh, resting the controller lightly on her head.
“That guy, in the very back,” He says, amused. She looks back with an expression wrinkled with disgust.
“He’s just an ugly little turtle.” She declares. “I wanna be Peach.”
She falls asleep after a few more rounds, all tucked in Ranboo’s lap, the empty juice carton and unplugged controller still in her hands.
Tommy’s asleep too, not nearly as cute, sprawled on Ranboo’s bed.
“You’re good with kids,” Ranboo says carefully, his own fingers gently brushing through her hair. “Do uh… never mind.”
Ranboo just radiates tension and unease, but Toby tries to remain relaxed on the floor. Legs swinging up in the air as he lies on his stomach doing a history worksheet.
They don’t talk about Toby being in foster care; it’s just not something that comes up. Ranboo is not dumb – he’s always seen the handprint stained on his forearms or the tension in Tommy’s jaw when the oldest is absent from school.
Even when they met in 7th grade, Toby had fading yellow on his ribs to match the new blue bruises he got defending Ranboo’s honor. Still, Toby’s always happy-go-lucky around them, never mentioning much beyond the reminded excuse of why he can’t have friends over.
Of course, Tommy had been much more aggressive; Ranboo wasn’t allowed so much as a glance at a cut lip or a rust stain on his shirt. There’s had been many false starts in their friendship.
“You’re allowed to ask,” Toby says casually, though Ranboo can see how he white knuckles his pen. “It’s…I don’t mind you knowing shit, I just… don’t – know what to tell you….”
“Do you have sisters? Like… non-foster sisters?”
“I did.” His eyes lock on Ranboo’s sister, still tiny and small, her little finger curled around her brother’s thumb. “Lani’s younger; she’d be…12 now? Teagan’s older; probably aged out of the system by now.”
“Fuck.” Ranboo swears through an exhale, his eyes widen before backtracking quick. “Sorry, um, I didn’t mean uh.”
“I’soka,” Toby says, sounding very much not okay.
“When was…”
“I was 8…maybe 9 – 6 or 7 years ago, I guess.”
There’s a soft lull that washes over them. Toby’s eye lingers on the two a moment longer before going back to his work. They sit in silence for another hour before Phil comes to pick up Tommy and drop off Toby.
Ranboo pulls his friend into a tight hug before they go.
“Oof, you alright, big man?” Toby wheezes.
“They’re still your sisters Tubbo.” Ranboo says into his ear, “You still care, and you still love them.”
Toby just clasps a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder, looking far older than he has any right too and nods.
“Thanks, Mark.”
Nikki comes four months later. Toby finds them all huddled inside when he comes home from Tommy’s house that evening at 5 because it gets dark earlier, and I don’t like you walking home in the dark, and you won’t let me meet your little buddies...
Earbuds hanging from his shirt and something painfully vulnerable in his eyes; he’s ashamed to say he was caught off guard. Four months was a long time.
Nikki looks tired, with sunken eyes and a smudge of pink lipstick on the corner of her mouth. A little girl with bouncing blonde curls and handprints purpling at her arms rests on her hip.
And even with the echoing voices indistinguishable down the hall, he can see the girl waving at him, and he knows it’s all over.
“I can take on two kids,” Minx defends fiercely, though her harsh expression melts when Toby finally comes into the kitchen.”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Minx, your apartment only has one extra bedroom, and it’s - well, usually the AA thinks it’s…unorthodox to room a tender-aged child with a teen unless they’re related.”
“So, where does Tubbo go?”
Minx sounds heartbroken. He knows she’s young, has only been a foster mom for a year or two, parented only a handful of kids. The last one was older, gracefully aging out of the system. Minx said her daughter was only with her a few months before moving into her own apartment.
But even then, Minx co-signed the lease, still does weekly check-ins on Monday evenings.
He knows he’s her first failure; he can hear it in her voice. The desperation, the pain, and the sadness.
Nikki sighs, her nails tapping rhythmically on the table.
“There’s a group home,” She says quietly. “I had been hoping to find a family to take you in, but…this will be temporary.”
It’s a hollow comfort, bobbling desperately on the surface, refusing to drown. It’s worse than death.
“Will I need to change school?” He asks gruffly, a snarl resting bitterly on his face. There’s something ugly and aching that relishes in the guilt lacing their face.
“Well…Toby, please.”
“Wow,” He scoffs, “Gee, thanks.”
“C’mon, Tubbo,” Minx starts, the gentle scold cut off when they all realize she has no authority over him now. “Just… I’m sorry, kid.”
“Whatever,” He says, brushing past them all. “I’ll be smoking out on the curb when you’re ready.”
He remains stony-faced when he leaves, pausing only to give a friendly two-finger salute to the little girl. They stare back with heartbroken eyes that leave him smoldering with anger.
He passes the Christmas tree they put up only days earlier – the ugly socks hung up on the mantle. Minx had a stocking, a felt thing her mother made when she was a girl but Toby…he could only add some striped sock that lost its mate. Somewhere, he supposes, the stocking he had as a kid – the one his mom had packed away somewhere in her ratty apartment – is probably gone. He has one at Tommy’s house – it would be the first year he’d get to hang it in a foster home. Well, at least it would have been.
He lets his gaze linger on the tree a moment longer before he closes the front door with a demonstrative slam. He’s quick to fall to the cold cement, sighing with the weight of heavy bones and exhaustion.
He’s quicker to find his duffle, rummaging through to find his kit from a hidden pocket and pulling a prerolled joint he always keeps.
The cars drive by carelessly, and the smoke sits heavy on his tongue. There’s a deep inhale, and a slow exhale.
His mind finally slows enough to stop asking why he’s not good enough to stay. It stops asking why this hurts more than the bruises and broken bones.
Instead, he pulls out his phone and carefully focuses on dialing the number he knows by heart.
“Tubbo, we just spend like 3 hours on a call.”
…
“Tubbo? Toby?”
“I love you.” He says gently, all thoughts only on Ranboo’s amused hum vibrating in his ear. “Love your voice.”
“Huh, my voice?” He rumbles with a laugh. “Are you high, Toby?”
“Yeah.” He chirps, taking another long drag before tapping out the ash. “Feels good.”
“If you feel good now, why don’t you put it out, okay?” Ranboo askes kindly. “Does Minx know you’re high?”
“Yup. I told her on my way out!”
“And she’s okay with it?”
“Maybe, probably not,” He explains, fingers playing in the soot on the pavement. “She’s not my foster mom anymore, not the boss of me.”
Something aching in Ranboo’s chest. Tubbo’s light chatter fades to a dull buzz in his ears, and he feels a lump form in his throat.
“Wha- what?” The questions tumble from his throat. “I thought…I thought you said she was nice.”
“Oh yeah, she was the best! But there’s this little girl, and I was just…She needed it more.”
“But where will you go?”
“Group home. Not the first time.”
Ranboo remembers Tubbo in a group home. He met Tubbo when he was in a bad group home. He used to think Tommy and Tubbo were actually brothers, considering how much time Tubbo would spend at Tommy’s. They were young, back in middle school, where everyone liked to pick on the lanky kid with sunglasses and a mask.
Tubbo had been the first to defend him from a fist aimed at his face. Of course, Tommy, skittish and afraid, joined the fray once Toby got a foot to the stomach. Knocking heads before yelling at Tubbo to not pick fights when your fucking wrist is sprained, shithead!
There’s thick scar puckering at his shoulder, a parting gift from his time spent there. Ranboo learned later, through Tommy, that some mother fucker got him with a pocketknife. The home splashed in the local news months when the court case was released about a little girl getting assaulted but Tubbo was long gone by then. He was moved to a nice elderly couple a day or two after being stabbed, then back into a group home 3 weeks later.
“Ranbooooo,” Toby whines, “Are you even listening?”
“Sorry, Bo,” Ranboo chuckles, “I was just thinking.”
“I was talking about pineapple on pizza.” He announces petulantly. “My foster dad used to only buy pizza with just pineapple and nothing else.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, but he also likes crack cocaine, so perhaps he doesn’t have the best taste.”