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Tommy stares at the mansion. It’s huge--bigger than any building he’s ever seen on the server.
It looks homely too. Put together and warm, despite its size.
Tommy walks slowly throughout the snow, taking his time. It's freezing outside, and he doesn’t exactly enjoy the cold nipping at his pink cheeks, but it’s better than what awaits him inside.
They’ll have questions. Tommy doesn’t want to supply them with answers.
Not yet, anyways. Perhaps if he had more time, more space, he would have put together a carefully formatted essay. He would have figured out the right words, the way to lessen the blow, keep the discussion light. He would have put thought into each and every word, pondered his tone, and kept everything the exact way it should be.
Because it isn’t a big deal. Not really, not to him, not after all these months.
Or rather--it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t bother him, because he deserved it. Tubbo had sent him there after all, so shouldn’t he have expected it? Shouldn’t he have known what had occurred there, the blood that had been spilt, the reason bruises litter his muscles even now? The reason he still doesn’t walk right on his left leg? The reason that his back is split with scars?
Evidently, they didn’t.
It had started this morning. Ranboo and Tubbo had always sort of understood that Tommy was different, but not how.
This time, it seemed as if every muffled flinch of his was magnified under their careful watch. There wasn’t anything he could hide from them it seemed--every move he made was monitored, and Tommy watched as Ranboo’s gentle gaze watched his every twitch.
It had all come to a head when Tommy had spilled juice on his shirt. He’d been jumpy all day--a result of the many nightmares he had faced during his sleep the previous night--and had been a bit too quick in his haste to make breakfast. He’d spilled it, watched the sticky orange mess soak into his shirt.
He just stood there. He didn’t move, even as the juice started to drip onto the floor.
He’d fucked up.
Ranboo and Tubbo were going to be furious.
And so he turned, ready to face their terrifying gaze, but--Tubbo was in front of him, with a soft smile. He muttered “I’ll clean this up,” and Ranboo had guided Tommy to his room.
And Tommy had changed out of his juice-soaked shirt without even thinking about it.
Ranboo had gasped, and made a sound that was evidently loud enough for Tubbo to hear from downstairs. Tubbo had burst into the room, ready to fight off some sort of foe, but had met only Tommy’s scratched up, scarred back.
Which most definitely had not been that way before exile.
It had taken Tommy a moment to notice their stares, and only another to run. He’d sprinted, grabbed his jacket off the hook before the door, and set out into the cold with only the (considerably flimsy) clothes on his back. Where he was going, he wasn’t quite sure. Anywhere away from them.
He’d ended up in a forest nearly a half mile away, trekking slowly through the snow before he came to the revelation that he could not, in fact, stay out all night without contracting hypothermia, especially in this sort of attire.
Now, he stands before the mansion once more, debating how much longer he can stand the cold before he has to give in.
He was lucky--the clothes he was wearing combined with the jacket prevented him from some sort of rapid onset hypothermia, but it didn’t keep his fingers from slowly beginning to lose feeling, and his cheeks from turning into smooth ice. He was freezing. Not in the literal sense, not yet, but possibly soon.
Now, despite what many might believe, Tommy isn’t dumb. He knows going back to the mansion means he will have a much higher survival rate, and that it’s the only correct thing to do.
However, embarrassment and anxiety still claw at his chest, and he lets out a breath. He’d rather do almost anything else than return to the mansion.
Because he knows what he’ll be met with. Pitying smiles and guilty hugs and actions that don’t mean anything, not really. Empty gestures for things that they are required to feel sorry for.
His hands feel cold, and his face is burning, and everything is too much yet too little and the worry threatens to swallow him completely.
He should be over exile.
He’s not.
And he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be, and perhaps that’s the worst part. He might never improve. Never become better, never grow and move on from the person that Dream had molded him into. And sure, Dream had been the craftsman, but he hadn’t acted alone. Wilbur had made him malleable, Tubbo had more or less sold him off to be remade, and everyone else had left him in the violent hands of the sculptor, who would mold him until he was less of himself than he had ever been.
Tommy raises his shoulders up, rolls them back, drops them down. It was a symphony of movements that Wilbur had taught him. How to stand at order, how to pay attention, how to shut up, Tommy, none of us need to hear your goddamn plans and how to be quiet, for once, the adults are talking and how to close his eyes and pretend that whatever was happening wasn’t real-- but that he was only dreaming.
It had been useful in exile. He’d roll his shoulders, bite his tongue, pretend not to feel the pain of an iron rod burning into his back as Dream laughed.
It was a game, one that he hadn’t wanted to play, but Wilbur had taught him how to beat it nonetheless.
Tommy bites his tongue, and raises his head. There’s no point in stalling, not any longer, not when the flicker of the fire can be seen in the windows of the mansion. He misses the warmth, and as much as he hates to admit it, he misses the people inside the mansion as well.
He walks through the snow, carefully, and doesn’t wince when snow falls into his shoes. It’s his fault--he ran away, after all--and so, there is no point in indulging in his own suffering.
Carefully, softly, he opens the door of the mansion.
It’s unlocked. Tommy would like to think that perhaps Ranboo or Tubbo left it unlocked in the hopes he’d return, but he knows that’s only wishful thinking.
He closes the door behind him, and relishes in the warmth that spreads over him. His skin starts to tingle and feel alive in the worst way possible. Then, he realizes something.
The mansion is quiet.
The mansion is never quiet, not while Ranboo and Tubbo are here. They’re always doing some sort of sickening couple’s activity together, fucking dancing in the ballroom to music that makes even Tommy tap his foot and sway. He would dance to the songs, by himself, swaying to the music by his lonesome, and pretending that he still had someone to dance with.
Now, in the silence, Tommy knows they aren’t home. Of course, he thinks to himself, ignoring the bitter aftertaste of the thought. They wouldn’t wait for me.
And he pities himself now, and he hates that he does because he doesn’t fucking deserve it. He brings a hand to thigh and digs in his nails, forming small half-moon crescents, and breathes in.
Slowly. In, two, three, four, hold until seven, out for eight.
Simply, not nonetheless effective.
He calms himself down, and sheds his jacket. It’s covered in water, and his shirt is soaked through, the snow slowly melting and being absorbed into his very skin. It’s freezing, unbearably so, and Tommy wants to cry and sob and shake because he’s alone again, and all he fucking wanted was to have someone to cry next to.
They left him, Ranboo and Tubbo, and it’s deserved, but the sting still sends spasms through his body. He knows that they will return. This is, after all, their own house. It doesn’t stop it from hurting.
Tommy walks up the stairs, carefully. He takes one hand and grasps it tightly to the railing, heaves himself up, step after step after step until he’s reached the top. He walks down the hallway, and passes the paintings.
There’s about ten paintings on the wall next to the staircase.
All of them are Tubbo, Ranboo, and Michael.
All of them. Without fail.
The subtle heartbeat of loneliness, of jealousy, only beats harder.
And there’s such painstaking care put into the hanging of each one, and even the goddamn brushstrokes look expensive, and it’s incredibly obvious that there was time and money put into each and every one of the paintings. It shouldn’t pain him as much as it does, but selfishness and jealousy curl deep within him. He wishes that he had a painting. That there was some sort of record, some sort of undeniable proof that Tommy had been cared for. That he had meant something to someone, that he had some sort of use or purpose that went beyond being another person’s punching bag, someone to place the blame on.
He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. He walks by the paintings, and ignores the splashes of colour in his peripheral vision. Tommy raises his shoulders high, and marches to the bedroom he sleeps in--not his bedroom, no, that would be too hopeful--and wraps a hand around the door knob, turning it softly.
He doesn't know why he’s being so quiet. No one’s here anyhow. There’s no point, no purpose beyond denying that he has been left alone once more.
Tommy steps into the bedroom, walks to the bed, and falls on top of it. He doesn’t bother with the lights, doesn’t bother with his soaked clothes, only throws off his frozen shoes and slips under the warm covers.
It’s a nice bed. Really. Tubbo and Ranboo had gotten him a weighted blanket after they had discovered his nightmares--the ones where he’d toss and turn and scratch at himself until there were lines of red dripping down onto the sheets--and instead of yelling, instead of being disappointed, had only offered a hug and a solution.
Tommy patted around the bed, movements sluggish as sleep threatened to pull him into its gentle hold. He wrapped his arms around the small stuffed animal he had--the one that he had protected since he was a kid, the only true possession that he still owned--and snuggled further into his pillow. Darkness settled comfortably above him, a sort of warmth that he craved, and he began to drift off to sleep.
He’d deal with everything in the morning. He’d fucked up, that much was sure, but he’d enjoy the small comforts until the Beloveds inevitably threw him out of their home.
They wouldn’t want to stay with him. They hadn’t truly wanted to before, but even more so now. No one wanted to deal with a broken toy.
Tommy drifts off into a restless sleep, and he doesn’t hear the slamming of the door. He doesn’t hear the gentle sobs, doesn’t hear the footsteps up the stairs, doesn’t hear the quiet gasp.
He doesn’t feel the weight of more blankets being placed on top of him, and he doesn’t feel the gentle hands carding through his hair.
He doesn’t see the soft light flickering as Ranboo lights a candle. Doesn’t see Tubbo lay down next to Tommy, just like he had when they were kids. He doesn’t see Ranboo place himself cautiously in a chair, too afraid to join the two on the bed, not sure if he’d be welcome.
No, Tommy only sleeps through the night soundly, without a single nightmare to wake him.
-----
When Tommy wakes up, the first thing he notices is the warmth on his left side. It’s odd. Not unpleasant--but unexpected.
He shifts to the side, and is met with Tubbo’s sleeping figure.
What the fuck.
Tommy sits up slowly, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy next to him. He wasn’t sure when Tubbo had returned--and definitely wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to check in on Tommy at all.
He opens his eyes wider, and is met with Ranboo returning his gaze. He’s holding two cups of coffee--for who, Tommy’s not quite sure. Of course, Tubbo drinks nearly five cups a day, but Ranboo is sworn off the stuff, so it doesn’t make sense for him to--
Ranboo reaches out and offers the mug to him.
Oh.
Tommy takes the mug and cradles it to his chest. He’s always been oddly possessive of his things--the disks, and his notebook, and his sewing materials--and so he holds the mug carefully, even if it isn’t his.
His general possessiveness translates to people as well. During the war, he’d cling to Wilbur’s side, terrified to let him go. God, when he had first met Tubbo, he’d dragged him down to a spot by the river to read, and had kept him there for hours--until the sun had begun to drift towards the horizon line, and their parents had yelled for them back. When he was younger, he’d cried for days when Phil and Techno had left, and not even Wilbur’s gentle lullabies could soothe him.
And it sucked. He knew he shouldn’t be like this, that these were people with their own aspirations and ambitions that did not involve Tommy.
That didn’t help the jealousy that plunged its spear into his hardened heart, or the loneliness that grew within him like a weed.
Now, he’s alone. And it’s his fault, for a variety of reasons.
The worst part is--he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know how to be better, to be quieter, to fucking shut up for once and let someone else take the lead. He doesn’t know how to love with gentle headpats or the occasional hug--he can only pour every emotion into his love and hope that the others will accept it.
Tommy has never been good at loving lightly. It’s all of him, or none of him.
Perhaps he now understands why he’s so often left alone.
“Good morning,” Ranboo greets, already fully awake. He sleeps deeper than the rest of them, gets through the entirety of the night without nightmares or the odd 3am wake up call. If Tommy judges by the lack of circles under Ranboo’s eyes, it’s evidently paying off.
Tommy, on the other hand, still feels exhausted. He knows he must have slept for the longest he’s slept in a while--at least seven hours--but the exhaustion that plagues him goes deeper than the type that can be fixed by a simple night of sleep. “Morning,” Tommy mumbles out, rubbing at his eyes. He feels as if he’s being dissected by Ranboo’s solid stare.
Tubbo stirs next to him, and springs up. It nearly startles Tommy out of bed. “Tubbo, what the fuck,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his head. It’s warm. After last night, he wouldn’t be surprised if he began to run a fever. Staying out in the cold without the proper clothing almost never has a good effect.
“Sorry,” Tubbo says, but he doesn’t sound all that sorry. He then reaches a hand and wraps it around Tommy’s ankle, and pulls him out of the sheets onto the floor.
Tommy doesn’t even protest. He’s too fucking exhausted to lift a finger in retaliation. He only groans, and places his head between his knees.
“And that’s for running off on us last night,” Tubbo says.
Right. Last night.
Tommy raises his head from his knees, and looks around at his friend’s faces. They don’t look angry--and perhaps that’s the terrifying part. If not anger, he doesn’t know what to expect.
“I’m sorry,” he says preemptively. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You don’t say,” Ranboo responds in that dry way of his, but he isn’t raising up his fists in anger or threatening the violence he’s so used to. Sure, it’s not like he expected that from Ranboo of all people, but still. The odd acceptance of his behavior is unsettling. “We’re not angry,” Ranboo adds. “Just worried.”
And those few words are the ones to make Tommy break.
He bites down on the sleeve of his shirt and attempts to hide the way sobs wrack his still too-thin body. Crying is a weakness, Wilbur’s voice reminds him, the words echoing against the walls of Pogtopia. Chin up, Toms, didn’t you say you were a big man?
“I’m sorry,” Tommy mutters again, forcing the words out through a sob.
“You don’t need to apologise,” Tubbo says, knocking his shoulder against Tommy’s. “We just wanna know what caused all this shit.”
Tommy forces in deep breaths. He concentrates on the room around him--the way the curtains are shut completely, the candle that is set on his desk, the dirty clothes that litter his floor. He counts in, and out, and in again, until he can breathe steadily. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Ranboo raises an eyebrow, and Tubbo snorts. “Try again, bossman. Even if we didn’t see all your scars and shit, we’re not dumb.”
“Besides, you ran off on us last night,” Ranboo adds.
Tommy stays quiet, and picks at the skin on his hands.
“We’re not angry,” Tubbo repeats. “We’re not. Really.”
Tommy brings his hands to his hair, and tugs lightly. “You should be. I don’t even know why I care so fucking much about it. Was a while ago, anyhow. Should be over it and all.”
There’s a pause. Ranboo reaches out, gives Tubbo his coffee, and Tubbo takes a sip. Savors it. Tommy is reminded of the drink in his own hands, and brings it close to his face, relishing in the warmth.
“You know,” Tubbo says, quietly, “I’m still not over the election.” He curls in on himself slightly. “I have nightmares about it a lot, even though it was years ago at this point.” Tubbo glances up and meets Tommy’s eyes. “I don’t know what happened, but I promise that you don’t have to be ‘over it’ or anything.”
“And we’ll help you,” Ranboo says, “Anything you need. You don’t have to go through it alone.”
Tubbo nudges Ranboo with his knee. “You’re being sappy again.”
Ranboo raises an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”
“Of course not,” Tommy finally raises his head, “Tubso is never sappy. I taught him better than that.”
Ranboo groans. “I’m being ganged up on.”
And they laugh, and it’s nice. A lighthearted break from the heavy conversation that waits over them like storm clouds, ready to rain down and ruin it. Tommy wraps his arms strong around himself, then takes another sip of coffee. It’s got milk in it, and a small amount of sugar. Just how he likes it. He glances over at Ranboo, and mouths a small ‘thank you.’ He gets a nod in response.
Tommy’s the first to break the silence. He thinks, perhaps, that they were waiting for him. “Exile.” He says it quietly, almost as if he doesn’t want them to hear.
“Exile?” Ranboo asks, and although it’s said with true curiosity, it still makes Tommy’s teeth clench. Everything that he went through, for over two years, and they barely even know about the extent of it. Hell, Ranboo is half the reason he was there in the first place, and he still doesn’t have a clue.
“Dream,” Tommy responds.
Tubbo tilts his head to the side. “Tom, you’re not making any sense. What about Dream?”
And oh. They really don’t know. But Dream had said that--
But Dream had lied, he knows this, he had lied and told Tommy that he was his friend and that--
“Tommy?” Ranboo prompts gently. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Tommy spits out, and it’s harsher than it should be. He rubs a hand over his still watery eyes, burning under the strain of not allowing the tears to run. “I’m fucking fine, Ranboo. It’s nothing.” He takes a deep breath in, and his lungs flutter under the strain. When he asks his next question, his voice is soft, hesitant. “You really don’t know?”
Ranboo shakes his head. “No,” Tubbo says in response, “we don’t. Really.”
The sun’s light can be seen under the shut curtains next to him, and the harsh winds of the arctic bang at the window. It’s nice, Tommy thinks. The cold, even if painful and sharp and ever stinging, is startlingly different from exile. There, it had been warm breezes and the scent of fire, loud chirps of crickets and the running of rivers. “He was the one who gave me the scars,” Tommy mumbles, and he hears the gasp of Ranboo and sees Tubbo’s fists clench all at once. “Said he was there to ‘watch over me’ and shit. Said he was my friend”
“That’s bullshit,” Tubbo says, voice louder than usual, “Tommy--”
“I know.” And he does, most nights. Most nights he can ignore the casual shake in his fingers as he thinks of him, and the horrible guilty longing he has to return to exile, because although things were terrible there, at least they were predictable. At least, when he was in exile, there was someone around him who wouldn’t leave.
Because, as much as it makes his stomach curl up in disgust, Tommy can’t deny it. Every other fucking person has left him, one time or two times or over and over again, and yet Dream stayed. He went further than that, he sought out Tommy. He wanted to take care of him, to make him better, to--
Tommy thinks back to what Puffy had told him, at those few therapy sessions a couple of weeks ago. Friends don’t hurt each other.
And it sounds simple. It really does.
But if that’s the case, why did Tubbo send him to exile? Why did Ranboo stand by as he was sent off to the worst fucking years of his life?
He doesn’t know.
“Or at least,” Tommy continues, “I know that now. But when it was just the two of us, I guess I didn’t.” He laughs, and it’s high pitched and broken, closer to a sob. “He was the only fucking person I saw for two years. Sure, Ranboo showed up once or twice, and Ghostbur was there every other month or so when he wasn’t off doing god knows what, and sure Techno arrived to poke fun at my misery, but--” he draws in a breath, then lets it out, slowly. “I’m not good at being alone. I’m really fucking not.”
The silence stretches around them, thin yet tangible.
“He hurt me.” Tommy speaks the obvious. “Sometimes just fists, sometimes a burning fucking iron rod, sometimes a sword. And he’d burn my stuff.” Tommy closes his fists, and he wishes he had something to hold in them. “I have nothing left now. He didn’t care. Burned my clothes, my books, my earring,” and oh, how that one had hurt, his last tie to his family destroyed, “destroyed every fucking photograph I owned.” Tommy chuckles. “And you know what’s worse?”
“What?” Tubbo asks, playing along, but Tommy can see the pain in his eyes, as each word of his registers. He continues anyways. He’s started, and he’s not going to stop unless there’s a fucking muzzle over his mouth. Maybe it's selfish, but the words leaving his mouth make him feel more free than he has in months.
“I let him. Even did it myself a couple times, because fuck it, it’s my fault, and it’s helping me grow, so why shouldn’t I?” Tommy asks. It’s rhetorical, but he notices Ranboo opening his mouth to protest anyhow. “I nearly died,” Tommy says quieter, speaking over whatever reassurance Ranboo had been about to offer. “Woke up in the water in the mornings, just about to drown, though I’m not sure if those are dreams. Came close to jumping into lava. Probably would have if Dream hadn’t held me back. I even fucking built myself a fucking tower of cobblestone, right on top of a pond, and jumped. I hit the water of course, but--” Tommy pulls in a breath, and ignores the pain growing in the back of his throat, “But even now, I’m not sure if I meant to.” He pauses and looks up at the two boys watching him. “I’m sorry,” Tommy says one last time. “I’m really fucking sorry, and I know that--” He lets out a huff, one that is closer to a cry for help, and bites his lip to prevent any more words from escaping him. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Tommy,” Ranboo says, and it’s filled with such sadness and care and fucking kindness that Tommy fights back the urge to let sobs tumble from his throat, overtaking him completely. “C’mere.” Ranboo isn’t often a tactile person, preferring words or gifts to show his love. Tommy had asked him, once, why he was so adverse to comforting touches--or any sort of touches in general, truly--and he has responded that it was a number of things.
He was scared of hurting people.
He was scared of being hurt.
And yet, he held out his arms to Tommy, ready to face all of that and more, because Tommy fucking needed a hug right now. He needed to feel a soft touch instead of a violent one, a forehead kiss instead of a slap, a comforting hand rubbing circles on his back instead of a knife carving Dream’s name into his skin.
Tommy practically falls into Ranboo’s arms, places his head on Ranboo’s shoulder, and lets out a sob. He can faintly feel Tubbo’s hand rubbing soft circles back and forth, but everything feels so distant, and it’s all he can do to cry until his tears have run dry and his eyes are rimmed red.
“There we go,” Ranboo says, and Tommy pulls in a deep breath, choking on it.
“Fucking breathe, Tommy,” Tubbo says, teasingly yet still with a gentle tone that makes Tommy consider melting into the hug even further.
“‘M trying, bitch,” Tommy snarks back. There’s no bite to his words, and Tubbo knocks his head against Tommy’s.
It’s a little thing that Tubbo often does. For as long as Tommy has known him, he knocks his head against shoulders, backs, and almost anything else. It’s a sign of affection, and although it occasionally hurts, it still lights up Tommy’s heart with something warm that he can’t quite put a finger on. He’d teased Tubbo over it, of course, they were best friends and that was what friends do, but there was never any heat behind it. Simply careful jabs about it having to do with Tubbo being a goat hybrid, or teasing about the light bruises Tommy would find on his arm after spending a day with Tubbo.
Those bruises had never hurt the same way the one’s Dream had left did.
When he can finally breathe steadily, he collapses almost completely. The weight of his body is too much to hold up right now, and so he lets go, and trusts Ranboo to hold onto him tightly.
“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says quietly. It comes out of nowhere, and Tommy blinks, confused.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says again, so completely out of character for him. “I forced you there. And I just--” Now it looks that Tubbo is holding back tears, and Tommy can’t deal with that, not now.
“Hey, fucker, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know what he was gonna do, even I didn’t fucking understand at the beginning.”
“But I left you there,” Tubbo mumbles, “and I didn’t even check up on you. Not once. I just left you there for two years and I didn’t--I didn’t--”
“It’s okay,” Tommy promises softly. “It’s okay. I fucked up, yeah? You did the right thing, sending me there. You were a fucking child president, Tubso, and you did the right thing. You protected your country.”
Tubbo sucks in a visible breath, letting his eyes shut for a moment. He then lets out a small giggle. “Why are you the one comforting me right now?”
“Beats me,” Tommy says with a small smile. “It’s probably because you’re a weak bitch.”
“Hey!”
Ranboo laughs, and Tommy can feel the way his lungs change from steady breathing to the quick exhales of giggling. “You two never stop fighting, do you?”
“Nope,” Tommy says, letting out a yawn. “It’s kinda me and Tubbo’s thing.”
There’s another moment of silence, and then--“I really am sorry, though.”
“Me too,” Ranboo agrees, beginning to card a gentle hand through Tommy’s hair. “It’s not fine. We should have been there for you.”
Tommy shrugs, but his face burns red. “‘S not a big deal, really. It sucked then, really, but it’s over now and all.”
“Still,” Ranboo says. He tightens his grip around Tommy, not enough to hurt. “I was only there a couple times, and I could have helped you, or just even been there with you so you weren’t with--”
“Boo’s right,” Tubbo agrees. “It might be over now, but I know that you still have nightmares about it.”
Tommy grumbles. “Maybe I just sleep really bad.”
“That too,” Tubbo responds, and he’s met with a ‘hey!’ of Tommy’s that he pointedly ignores, “but like Puffy said and all, it’s okay to not be okay. I’m not okay, and neither is Boo.”
“Great fucking group we have here,” Tommy mutters.
“The trauma trio,” Ranboo nods, and Tommy hides his snort in Ranboo’s shoulder.
The light has gotten brighter. Tubbo tugs at Tommy’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go get breakfast.”
Tommy mumbles, and closes his eyes. “Can’t we just--can we just stay? Just for a moment, I just--”
He doesn’t want to be left alone again.
Tubbo pauses. “Of course, Tommy.”
For the next hour, they stay there, Tommy with his arms wrapped around Ranboo, and Tubbo next to them, adding in snide commentary and jabs.
It’s nice, Tommy thinks to himself. Nice to be able to be here, in this cold mansion, with the two people he considers his best friends. Nice to be hugged, with careful arms, the touches of violence only a distant memory.
Most of all, it’s nice not to be alone anymore.