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1. Ranboo
“Hey Tubbo?” Ranboo keeps his voice low, but Tubbo still startles. Even without eye contact Ranboo can see for just a fraction of a second pure panic in the shorter boy’s face before it softens out.
“What’s up, bossman?” It’s not cold, but Tubbo’s under a throw blanket in an armchair. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ranboo answers. “I actually came to ask if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” Tubbo shrugs, and in the flash of movement Ranboo can see the angry red skin on Tubbo’s hands.
He steps closer, trying to get a better look. “Are you burned?”
Tubbo pulls his hands out of the blanket again, and now Ranboo can clearly see the radiation burns on them. “Just a little bit. I’ve been practicing with Sam, and I’m getting better at producing more energy.” He looks up at Ranboo with a hopeful smile.
Ranboo frowns slightly. “But you’re getting hurt more, too. Are you sick? Is that why you skipped lunch?”
Tubbo hesitates before answering. “I’ll be fine, Ranboo. I’ll be back up to normal by dinner, okay? Benefits of the power, am I right?” He laughs and it sounds almost real. He’s right, he recovers from the damage he does to himself with his powers faster than an ordinary person, but Ranboo’s still worried. Sam’s recent insistence that Tubbo train to make his power stronger, along with Tubbo’s jumpiness, make Ranboo’s stomach twist in a way that he’s pretty sure is more than just his anxiety.
“Take it easy until the burns heal, okay?” Ranboo crouches by Tubbo’s chair and leans on the armrest.
“I can’t promise that,” Tubbo replies, voice so quiet it’s almost lost. “It’s for us. I’ll keep you and Tommy safe, I can promise that.”
“I just… Tubbo, please.” Ranboo doesn’t know what’s wrong, or how to fix it. He knows they’re heroes, but can’t they also just be seventeen? He wishes he could shake Tubbo awake and make him like when they first decided this was the best way to help people.
Tubbo stands up stiffly, holding the blanket around him like a cloak. “I have to go, Ranboo. Thank you for your concern.” He smiles again, and if Ranboo hadn’t just had such a strange conversation with the other teen he’d believe it was genuine.
“Okay, Tubbo,” Ranboo says after a pause. “You know you can come to me if you need anything, right?”
“Of course, bossman.” Tubbo’s out of the room before Ranboo can say another word.
Ranboo settles into the chair Tubbo vacated with a sigh.
“What’s happened to you?” he whispers into the empty room.
“What’s happened to who?”
Ranboo jumps and turns to see Tommy coming out of his room into the common space.
“Tommy! Sorry, you startled me. I… was just talking with Tubbo, actually.”
“Huh. What’d Tubbo have to say?”
“Not much. I’m worried about him,” Ranboo admits. “He’s made himself sick again, and his hands are burned.”
Tommy nods and sits in the chair next to Ranboo. They’re both lanky enough that they’re not sitting on top of each other, but it’s pretty close. “Training with Sam?”
“Yep. Can I ask why you’re sitting on me when there are other perfectly good chairs in the room?”
Tommy shrugs. “Can’t we just have a nice conversation without you having to question everything? Our youth is fleeting, Ranboo. Seize the day. Did Tubbo say when he’ll be better again?”
“He said he’ll join us for dinner.”
“Think Sam’s gonna be there?” Tommy fidgets with a loose thread on the chair.
Ranboo pulls Tommy’s hand away. “You’re just gonna make it worse if you do that. Sam’s… probably gonna skip, honestly.” Ranboo has to swallow back a wave of bitterness toward his mentor. Two years ago Sam spent all his free time with them, was proud to take care of them. Over the months, he’s retreated, pulling back from public appearances and then team bonding and now the three of them altogether. He’s usually in his workshop these days, working on… something. He won’t say what, only that he’s almost done.
“We can talk to him then? Yeah? Ask what’s up with our boy?”
Ranboo chuckles at Tommy’s phrasing. “That’s probably the best time.”
Tommy smiles his usual bright smile, and Ranboo’s glad at least someone’s not faking their happiness. “Am I a genius or what?”
“Definitely what.”
“Oi! You’ll pay for that, bitch.” Tommy shoves at Ranboo, but the arm of the chair keeps the taller teen from sliding onto the floor.
I knew I should’ve questioned the chair-sharing more. Ranboo shoves back, Tommy kicks wildly but somehow connects with Ranboo’s leg, and before Ranboo can manage to overthink it he’s fully consumed by the battle for control of the chair.
2. Techno
Phil is on a business trip, and Techno thinks it might be the worst week in the past several years.
Listen, Techno’s not afraid to admit he cares for people. He’s not afraid to admit that the blood-in-the-water scent his power associates with Phil has come to feel like home.
It’s just that he’s aware it’s a little weird to be sad that his home is entirely safe. It’s a little weird to feel lonely when you aren’t even alone, because Tommy lives here too now.
Techno will admit he likes Tommy more than he thought he would. The kid’s loud, and reckless, and has the kinds of hangups over “moral wrongness” that scream that he used to be a hero, but Phil was right when he’d said Tommy would fit nicely into their team. Plus, Tommy had so clearly needed a place to stay. Techno’s always had a soft spot for people like that, not that he’d ever tell Tommy.
But Tommy is not dangerous. He’s capable of being dangerous, when he wants to be, when he needs to be. But he’s not casually sharp like Phil is, in a way that has Techno’s power whispering watch out.
Point being, the house feels empty without Phil. Tommy’s not even home right now, so there’s absolutely nothing to fill the silence.
Techno shuffles the deck of cards in his hands as if he’s going to play with them. (Play with whom, himself? Play what, solitaire?) What did he do before he knew Phil?
Just in time to save him from introspection, Tommy slams through the door.
“Technoblade, I found it,” he calls into the house at a volume that would maybe be appropriate at some kind of concert.
“Found what?” Techno calls back. He doesn’t even remember why Tommy left the house.
“A slinky,” Tommy says triumphantly, slamming the toy on the table in front of Techno.
“Is this what you needed to get in such a hurry?”
“Yes. I remembered they’re a thing, and we don’t have one. I’m an adult,” Tommy adds defensively. “I’m allowed to spend my own money on whatever I want.”
“I wanna talk to whoever gave you an adultin’ license.”
“I gave me my adulting license, bitch.”
“It was a mistake,” Techno informs him.
“Fuck you. Play with the slinky with me.” Tommy opens the box and displays the toy.
“Yes, you have a glorified spring. What now?”
“Don’t you know what a slinky is?” Tommy demands, shaking the toy slightly so it rattles.
“Yes, I know what a slinky is. What I don’t know is why you feel the need to have one.”
“Just watch.” Tommy places the slinky at the edge of the table, then gives it a push. It falls onto its side and rolls off the table. Tommy frowns. “It’s not supposed to do that.”
“Yeah, I’m aware,” Techno deadpans. “It’ll work better on the stairs,” he adds after a second. Not that he wants it to work or anything. It’s just kind of sad to see Tommy looking at the downed slinky like that.
Tommy lights up. “Really?” He grabs the toy and hurries out of the room toward the staircase.
Techno sighs and follows him. Phil would kill him if he came back and Tommy had gotten hurt in a slinky accident.
By the time Techno reaches the stairs, Tommy’s already at the top. He pushes the slinky, and it falls down each step like a slinky should. Techno catches it, and Tommy cheers.
“Can you send it back up?”
Techno has to take a moment to process the question. “Are you askin’ me if the slinky can fall up?”
“Yeah, can you send it back up?”
“No, no I can’t. They don’t do that.”
“But… it’s a spring. It goes over the stairs because it’s expanding and contracting. Can’t you just… expand it so it goes up each step?”
Techno stares at Tommy’s earnest face. He can’t be serious. This has to be a joke. “Do you not know how a slinky works?”
Tommy stares back. “I mean, I’ve never gotten it to go up, but it’s possible. Right?”
“...No.” Techno suppresses the urge to go into the full physics explanation of it. “It’s a spring, but it can’t defy gravity. Although… do you wanna see somethin’ cool?”
Tommy nods and scrambles down the stairs.
With a smile, Techno picks up the slinky by one end, then drops the top part. Tommy gasps when he sees that the bottom stays up until it’s hit by the top.
Tommy picks up the slinky from the floor and holds it out to Techno. “Do it again.”
Techno rolls his eyes and does it again, then a third time. It’s simple physics, but apparently Tommy’s never seen it before, because he watches in wonder every time.
“Y’know, you’re basically a toddler,” he tells Tommy after dropping the slinky a fourth time.
“I am not,” Tommy protests. “I’m incredibly clever and this is all a calculated trick.” He crosses his arms over his chest in a way that does not help his argument.
Techno snorts. “Oh yeah? What’re you tryin’ to trick me into, explaining compression waves to you?”
“I got you to stop moping about Phil. Clever, right?”
Techno pauses. If that’s the goal, he guesses Tommy’s succeeded— Techno doesn’t feel even a fraction as lonely as a few minutes ago. He’s not sure he buys it, though. Tommy might not be able to think that far ahead. “You little gremlin.”
Tommy nods haughtily, then breaks the posture to make grabby hands at the slinky. “Give it back, I wanna see it go down the stairs again.”
3. Tubbo
“This was supposed to help,” Tubbo hisses.
“I never said it helped,” Ghostboo replies, knees pressed against Tubbo’s in the cramped closet.
“You fucking said—” Tubbo cuts himself off, gasping for breath. He twists his hands into his hair and pulls, trying to ground himself.
“I said that when I was alive, I would hide in small dark spaces when I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t say it made me feel better.”
Tubbo swears.
Today is not a good day.
Tubbo’s been feeling on edge all day, his brain fighting to keep track of every single detail of the world around him until he can’t really keep track of anything. By some miracle, he made it through his shift at work without having to step out back to have a panic attack, but it’s the late afternoon now and he feels even worse.
And like a fool, like someone who hasn’t learned a single thing from years of putting up with Ghostboo, he asked Ghostboo to help.
Surely he can be forgiven for thinking that Ghostboo’s advice would at least be intended to help.
So here they are, pressed together on the floor of Tubbo’s closet, and it feels like suffocating.
“Why would you tell me if it didn’t help?” Tubbo hugs his knees to his chest, trying to slow down his heartbeat.
Ghostboo’s shrug is barely visible in the dim light. “You wanted answers.” Tubbo doesn’t feel like he has the oxygen to keep arguing. “Have you tried… leaving the closet?” Ghostboo suggests.
Tubbo shakes his head. He should probably try that before he completely breaks down, come to think of it.
He unwinds one arm from around himself to reach up for the doorknob. If he gets out he’ll feel better, he tells himself. He’ll feel less trapped, he’ll be able to breathe again.
A fresh wave of panic hits him, and he pulls his arm back. Not safe not safe not safe not safe—
“I don’t— can you open the door?” Tubbo gasps.
“Why?” The worst part is Ghostboo sounds genuinely confused.
Tubbo stutters something, but he doesn’t even really hear himself. He needs the door open because he feels trapped because he’s felt trapped before because he’s been trapped and he can’t breathe, but none of that is coming out of his mouth.
He’s aware, briefly, distantly, of the ridiculousness of the situation: curled up in his closet on the verge of a panic attack and/or flashback wearing his work uniform. God, he makes a shitty adult.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he almost screams. He keeps the ringer off because he doesn’t exactly have a great relationship with loud noises, but right now even the sound of it vibrating in his pocket is too much. He fishes it out blindly and it ends up on the closet floor, casting a sickly glow over Tubbo and Ghostboo, still buzzing away. Tubbo has a phone call. Great.
“Ooh, it’s Tommy,” Ghostboo says. “You should pick up.”
Tubbo somehow manages to pick up the phone and accept the call.
“Tubbo!” Tommy greets, his voice tinny over the phone. “What—”
“Tommy,” Tubbo gasps, trying to keep his grip on the phone loose. “Tommy.”
“Woah, are you okay?”
“Tommy.” Tubbo hopes the desperation in his voice is enough of an answer.
“Okay, okay, breathe with me, okay?” Tommy starts counting, slowly, and Tubbo tries to breathe along. It’s hard, harder because there’s only Tommy’s voice to keep Tubbo from losing himself to his past and only the quiet sound of Tubbo’s ragged breathing to tell Tommy when he needs to restart his count.
They do it, though. They breathe and breathe and breathe, and Tubbo still feels trapped, feels tense, feels fucking exhausted, but Tommy can stop counting long enough to ask questions.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my closet,” Tubbo admits.
“We’re in your closet,” Ghostboo corrects. He can’t hear Tommy’s half of the phone call, but at least he had the manners not to interrupt while Tommy was calming Tubbo down.
“Why are you in your closet?”
“It’s been a bad day.” Tommy and Tubbo have known each other for long enough (as they are now, not back then, Tubbo’s not there anymore, breathe) that Tubbo doesn’t have to specify that he means a bad PTSD day.
“Is the closet helping?”
“No.” Now that he’s thinking a little more clearly, Tubbo feels a bit embarrassed. “It was Ghostboo’s idea.”
“Do you wanna leave the closet?” Tommy’s voice is halfway between confusion and encouragement. Understandable, really. Tubbo’s not sure what he’s doing either.
“Yeah.” Tubbo pauses. “I tried, but when I uncurled enough to reach for the door it didn’t feel safe.”
There’s a moment of silence over the phone, and Tubbo can almost picture Tommy nodding. Tommy does that a lot, forgets that over the phone Tubbo can’t see him nod or shake his head. “But you feel better now than a minute ago, yeah? Do you feel up to trying again?”
“Yeah,” Tubbo answers. He takes a deep breath and feels the scratchy fabric of his work uniform. It’s a very different texture from the mechanic jumpsuit that was the base of his hero outfit, and he’s grateful. “Can you talk me through it? Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Ready?” After Tubbo answers in the affirmative, Tommy coaches him through the process. Tubbo feels silly, and a bit frightened, but in the end he does it. The closet door creaks open, and Tubbo crawls out with a sigh of relief.
“I’m in my bedroom now,” he tells Tommy. “Thanks.”
“Hey, what’re friends for?” Tommy replies. “And Tubbo?”
“Mhm?”
“Tell Ghostboo he’s a bitch for me.”
Tubbo giggles wetly. “Will do, bossman.”
4. Wilbur
Wilbur looks at the mask in his hands. He thinks it’s nice, but it doesn’t make him any less nervous. It’s the last piece of the villain costume he and Phil had designed together, and it looks like the mask from Phantom of the Opera. A mask, because he’s finally joining his family in Sleepy Boys Inc as a villain. As Calliope.
He has the rest of the costume on, light armor pieces under a white poet shirt and black canvas duster coat. Clipped into his hair is a gold chain circlet with a laurel leaf design, a nod to both Techno’s crown and the classical depictions of the muse Calliope. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter while the rest of his family gets ready to head out. It may or may not be a halfhearted attempt to hide from them.
Tommy walks in, wearing his signature white and red. Wilbur’d been wondering when someone would come get him.
“Hey Calliope. Noticed you didn’t pick up your weapons. Nervous?” Tommy asks, smiling gently. Calliope. Wilbur’s new stage name still feels strange, like it’s talking about someone else. He’s glad he picked it, though. He doesn’t think he could’ve handled the emotional impact of being called Siren again.
Wilbur nods to Tommy’s question. “What if I freeze up?” He’s pretty sure he’s put enough space between himself and Las Nevadas that he can use his power in the field without feeling like he’s back there, but what if he hasn’t?
Tommy shrugs. “You won’t.”
“What if I do?”
“We’ll handle it. C’mon, do you think Techno would let you come if he didn’t think you could do it?”
“You have a point.” Wilbur sits in silence for a moment on the counter. “What if I can’t pull it off?”
Tommy crosses the room and leans back on the counter next to where Wilbur’s sitting. “You can stay back if you want. I’d never want to force you, especially… considering.”
Considering Quackity, Wilbur finishes in his mind. Except Tommy would say Kingpin, because Wilbur never told them Q’s real name. At first it was out of some vestige of loyalty, then it just never seemed the right time. It’d be rude, Wilbur thinks, no matter what he went through, to put Quackity in their hands like that.
“No, I want to,” Wilbur tells Tommy. “I’ve got the coat and everything,” he jokes, adjusting the lapels of his duster.
“Right classy coat,” Tommy agrees, reaching over and tugging the lapel crooked.
Wilbur giggles and fixes the coat. “It makes me look like the bad guy.”
“Aren’t we the bad guys?”
Wilbur shakes his head, feeling the clips holding his circlet on pull at his hair. “We love each other. That makes us good guys.”
“That’s not what the news would say,” Tommy replies. “Tomorrow they’ll have headlines about a new threat. You’re a front page story waiting to happen, Wil, but people won’t like it.”
Wilbur holds the mask up to his face experimentally. “I like it. Is that okay?”
“That’s actually encouraged.” Tommy reaches to mess with Wilbur’s coat again, but Wilbur pushes his hand away with a laugh.
“Are you nervous?” Wilbur asks.
“Nah. I’ve done this since I was younger than you, remember?”
“Right.” Tommy’s general playfulness makes it easy to forget his experience.
“At this point, I think you’re just fishing for things to worry about,” Tommy tells Wilbur.
“You’re probably right,” Wilbur laughs. “Sorry.”
“No worries, king. Let’s go find Phil and Techno, okay?”
5. Phil
“Fuck,” Phil hisses, clenching his fist around a handful of Techno’s cape. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?”
Cursing has been shown to increase pain tolerance,” Wilbur supplies. Even through the fog of pain, Phil can hear the tension in Wilbur’s voice.
“Fuck,” Phil repeats as an uneven sidewalk jostles him in Techno’s grip. There is nothing pleasant about this situation, but the worst part is having to rely on someone else to get home. There’s nothing he can do about it, though. As it turns out, a throwing knife lodged between your arm and your collarbone is pretty debilitating.
Aforementioned knife shifts in Phil’s shoulder, and Phil takes in a ragged gasp. He’s pretty sure his vision goes dark for a second, but it’s hard to tell beneath his veil.
“Sorry,” Techno whispers. “I’m doin’ my best, but we’re still a while from home.”
Phil gives a jerky nod.
“Calliope, what’d you say about cursing and pain tolerance?” Tommy’s voice from next to Phil is tense but cheerful.
“Studies have shown that cursing increases a person’s ability to endure pain,” Wilbur answers, sounding confused. “I’m not sure this is the time to discuss that, though.”
Techno’s pace picks up briefly, and Phil has to fight not to black out. Are they crossing a street? Phil’s gaze is on the starry sky above them, and he’s not sure he could look around if he wanted to.
“Still with us, Zephyrus?” Techno asks.
“Yeah,” Phil forces out. He knows it’s a bad idea to take out an object impaling you until first aid is available, but fuck if having the knife in his shoulder isn’t painful.
“Try cursing again,” Tommy suggests. “Calliope says a study says it helps.”
“Theseus,” Techno says. “Now is not the time.”
Phil shakes his head as much as he can manage. “Keep talking.” It may be inane, but it’s something to focus on outside of the fact that he might be bleeding out.
“Okay,” Tommy says. “Calliope, what else did the study say?”
“I don’t remember,” Wilbur admits. “Just that when people are allowed to curse they can put up with pain longer.”
“Well, I must have the highest pain tolerance ever,” Tommy jokes. “Yet another facet of my intrinsic superiority to anyone else. Don’t you agree, Zephyrus?” Phil doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t seem like he had to. “He agrees, clearly.”
“Almost home,” Techno murmurs, and Phil hums back just to show he’s still awake.
“Talk to me, Zephyrus,” Tommy says. “C’mon, you can do it. Do you wanna curse, for pain tolerance? I’ll start.” A beat, then Tommy announces, “Shit. Okay, your turn.”
Phil echoes Tommy through gritted teeth, and Tommy encourages him.
They go back and forth like that while they walk (well, while Techno, Tommy, and Wilbur walk). Tommy chatters on, offers encouragement, and coaches Phil to breathe in the moments that it’s all too much. Phil does his best to respond, but honestly he’s not sure if his words are coming out audible and coherent.
It takes him a moment to realize when Tommy’s stopped talking. “Tommy?” He can still feel that Techno’s carrying him, but he doesn’t know where they are or why Tommy stopped. Too late, he realizes he forgot to use Tommy’s alias.
“I’m here,” Tommy says from off to one side.
“You stopped talking.”
“We’re home,” Tommy explains. “Just got inside. I figured I’d give Techno a moment to focus.”
“Much appreciated,” Techno replies. “Okay, Phil. We’re in the basement, in my workshop. I— I think it’s clean enough, and you can lie on the table. Gonna put you down now and get the medical stuff, okay?” Before Phil can answer, the world swoops around him as Techno lays him flat on the table. He can’t stop himself from making a quiet noise of pain. He hears Techno’s retreating footsteps distantly.
Someone tugs at his hat, and Phil instinctively wants to move to keep his face hidden, but he doesn’t quite get the signal to his limbs before the hat is off and he can see that it’s just Tommy. Phil squints against the bright lights of the workshop. “How’s it looking?” he asks Tommy.
Tommy winces at the injury. “Not… not great, big man. Techno’ll probably have to sew it up.”
Phil does his best to nod. “Send Wil upstairs.”
“He’s already up there. He’s… pretty upset.”
“I’ll be fine,” Phil says. “Will… will you stay?”
“Why?” Tommy sounds truly confused. “You know how I ramble. Techno won’t be able to focus.”
“Techno’ll be fine. I want you here.” Phil moves his uninjured arm closer to Tommy, trying to get Tommy to take his hand. “You’re distracting. It’s nice.”
Techno’s footsteps come back, coming down the basement stairs. Tommy takes Phil’s hand.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.” Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees Tommy crack a smile. “If there’s one thing I can do it’s distract people, am I right?”
+1. Tommy
Phil is fine, Tommy reminds himself. They got lucky, and the knife didn’t hit anything vital. His arm is in a sling to keep the shoulder still, but he’ll be fine.
This time, a knife to the chest did not take one of Tommy’s loved ones.
Tommy plays the reminder in his head on repeat, a weight to keep his feet on the ground. Phil is alive, recovering day by day. No one has betrayed Tommy. Nothing is lost.
There is not red-and-green blood pooling across a workshop floor. There is not a hole where Tommy’s entire world used to be. There is not the sickly sharp scent of dust and smoke hanging in the air like a tangible being.
It would be nice to really be able to believe that, Tommy thinks.
“Phil is fine,” he mutters to himself, trying to focus on his game of Mario Kart. He’s almost done, if he can just get over the finish line—
“I’m what, mate?” Somehow, without Tommy noticing, Phil’s sat down on the arm of the couch opposite Tommy. Tommy startles and drops the controller. His character slams into a wall, but still grinds over the finish line.
“Phil! You surprised me,” he says, smiling brightly at his pseudo-dad. “How’re you feeling?” Phil seems comfortable, but Tommy can’t shake the mental image of Phil on Techno’s work table, weakly holding Tommy’s hand.
Phil shrugs with one shoulder. “You know how it is. Better every day, but it hurts like hell. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m not the one who got stabbed,” Tommy points out. He can’t stop thinking about how that knife was clearly meant to kill. He can’t stop thinking about how he almost lost a second family member to a stab wound.
“You’re still allowed to be freaked out.” Phil shifts to sit on the couch proper, within arm’s reach of Tommy. “You’ve seemed… off. Is something going on?”
“I’m fine, really.” Phil has bigger things to worry about than Tommy’s dumb idiot brain. Tommy’s usually the cheering-up guy, right? He can be that now while Phil gets better.
“How’s Tubbo doing?” Phil asks. “What do you guys have planned?”
Tommy squints at Phil in confusion. What? “I’m not sure.”
Phil smiles dryly at Tommy. “You always know how Tubbo’s life is going. What’s wrong, Tommy?”
Shit. Phil’s right; Tommy hasn’t been keeping up with Tubbo like usual because he’s been thrown off by Phil’s injury. “I’m just… worried.” Tommy struggles to think of a way to explain. “You got stabbed. My brain doesn’t like it.” He hesitates a second. “Reminds me too much of Ranboo.”
Phil makes a sympathetic sound. “Oh, mate.”
Tommy nods at the floor. Briefly, he wonders if this is how Tubbo feels all the time, this tense anxious knot in his stomach. He makes a mental note to hug Tubbo extra hard next time they see each other. “Yeah.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Tommy shrugs lightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Tommy.” Phil’s voice takes on the tired-dad tone. “What can I do to help?” After a beat of quiet, Phil prompts, “Have you been eating? Hydrating?”
“Yeah,” Tommy answers immediately. “I’m fine. I dunno.” Tubbo’s told him before that some days are just bad, and all you can do is trust tomorrow will be better. Obviously, the situation isn’t the same, but maybe it’s similar. “I just need to get my brain to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” Phil reassures him. “Everybody’s gonna be just fine.”
“Can you stay here a while?” Tommy asks. “I think it might help just to be able to see you for now.”
Phil nods and leans back on the couch. “No problem.” Tommy goes to pick up his controller to distract himself with another round of Mario Kart. “Hey Tommy?”
“Yeah?”
“I never thanked you for staying with me when I got hurt. It really did help. Thanks.”
Tommy blinks. “Oh. You’re welcome.”
“Pass me a controller, will you? If I’m gonna be here, I may as well play.”
Tommy reaches for the player two controller, then pauses. “Can you play with just one hand?”
Phil gives another one-shouldered shrug. “Eh, we can make it work. We always do, right?”