Chapter Text
Ever since Tom could remember, the hospital was a familiar place for him. Sickly clean smelling halls and bright lights. At least they had good jello?
Digging for hope often proves not worth the while, so he doesn't do much anymore. Not that he could even fucking dig if he wanted to, too dizzy and hungry to even go to the kitchen or cafeteria by himself most of the time. His brothers helped the best they could, but solemn, pitying eyes didn't do well on the strain of Tom's guilt.
He hated pity. It made him feel vulnerable. So what if he could have a heart attack at any moment? He's still not a bitch who should be looked at like a kicked puppy.
Sometimes he would get so light headed that he couldn't tell which way was up and what was the bleach white tile floors. It was a distinct smell, one that, even if he were to somehow recover from this shit enough to not practically live in the hospital, would never leave his nose. At first it was annoying. Made his head hurt, the strong aroma being overpowering for the weak boy. After a few years, he was numb to it, though whenever he left he would find himself almost missing the smell. With how common these months-long visits were, and how few week or so breaks at home, he probably wouldn't feel that precipice of longing anymore. Like a sick perfume, showing where his true home lies.
Tom heard his father crying in the hall two days ago. Quiet sobs, as to not disturb the doctors and nurses on shift. He remembered Dr. Johnson pulling the older man out to speak about 'something Tom shouldn't hear'. Fuck doctors. Well, not really, they were keeping him alive-- not that 'alive' was too fun. Honestly, two out of ten, two points of which just for the fact they have good food and play Keeping Up With The Kardashians regularly. Kourtney was his favorite, of course, she was the only one with a bit of a backbone that wasn't made of lip fillers and permanent dumb blonde syndrome. Ironic that out of Tom and the Kardashians, his chronic ass was the only blonde. Heh.
Tom had a few friends. Well, a few that stuck with him through this shit anyways. Out of the list of friends on Snapchat, only the top eight or so had talked to him in less than a year or more. And what sucked even worse, his two brothers and dad took up three of those spots. Otherwise, it was just Toby, a kid the former had introduced him to who went by 'Boo', Eryn, Bill, and a girl named Niki. She was Wilbur's friend, who, for context was his elder brother. Definitely a social prodigy, his charming nature was the true representation of honey in 'honey brings more flies than vinegar'. His other brother, a few minutes younger than the charismatic brunette, was Techno, who more fit vinegar in the saying. He was antisocial, but hell was he good at video games. Him and Tom would spend hours on Minecraft, Terraria, and even just dumb things like online chess.
Call him insane, but he is pretty sure this pretty ravenette with a nice perm nurse has it on for him. She always brings him extra jello, and he, as a teenage boy who was deprived of social interaction at school, especially with girls, had no fucking clue how they worked. So, he took the probably pitiful act of kindness as flirting. Like-- he saw that shit on reality TV, and it was exactly like she acted towards him. She was nice and helped him with little things.. which the male nurses did… maybe he should flip away from CBS sometimes. Couldn't miss the Kardashians though, of course.
His chest pain was getting worse. Random waves of torturous, searing agony would travel through his torso. Feeling like someone was dragging a homemade, shitty ass knife along his veins. Especially on the left side of his chest. He'd had scares before, when his heart was beating so fast it couldn't register on the machine and it flat lines. The utter anguish he saw in his father's eyes through cracked eyelids was something forever engraved in his memory. It really reminded him that fuck, he might die here.
Tom is not an optimist. Totally not obvious, right? He really needed to stop practicing jokes in the reflection of the back of his spoon during meal time. Obviously he didn't need the practice, he was already the best. Haha… God he's miserable.
Anyways, he felt like he could actually walk today. This morning, his theory was proved wrong, but now, somewhere in the mid afternoon, he was standing. And walking! Sure, he had to drag a fucking stick with bags on it around, and deal with a needle stuck in his vein, but otherwise his swagger was back. Well, the best swagger he could pull together as a chronically ill teenager.
When he walked out of his room, he glared at the clipboard that was stuck in the plastic container on the wall. Thomas Watson, 17, Male, Affliction: Congestive Heart Failure. Along with logs and updates on his health.
The boy continues to the cafeteria. He'd put on slippers, not wanting to get some kinda fucking fungus from the hospital floors. The chemical smell ruminates in the air. Almost comforting.
Tom sighs as he continues, shuffling his feet a bit as he ignores the greetings of the medical staff. As soon as he gets into the 'FOOD ZONE' as he refers to it, the blonde piles a shit ton of food onto a plate and moves to sit down. He eases himself down, as to not upset his already messy balance. Food was his one best friend in this shit fucking place. The artificial jello and rough chicken was heaven to him. It had grown on him quickly. Turns out, when you feel like you're gonna puke, and usually do a whole lot, you don't really care what food you're eating as long as you're filling your stomach. Surprising concept.
"Tom?"
His father's voice right behind him. The sudden voice addressing him makes him jump a bit in his seat. He coughs out some food. The old man found me.
"Heyyy, dad-?"
He slides around in his seat, looking up at his father. That permanent grimace. It'd been there ever since Tom was 10-- the first visit to the doctor after he was pulled out of school for, y'know, passing out and his heart beating so fast they couldn't feel his pulse. School nurses aren't the most reliable.
"You.. uh, nothing. Can I sit with you?" The man looks guilty for making the teen jump in his seat. When he receives a nod, he takes it and sits down next to Tom. Looking at the plate of mostly jello, he chuckles quietly, though his eyes are sad. Unfortunately and fortunately, that was something he was always stuck with, so Tom didn't have to feel like a dick for being the cause of them.
"How ya' been, Pops?" Tom looks over at his dad, going from his former pace of shoveling whatever shit he picked up on his fork into his mouth to slowly eating the delicious food. He noticed his dad cringing a bit at the smell of the food. What was it he used to ingrain into Tom's head? 'If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything.' The blonde wished he could turn that shit back onto his father. 'Don't make dumbass faces if you don't want me to sock you in the jaw with my decrepit, sickly fist.' Quite frankly, Tom gave not a single fuck what his father thought. This shit was good. One of the only things he can look forward to here.
Depressing, but at a bigger perspective, there's a lot of shit more depressing than Tom's love of hospital jello.