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Tommy wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he did so. He was practically drenched in sweat at that point, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his chest, his hair curling against perspiring skin, and god, he was sure that he probably stunk after so long away from a much-needed shower and deodorant.
But, really, it wasn't his fault! He'd just- he'd been so excited about getting everything put up and ready, that was all. He'd practically been a ball of vibrating enthusiasm for almost the whole length of the December month, not a moment passing by where he didn't think about baubles and tinsel, about trees and stockings and everything inbetween.
Plus, realistically, it was his family's fault for not telling him how much of a hassle it was to put up all of the Christmas decorations that they owned. Because, Jesus, as excited as he was about the whole thing, it was definitely… a lot to do. Especially all on his own! Seeing as Phil, Techno and Wilbur had oh-so-kindly decided to leave it all on top of Tommy's narrow shoulders.
Lazy fuckers. He should probably shout at them. Or something like that. He didn't really know. Whatever. It would be fine. At least the house looked nice, right? Because it really did look pretty nice. (He'd definitely outdone himself this year around. Last year… didn't need to be talked about ever again.)
Tommy hadn't done the outside - he didn't have the patience nor the ladders he would need - but he'd completely dressed up the inside of their home. There were two trees, fake, of course, with one in the living room and one on their large landing upstairs; there were name-coded stockings hung neatly above the fireplace next to pretty photo frames and nativity statues; there were baubles and stars, reindeers and candy canes all around.
Tommy had even put a plate of cereal and water (they'd run out of both cookies and milk, apparently) on the counter in preparation for Santa Claus showing up with a growling hunger. Sure, he was a little ahead of time, with there still being a few days before Christmas actually rolled around, but he wanted to be prepared. He wanted to be ready for when it hit, so he didn't miss out on anything!
But there were still a few things to fix up, as there always were. Tommy needed to do some basic maintenance around their home; he needed to redo the wood against their windows; he needed to stock up on a few more supplies that would stop them from having to actually go out on Christmas day or something disappointing like that.
(And don't even get him started on the presents - those things were taking for fucking ever to finish, and Tommy still couldn't figure out what had happened to the scissors, but they'd seemingly gone walkabouts and he just couldn't, for the life of him, pick them out of their hiding place.)
Overall, though, everything seemed to be coming along quite nicely. He might be biased, sure, but only by a little bit.
Everything just looked so… pretty. Ethereal. Warm. The house seemed so Christmassy that it almost hurt to look around - the bright, blinking lights, the vivid colours, the large decorations that had been placed just about everywhere. It was an eyesore, but a good one, if that was even possible.
Tommy didn't care.
He was just happy.
A pleased hum tumbled from his lips as he took another step back to properly admire his handiwork. It really did look good, like one of those already-made rooms in Ikea that people would always enviously gawk over. Huh. He was, well; he was pretty damn talented when it came down to it; all of that work in media and design when he was still in college had certainly paid off by a pretty substantial amount. Oh, how old Mrs Smith would be so proud if only she could see him now.
Tommy wiped his palms against his jeans and then settled his hands on his hips, leaning back somewhat. As he'd mentioned before, there was still so much to do, to finish, to fix up, he knew that… but a break would be pretty nice. It would probably calm his heart rate a little and give him time to cool off after so much tiring exertion, so.
He gave a nod to himself, having made up his mind, and then set off towards the kitchen, sock-clad feet padding over a carpeted floor as he went.
There was an air of jolliness to the teenager as he moved, as he swung his thin arms against his sides, as he smiled at the photo frames of him and his family along the shelves and nodded in respect to the painting of his late mother that had been hung up above their fireplace years before.
He felt festive. Merry. Good.
Good, as if nothing in the entire world could ever bring him down at this point; good, as if nothing bad would ever be able to penetrate his warm, comforting life as it was; good, as if his mood would never be able to taper off into something… dark, sour, rich with a burning, weeping agony - not again, at least.
Tommy shook his head and pushed back those thoughts as he settled into the kitchen. The connecting dining room had already been set up in preparation for their soon-to-be Christmas dinner, with candles and red table cloths, crackers and holly, and delicately fine china. However, the kitchen itself was still a bit of a disaster. Tommy had been doing a lot in there, see, so it was bound to get a little messy at times.
He smiled to himself, swiping a finger along a line of red that had been smeared against the counter, some of it dried in parts, but the majority still holding onto a thick wetness. He hummed, flicked it back down, and then moved over towards the fridge.
Tommy pulled the door open and looked inside.
Their fridge wasn't really much of a fridge anymore, if Tommy was totally honest. A lot of the compartments and shelves had been previously taken out and discarded elsewhere in order to make more room - there weren't cartons of milk or juice, there wasn't yoghurts or fruit that had once been stacked up to keep cool.
Just packs of meat. Lots and lots of packs of meat were stored there, piled against one another until they were almost touching the very top - the sight almost brought a tear to Tommy's eye. God, he was forever grateful that Technoblade had been able to fix up their fridge a couple of months ago, back when he wasn't so lazy and slow.
Their power had gone out, as had everyone else's around them, really, but Techno had managed to do something about it. Tommy hadn't really listened at the time; he'd been spaced out, airy, lost within his own head as he leaned against Wilbur's comforting side. But there had been a few vague mentions of things like solar panels and reliable energy, so that must've been something.
Tommy didn't really care now either if he thought about it. As long as it worked and kept their food cool and fresh, he wasn't bothered about the logistics and the finer details.
The teen tilted his head to the side as he scanned over what was available. It looked good - all of it always looked good and arguably very edible, but he… was he feeling any of this today? Or did he feel like something else? There were a lot of options: thick slabs, thinner slices, a few chunks here and there. But still.
He tapped a finger against his chin, mulling over it for a few beats.
It wouldn't be necessarily hard to get a different type for today. He could go down to the basement, sort out a few bits, and then have a fresh set cooking over the fire while he washed himself up from any sweat and grime that had accumulated over the day.
Yeah. That was- hm, a pretty good plan, if he did say so himself. But he should probably check with the rest of his family first before making any decisions. They could be pretty picky sometimes, and he'd hate to ruin the December month, and the days leading up to Christmas, by making a dinner that they wouldn't enjoy. Lord knows that Wilbur would certainly be the one to complain the loudest.
("Seriously, Tommy, have your cooking skills decreased somehow? What on Earth is this-" "I'm not eating this. You've burnt it black. I'd rather eat my own bedsheets." "Leave the cooking to dad next time, child, although I somewhat appreciate the... attempt.”)
"What do you think, guys?" Tommy called out as he turned his gaze over towards the dining room once more, a light flickering within his typically dulled eyes as he caught sight of the three figures sitting down. "How does a bit of thigh sound instead?"
Tommy's expression was beaming. His family stared.
And then there was groaning, groaning and moaning, a deep, guttural choir of clashing tones and snarling vocals that filled the large, family home. It was a dark mix of sounds, a playlist of aching noises that made you want to desperately press your hands over your ears and pretend as if everything was okay, that nothing was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Tommy was used to it, though, and the wide, manic smile didn't fade from his features no matter what he was seeing before him. (It was just his family, after all, it was just Wilbur and Techno and Phil and his- his family. His family.)
His family, with the pale, greenish skin and the sunken, torn features that had practically been rotted away from their bones already; his family, with the lifeless, cold gazes, the non-beating hearts, the ruined voices and mindless acts; his family, three people, three men, made up of festering wounds, dancing maggots, and an evil that was rooted deep within their concave chests.
Tommy let his eyes briefly scan over the chains wrapped around their ankles, their wrists, their shoulders; he let his gaze hover over infested wounds, inflamed edges and a bubbling pus that rose amongst ripped clothes in certain areas. He tilted his head and then sighed heavily.
What was he to do with them, hm? They were always getting so messy these days, all slobbering and drooling all over themselves. Tommy knew that Phil's jaw had fallen off only a month ago or so, so maybe there was an excuse there, but Wilbur and Techno? Jesus. He had expected them to still have some semblance of dignity left - grimy bastards.
All was said, muttered and thought, in a clinical fondness, however. Tommy was well aware that he would be the one to look after them, and he'd accepted that role long ago. It was nothing new. He'd just have to find them a new change of clothes, some spare bandages, maybe a hat or something to cover up the patches of a peeling, weeping scalp.
Ah, Tommy didn't really mind. He was just happy if his family were happy and sated, and they seemed to be doing alright, with all things considered.
Sure, Phil hadn't exactly been himself for a while; he hadn't been laughing at Tommy's jokes or ruffling his hair when the teen walked past. He hadn't offered to help with any of the other work around the house, and he certainly hadn't helped with the Christmas decorations, but it was fine.
Sure, Techno hadn't been his usual, stoic self either; he hadn't used his sarcastically dry tones against Tommy whenever he could, nor had he utilised his height when it came to hiding things on the top shelves away from the younger boy. He hadn't offered to help cook in months, but it was fine.
And Sure, Wilbur very clearly wasn't Wilbur. He wasn't Tommy's older brother, his partner in crime, the one person that Tommy felt as if he could lean towards no matter what had happened between everyone else. There had been no jokes, no humour or laughing, no poking fun at one another or- but it was fine. It was fine, and fine, and fine, and Tommy was fine-
There was a loud groan, one loud enough to snap Tommy right out of his spiralling thoughts. He blinked twice, knocked his fist gently against his skull a few times before nodding. "Sorry, sorry, you're right, gettin' lost in my head again, aren't I?"
Technoblade was thrashing in his seat, practically convulsing where he sat. Tommy tsked and then nodded once more. One last time. One last agreement. "Right, alright, I'll go and get some food. It'll be done soon, okay? No need to get so pissy with me."
He turned away then, let their groaning, hissing, moaning fall away into another background noise - a gentle static. It was almost comforting, in a sort of twistedly wrong, sinister way. (Tommy had lived with it for so long that if it wasn't there, if it suddenly wasn't present, he didn't really know what he'd be able to do to keep his mind quiet.)
Ah well. They could wait a few more minutes as he got everything ready. Tommy had already been the one to prepare everything today, to put up the decorations, to spruce up the home, to get some cleaning done, to fall into the Christmas spirit and-
Oh! That reminded him.
As he was passing through the living room, step after step, Tommy let his fingers flick over a battery-powered radio he kept on the side. There was only one song that looped these days, one song that went on and on and on like a repetitive circuit that Tommy couldn't break out of.
"Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall?"
He didn't really mind too much, though. He liked the song and couldn't help but hum along as he got things done. It was nice. Peaceful. Familiar. A reminder of the fond, fond times that Tommy had sung it while jumping around the living room with his family - loud and happy.
"It's the time that every Santa has a ball,"
That had been last year- no, the year before that, actually. Last year had been a total, unfortunate disaster, but before that, it had been so, so great. There had been snow; there had been candy canes and laughter; there had been Christmas carolers and trees for sale all over the place. It had been amazing.
"Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?"
Tommy vividly remembered dancing with Wilbur, tinsel worn around their necks as fancy scarves, Christmas hats on their heads, mugs of hot chocolate on the table. The music had been loud, Phil had been laughing, Techno had been trying to sink into the couch away from it all.
"Does he turn up on his sleigh,"
But it'd been so… them. It'd been warm and pleasant and a memory that Tommy held close to his chest. He missed it. He missed it a lot. He missed Wilbur's hugs, missed Techno's dry kindness, missed his dad's proud smiles. He wouldn't exactly change what he had now because it was fine, fine, fine, but still.
"Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?"
But still. There would probably always be that reminiscent longing, that gripping desperation. Tommy would just have to live with it, though. He had more important things to think about, anyway, like where he would get the meat from for their dinner tonight, for example.
"So here it is, merry Christmas,"
Tommy pushed open the door that typically closed off their basement. He usually locked it, but he hadn't this time, almost as if he already knew that he'd be going down there again today. Good job past him, he mused as he shifted down the first step, one foot in front of the other in a continuous, repetitive pattern.
"Everybody's having fun,"
He'd used to be pretty scared doing this, a little hesitant when he was so achingly by himself and alone in his tasks. But Tommy had gotten used to it; he'd gotten used to the darkness, the loneliness, the apprehension of what was to become. He'd eased into it after not long, and now it was like second nature - a second skin.
"Look to the future now,"
Tommy's hand flicked against a light, tugging on it. There was still a smile gracing his lips, a wide, stretching grin that practically ripped up into his flushed cheeks and pressed against the crinkles of his unseeing eyes.
The screaming down here had become a background static, too. Something that he was used to, something that he'd learnt to live with. He didn't mind - didn't mind the stains of red against his hands, didn't mind the pleading and the sobbing, didn't mind the shaking heads and desperate quivering.
As long as his family was happy, then Tommy was happy too, even if he had to get a little dirty sometimes. That's how it always was, after all.
"It's only just begun."