Chapter Text
He had been here before, in this exact situation, twelve and a half times—half because he made them stop at a gas station on the way back, then he left from there.
Of course, he ended up back where he started.
It almost felt like being in the principal's office, but a thousand times more serious. You were called to come meet the newbies: a young and naive couple, a single parent, people unable to have children—he'd seen it all.
And so here he was, sitting outside the door he had been in and out of as long as he could remember. He was hunched over, examining the dirt under his fingernails and picking at it. Just like the principal's office, he thought again, But instead of detention, I'm about to step into my new life for the next six months.
Six months; that sounded right. He'd give the next one six months.
That's when the door opened and the familiar face of his caseworker emerged, beckoning him inside. "You can come in now," she said, a very obviously forced smile on her face. She had assigned all twenty willing foster parents to him, and he assumed she had—or at least had started to—given up on him. After all, the older you get, the less people want you.
It didn't matter, anyway. He'd be eighteen soon enough.
He took a moment to get up, stretching out his arms and legs. The wait always felt eternal, but the anxiety died out by the third time he'd been through it.
He bent back down to pick his backpack up before walking in the room. That backpack had seen it all. Twelve—and a half—foster homes, fifteen schools, twenty parents, and a handful of siblings he barely remembered the names of.
At this point, it seemed like it was his only constant, the only thing that stayed truly the same.
When he entered the room, there wasn't a couple sitting in chairs waiting for him. This time there was a singular man.
That was fine, though. He'd been with single parents before, and they were easier to break.
The man turned as he walked through the door, a big smile on his face. It seemed one smile in the room was genuine.
"And you must be Tubbo!" he said happily, like this was going to be good, like he wasn't just sat down and told about the twelve and a half other homes.
Tubbo looked this man up and down, expression unmoving. His hair was blonde and shoulder length, tied back into a small ponytail. Stubble covered his chin and he had baby blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with enthusiasm.
Tubbo decided that he wasn't going to give this man six months; he was going to give this man six weeks.
The man gave him a moment later to respond, but Tubbo had already decided he wasn't going to bother, so he went on. "I've heard a lot about you," he chirped, a little less enthusiastic this time, but not in a negative way. He seemed to be saying, I understand, and I'm here for you.
Like hell he understood.
When Tubbo once again didn't say anything, his caseworker cleared her throat. "How about you take a seat, Tubbo?"
Tubbo continued over to the chair opposite her and beside the man. He had sat in this chair for meetings like this thirteen times before, and even more times for other reasons, so he slumped down like usual.
His caseworker gave that forced smile again. "Tubbo, I'd like you to meet Mr Philza Watson. He's offered to foster you."
Tubbo shot a glance to the man—Philza—who returned it with his smile. "You can call me Phil."
He stared at Philza—he wasn't going to call him Phil, at least not yet—who continued to give him his supportive smile. Tubbo knew that this man knew everything that the foster system had on him, but the way Philza looked at him made it seem like he didn't; or he did, and just didn't care.
Tubbo hesitated a moment longer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Does he know—"
"About the twelve other families, yes," his caseworker interrupted with a sigh.
Tubbo inhaled sharply. He hated that word. They all said it like nothing, like it didn't mean anything. His own words always died in his throat when it was mentioned, turning his tongue into lead, unable to continue.
It took a moment, but he regained his ability to speak. "And he knows that I'm—"
"Classified as a 'troubled youth'," they both said at the same time; his caseworker sounded exhausted.
"And he still wants me?" Tubbo squinted his eyes suspiciously.
Phiza didn't seem to care that they were talking about him like he wasn't in the same room. "Tubbo," he started warmly. "I want you to know that I understand this is hard. Foster families can be difficult, but you should know that I—"
There it was again, the F-Word. The word Tubbo refused to use. The word he hated with every inch of his being. And even then, Philza was proving his point: 'I understand, I'm here for you.'
"That you what?" Tubbo looked at him, brows furrowed. "That you were fostered when you were my age? That you were exactly like me once? Because I seriously doubt that."
Tubbo was used to his name being said in frustration or anger, but Philza had a way of not sounding tired of him at all. "No, Tubbo, I was going to say that I have two foster children at home, who I've adopted to be my own," he said.
What did this Philza character think of him? Did he think that he was going to adopt Tubbo, like whoever else he'd adopted? Yeah, right.
"What Mr Watson is trying to say, Tubbo," his caseworker said, exasperated. "is that he has experience fostering children, and understands the struggle it is for you at first."
Tubbo looked at Philza and then at his caseworker, then back at Philza and at his caseworker again. "Well, Mr Watson, you know I've been through this thirteen times before, so I expect this shouldn't end up any differently."
His caseworker sighed, sounding like she would rather be any place but here. That wasn't new, though. "Tubbo, for once, look at this positively, and maybe it will end positively."
Tubbo didn't say anything. It's not like he had much of a choice about this. Knowing his situation, it was probably his last chance—but was that really such a terrible thing? Maybe living in a group home for two more years wouldn't be as bad as a foster household.
"Tubbo," Philza's voice was careful, like Tubbo might shatter at any time during the conversation. But Tubbo wouldn't shatter at any point, and he hated being treated like glass. His dislike for Philza Watson grew with every word. "I think you're going to like it with us, really."
Tubbo wondered how many times a sentence had started or ended with his name over the past ten minutes. Tubbo, this is what's happening,' 'It's okay Tubbo,' 'Honestly, Tubbo, I think that..' He had come to realize that during normal conversations, people didn't constantly say your name; they only did it when it was a serious topic, or you needed comforting.
Tubbo didn't want comfort. Tubbo didn't need comfort.
He inhaled and laid his head onto the back of the seat. He stared at the ceiling, tracing over every bump and indent with his eyes. "Are we leaving now?"
He heard his caseworker. "Just some last minute paperwork, and you'll be on your way."
"Do you have everything you need?" Philza asked.
Tubbo sat up again, looking at Philza and gesturing to his backpack. "I own three pairs of jeans, two t-shirts and whatever else I'm wearing right now. I'm all packed," he deadpanned.
Philza blinked, then gave a nod and turned to the caseworker.
"Tubbo, why don't you wait outside? Mr Watson will only be a minute," she said, pulling out some documents and sliding them over to Philza.
Tubbo stood up and grabbed his bag once more. He left the room without another word, and immediately heard the two start talking about legal matters. It seemed he really would be going home with Philza.
Six weeks, he promised silently. Six weeks. But, then again—Philza Watson didn't exactly seem like he was going to let go very easily.
But foster homes were temporary, like every other one he had been with. A temporary arrangement that wouldn't last longer than a year. Maybe a year and a half, but he'd never gotten as far as that.
He knew it wasn't on the people he'd been with, and that it was his fault, but it was easier to pin the blame on anybody but himself. The truth is hard to face, especially when you're the reason things get so bad.
The door opening behind Tubbo snapped him back to reality. It was only then that he realized he was standing a few feet in front of the door, and hadn't even sat down. He must have looked pretty stupid just standing there.
Tubbo turned around and took a step backwards so that they could actually leave the room. His caseworker followed Philza out, holding a folder that he knew had his name on it, with any information on him that they had.
"You ready to go?" Philza asked him with his smile. Tubbo hadn't known him for very long, and so far the smile was all he knew. He wasn't stupid, and he knew that parents were never all smiles and sunshine, so he could break this guy somehow.
He nodded, and then his caseworker spoke. "Well, Tubbo, I hope we don't have to meet again, and I mean that in a good way."
Tubbo knew she also didn't mean it in a good way, but that was okay, because Tubbo didn't want to see her again either.
Philza and his caseworker said their goodbyes and thank yous, and he started off, gesturing for Tubbo to follow.
"See you in six weeks," he said lazily, before he turned to trail Philza.
"Behave, Tubbo!" He heard her call out from behind him.
Tubbo didn't respond at that. He reluctantly followed Philza down the hall, who slowed down for Tubbo and they walked side by side. It was silent for the first bit, the only sounds accompanying them were the footsteps they left behind. Tubbo was grateful for this, because he didn't want to make conversation. Maybe he could just show Philza how uninterested he was, and he wouldn't have to leave with him.
They eventually did make it outside and Philza showed Tubbo his car. "You can sit up front, but enjoy it while you can! It's always a race to shotgun in our household," he said through a chuckle, and clicked his keys to unlock the door.
Tubbo, again, didn't say anything. He wasn't planning to stay long enough for shared car trips. Besides, he didn't want to sit next to Philza, anyway.
He opened the back door and threw his bag on the seat. The car wasn't completely clean, Tubbo noticed—like any family car would be. He ducked down and settled into the backseat. By then, Philza had already situated himself behind the wheel. Tubbo noticed Philza's expression change, ever so slightly, like he might have been hurt or disappointed—or even a little frustrated.
Didn't matter to Tubbo if Philza was sad or angry or happy. He could care less what he thought of him. If anything, a negative impression would help Tubbo to his goal of being rid of Philza within six weeks.
Philza started the car, and Tubbo felt the rumble right to his bone. He expected them to start moving, but Philza turned around to look at him.
"Seat belt," he reminded, gesturing to the silver clip that hung above Tubbo's head.
Tubbo glanced upwards to it and reluctantly reached to his right to pull it over himself. He didn't have anything against wearing a seat belt—it was the safe thing to do; it was just the fact that Philza had to remind him, and he had to listen.
"I know how to ride a car, thanks," Tubbo muttered as the clip clicked into place. He realized after that it wasn't a very good remark, and that it sounded better in his head.
Philza let out a light laugh and turned back to the wheel; the car started to move.
Tubbo allowed his elbow on the door edge and rested his chin in his hand, watching the world zip past outside the car. The weather seemed to match his mood. The sky was gray, the ground was damp from rain the previous night, and it was nice and chilly out; not so cold you needed a scarf and mitts, but cold enough you'd want at least a jacket. Normal mid-October weather.
"Music?" Philza interrupted his thoughts.
Tubbo shifted his hand and leaned it against the back of his head, soft hair brushing against his palm. Philza had his hands up on the mirror, positioning it so that he could have Tubbo in his peripherals. His hand trailed down to the dashboard, where it hovered over the radio button.
Tubbo shrugged, and he noticed Philza look up at him through the mirror again. He quickly removed his elbow from the window and looked down at his knees, refusing the unwanted eye-contact.
Philza took the shrug as a yes, it seemed, because Tubbo heard the radio start playing. He was flicking through different stations, each one trying to start its song or continue its ad before it was cut off by Philza flicking to the next one.
"Any favourites?" he asked, and Tubbo glanced upwards again to find that Philza had gotten the same idea, and followed him.
Tubbo shrugged again, allowing his gaze to fall again. He really couldn't care less what Philza played, as long as it wasn't country. Besides, maybe music would stop Philza from trying to start up conversation.
Philza decided on a classic rock station. It wasn't half bad, but Tubbo remained silent. He slid his hand back up to the window and positioned himself the way he had been previously, staring through the window; he wanted to look anywhere but Philza's blue eyes in the mirror. It had started to drizzle outside, and he could see his reflection amongst the raindrops.
A few extra moments of silence between the two passed, the radio quietly emitting an old song Tubbo didn't know the name of.
He learned now that music didn't stop Philza from talking.
"We'll have to go shopping and get you some new clothes, if it's true you say you only have three pairs of jeans and two shirts," Philza offered, his tone lightly humored at the end.
"Okay," Tubbo mumbled dryly in response, hoping to make it clear he didn't want to engage.
There was another minute where neither of them talked; the radio drawled on.
"And I have everything ready, actually. I've enrolled you in the local highschool two of my kids already go to—you'll meet them when we get home," Philza went on, not seeming to catch that Tubbo wasn't interested. Or maybe he did, and he just wouldn't let him sit in silence.
Tubbo wasn't a big fan of school. He didn't do terribly, and always managed a pass, but it was more-so the fact he didn't have any friends, and in his younger years, was picked on by bigger kids. This was, of course, because of how often he moved. By the fourth school he attended, he'd given up on trying to make friends; they never lasted, anyway.
And what was it Phiza said earlier? He had two foster kids at home? He said that two of his kids went to this highschool—how many children did this guy have?
"Two of your kids?" Tubbo had asked before he could bite back his reply. It wasn't meant to be vocalized, and he cursed himself for saying it.
Philza seemed to be pleased he had said something, though. "Two of my kids, that's right. Tommy and Wilbur both go to highschool. Tommy’s your age, actually, but Wilbur’s turning eighteen."
Tubbo sighed and silently hoped that those were the only ones, but with Philza's choice of words, he knew they weren't.
"My first foster child—Technoblade—is the eldest. He graduated last June and is taking a year off before college."
"Thought you said you only had two foster kids?" What was he doing? Why was he asking questions? He wasn't supposed to be talking.
Philza smiled. "Wilbur is my biological son."
Tubbo gave an acknowledging grunt and once again focused on the window. The drizzle had grown to a steady fall, the tap of raindrops against the window nearly drowned out the faint music.
Philza seemed content with the light conversation they had made for a few passing moments. The radio buzzed on for two songs before he—much to Tubbo’s displeasure—opened his mouth once more.
"What's your favourite food?"
Tubbo turned his head and sat up, brows pinched together. Their eyes finally met properly in the mirror. Brown on blue; optimistic on pessimistic. "What?"
"Your favourite food, what is it? I was thinking about getting takeout, y'know, since it'll be our first dinner as a family—"
The F-Word. Tubbo stiffened and his fingers curled into fists. He turned to look out the window again, breaking the eye-contact, as short lived at it was. He didn't want Philza—even just his eyes—in his peripherals.
"—I thought you should choose what we eat."
Tubbo stared out the window a while longer, lips pursed. "I dunno," he grumbled half-heartedly.
"Chinese? Pizza? Burgers?"
"Whatever works."
Philza sighed, drumming his fingers on the wheel. They came to a red light in an intersection, and this time, he turned backwards to actually face Tubbo. "You aren't one for conversation, are you?"
Tubbo felt his jaw tighten and saw it happen in his reflection in the window. His image was distorted in the wash of water running down the glass. "Only with people I don't want to have conversations with," he retorted in annoyance.
Philza started to laugh, and Tubbo hated it. "That's fair," he wheezed as his laughter died out. "Can't argue with that. How does pizza sound?"
You really can't make this guy angry, can you? Tubbo thought. "Sure, whatever."
And so Philza took a pit stop to the pizza place, and tried to weasel out what toppings Tubbo wanted. Like usual, he didn't give anything more than a shrug or a murmured 'I don't care.'
—
By the time they pulled into Philza’s driveway, the rain had become a heavy downpour. They were safe in the shelter of the car—which now smelled like cheese and pepperoni—but had to leave eventually.
Tubbo leaned down and took the handle of his backpack in between his fingers. He pulled it up onto his lap and looked at Philza, who was ready to leave. He had given up his jacket to drape over the pizza boxes.
"On three?" Philza asked, brow raised.
Tubbo stared at him for a moment. The rain pounded down on the car's roof, and he knew he had to agree. He gripped his bag tighter and nodded.
Philza smiled. "One."
Though, what if he didn't listen to Philza? It's not like he cared about what he had to say.
Tubbo found himself pulling the hood up on his hoodie anyway.
"Two."
This was pretty stupid, if Tubbo had to admit. Running out in the rain on a queue like it was a game? Why not just rush out yourself?
He found himself unbuckling his seat belt anyway.
"Three!"
And without really thinking, Tubbo had opened his door and jumped out with Philza. He didn't know why he was doing it, or why he was suddenly listening—he just felt compelled to.
Tubbo stepped into a puddle, which immediately soaked through his shoes and into his socks. The water was ice cold, and he wanted to stop, but Philza was already halfway to the door. He scurried over behind him, backpack held over his head. Philza burst through the door and quickly moved out of first sight, probably to put the pizza down.
Tubbo stared at the hallway from outside. He could feel the warmth coming from inside the house on his cold skin. He heard Philza from inside, "Boys! We're home with pizza! Come meet Tubbo! Where did he—"
Philza was in eyeshot again, peering through the doorway. "What are you doing? Waiting for an invitation? Come inside before you get sick!" His hands were suddenly on Tubbo's shoulders and he was pulled into the house. Philza closed the door behind him and—like he had felt from outside—warmth quickly flooded his cheeks, turning them pink.
"Jesus, Tubbo, you're freezing. Why did you just stand there? You're soaked! I'll get you something to wear—just throw your things anywhere." Philza slipped away and up the stairs, leaving Tubbo alone in the front hallway.
The house was, well, homey. There was a coat hanger next to the door and an abundance of shoes were littered beneath it. To the right of him was the kitchen. He noticed the boxes of pizza sat abandoned on an island in the middle. On his left was the stairway Philza and ran up. He heard a few doors open and close from the floor above, and footsteps follow after.
"Anything Tubbo.. change into? Drenched.. things are soaked." He barely made out Philza's muffled voice.
There was a response from a voice Tubbo obviously didn't recognize. He didn't know what they had said, but he heard another door open and assumed the answer was yes.
And suddenly, one of the footsteps had an owner. A tall boy walked down the stairs. He had curly brown hair, a bit lighter than Tubbo's, and wore round glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Tubbo, right?" he asked with a warm smile.
Tubbo nodded skeptically, his grip on his backpack tightening.
"I'm Wilbur." The boy leaned against the railing on the end of the stairway, placing his hands in his pockets. "World's best big brother," he added with a wink.
Not to me, Tubbo thought, squinting. You aren't my brother.
Another voice followed from above. "What's this about being the best big brother?"
Both of them turned in the direction of the voice, and found another boy with hair as long as Philza's. It wasn't blonde though, instead a charming pale rose. He had obviously dyed it. It reminded Tubbo of Pinkie Pie.
"Don't mind Wilbur, he thinks he's better than everyone," Pinkie Pie said, setting himself next to Wilbur. They were about the same height, Wilbur being a bit taller.
Wilbur rolled his eyes and gave Pinkie Pie a shove. "Don't listen to Techno, he just wishes he were as cool as me."
So Pinkie Pie was Technoblade the highschool graduate, and the Giant was Wilbur the eighteen-year-old to be.
That means the only one missing would be—
"Here you go, Tubbo!" He heard Philza's voice and his eyes trailed to the stairs once more. Philza was holding a bundle of clothes and was being followed closely behind by someone else.
"Take off your shoes, put your stuff down! Here, I'll trade you so I can dry your clothes." Philza held out the pile of fabric and waited.
Tubbo looked at him with a guarded expression. This backpack was all he had, and Philza expected him to hand it over.
"He isn't going to steal it, you know," said the muffled voice he had heard from upstairs, a light snicker lining its words. "Whatever's in it, it'll be safe."
Tubbo turned to find that its owner had stepped out from behind Philza, and was now hovering next to him. How was this Tommy? He looked more like Philza than the rest of them, yet he wasn't the biological son. He had blue eyes, just like Philza, and a mop of honey-blond hair. He stood taller than Tubbo—like everyone else in this household—and stared at him with a grin.
Tubbo stiffly held out his bag to Philza, his eyes narrowing at Tommy, and suddenly had the bundle of clothing in his hands.
"They'll be safe with me," Philza reassured and then he disappeared down the hall. Tubbo looked down at the bundle, and Tommy spoke again.
"They're mine," he said. "Phil said that my clothes would fit you best since you were short, but they're definitely still going to be too big."
Wilbur spoke up again, "Looks like you aren't the shortest of the household anymore, Toms!"
Tubbo wanted to say, You can be shortest again, soon. I won't be here for long, but knew he shouldn't.
Tommy turned around and said something to Wilbur that Tubbo didn't quite catch. He wasn't paying attention anymore. The tips of his fingers and his toes were tingling because of the sudden change in temperature, and his soaking wet shoes weren't helping. He also realized there was a wet spot beneath him on the carpet he had obviously created. Tubbo kicked off his sneakers and nudged them opposite the pile of shoes.
"Right, Tubbo?"
Tubbo looked up again at the sound of his name. He hadn't heard what was asked of him. They stood looking at eachother for a few moments, Tubbo's brows furrowed. The silence rang in his ears.
"Has he said anything?" Tommy suddenly turned to Wilbur and Technoblade again, gesturing to Tubbo.
Wilbur shrugged. "Not while I've been here."
"Does he talk?"
"Why don't you ask him, and not us?" Technoblade suggested sarcastically.
The three turned, somehow synchronized. Tubbo felt their eyes burn through him, he felt like an attraction at some sort of zoo. It was always the worst being the new kid.
"Do you talk?" Tommy asked, placing his hands on his hips.
Tubbo blinked. Of course I talk, he almost forced through his throat. I'm not some alien species.
He nodded again.
"Well?"
Tubbo cleared his throat and held out the clothing. He was about to ask where he could change, but Technoblade apparently thought what he was going to say was obvious.
"Down the hall to the left," he said, gesturing the way he'd stated.
Tommy scrunched his face together angrily and looked at Techno.
Tubbo shuffled down the hallway, not bothering to listen to Tommy and Technoblade bickering behind him. He turned left to find the bathroom door, letting himself in and setting the clothes down on the counter.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He was wet, alright. Droplets ran down from Tubbo's hair and dripped off of his jaw, and his clothes were dark with water. It seemed giving up his bag to the rain didn't help keep him dry at all.
He looked through the clothing, which consisted of a t-shirt, jeans, socks and undergarments. He sighed and peeled off his own clothes, which were annoying and stuck to his skin.
Tommy was obviously right, his clothes were too big for Tubbo. He had to cuff up the jeans three times so they wouldn't drag beneath his feet. He picked up the new pile of clothes, not folded, not clean, just a bundle of wet fabric.
Once again Tubbo stared at himself in the mirror. The t-shirt was baggy and hung too low on his cuffed-up jeans. His hair was still wet, and he shook it out. It didn't help much, and it stuck out in places, but he didn't care. He opened the door and started down the hallway again, about to turn to where the three other boys stood.
"Tubbo!" Philza’s voice made him jump and almost fall over. He gripped the bundle closer to his chest and swiveled to face him.
"Still big? Well they'll have to do, just give me those and I'll throw them in the dryer with everything else."
Tubbo handed Philza the pile of drenched clothing and wiped his hands in the dry pants. Compared to what he was wearing minutes before, the clothes were incredibly warm.
"Right, I'll be right back! Feel free to start eating, boys, I'll be up in a minute." And for the third time this evening, Philza had left them.
Tommy practically sang something about being starving, then slid over to the pizza boxes and flipped them open.
Wilbur followed, but Techno examined him for a few moments longer, then walked into the kitchen and pulled plates out of a cupboard.
Tommy gestured Tubbo over. "Dining table's over here—" he muffled through a mouth full of pepperoni pizza. "C'mon!"
And so that's how Tubbo found himself sitting at the end of the table, watching as the rest of them chewed on pizza. Every so often, someone would say something and a small conversation would start up and die after five or so minutes. A question, a joke, a few laughs, and chewing once again.
"Do we get to skip school on Monday since Tubbo's here?" Tommy blurted out suddenly, which turned the attention onto him.
Wilbur looked over at Phil hopefully and Techno snorted.
"If anyone were to miss a day of school, it would be Tubbo, not you." Philza laughed lightly. "You still have tomorrow to get settled in, Tubbo. Will that be alright?"
Eyes were on Tubbo again. He'd barely touched his pizza, and now his appetite had shrunk even more. He shrugged and looked at his plate, picking up his half-slice and taking a bite. He hoped if he started eating they would stop looking at him. Tubbo didn't want to be here enough, and definitely didn't want to be the center of attention.
Tommy and Wilbur let out disappointed huffs and continued with their pizza.
"I was actually thinking we could go to the mall, tomorrow. Tubbo needs to get some clothes. Does everyone want to come?" Philza glanced around the table curiously.
"I could use new guitar strings," Wilbur mumbled thoughtfully through his pizza.
Philza gave an approving hum and turned to Tommy, who shrugged. "As long as we don't only go clothes shopping. It's boring as fuck. But I—"
"Language at the table, Tommy," Philza reprimanded.
Tommy gave an annoyed look. "It's boring as hell. But I'll come."
"You don't get the choice, Tom, you have to come regardless because you're youngest." Wilbur grinned.
Tommy pinched his face together and stuck out his tongue, revealing any chewed up food that was in his mouth.
Wilbur jammed his eyes shut. "Gross, Tommy!" he said through laughter, waving him away.
Philza scolded Tommy—if it could be called a scold. He rolled his eyes warmly and told him off, talking about bad table manners. There was no real anger behind the words.
Technoblade mentioned something about being busy after laughing along with the others, and Philza turned to Tubbo again. He'd put down his pizza the moment the conversation topic had changed and hadn't touched it since. "Not hungry, Tubbo?"
Tubbo caught Philza's eye for a moment and quickly stared back at his plate. He'd taken three bites of pizza all of dinner. For what seemed like the millionth time today, he shrugged.
"Big day, I get it," Philza said. He looked around the table. "Everyone finished?"
Tubbo didn't know if that as really a question. Technoblade had eaten five slices and had been sitting back in his chair for the past ten minutes, looking like he regretted everything yet nothing, Philza and Wilbur followed behind with three each, and had Tommy finished two—not including the one he'd eaten before they sat down. Tubbo stared at his measly three bites, wondering if he'd just come off as weak.
There was a chorus of 'yeah', and 'god, I'm full' and 'thanks, Phil' altogether. Philza smiled and nodded, looking satisfied.
Tommy's eyes flicked back from Philza to Tubbo excitedly. "Since me and Tubbo are done can I—"
"Yes, Tommy, you can show him," Philza sighed fondly, closing his eyes.
Tommy whipped around to face Tubbo and practically jumped up from his chair. "C'mon! I didn't give this up for you not to see it."
Tubbo raised his brows in confusion, slowly getting up from his chair. Suddenly, Tommy’s hand was on his wrist and he was being pulled out of the dining room and up the stairs. What was with these people and sudden grabbing and pulling?
There was a hallway with four doors and what Tubbo assumed was a closet by the size of it. One door was obviously a second bathroom, as it was open and he could see the toilet from the top of the stairs. Tommy led him past every one.
"That's Wilbur’s room. He hates it when I go in, and probably won't make an exception to you," he pointed out, then gestured to another door. "That's Techno’s room—you'll learn that Techno is pretty chill. Phil's room is in the basement, but you probably won't need to go in there."
He stopped them in front of the door between Wilbur and Technoblade's room, grinning widely. "And this one is my room." He let go of Tubbo's wrist to turn the handle and walk them inside. "But it's our room, now!"
The room was split into two. On the right side was a bed that wasn't made and had an abundance of things surrounding it. A nightstand littered with garbage and other objects sat next to it. There were posters and pictures on the wall and a dresser faced the bed opposite. It looked as if everything had been shoved to one side and someone attempted to make it look half decent.
On the left side of the room was a neatly made bed with an empty wall. A dresser sat next to the bed and a desk was by the foot of it. Tubbo looked up to see that there were what looked like dried spit balls, deteriorated sticky hands, and other things stuck to the ceiling throughout the entire room.
He didn't have to ask what side was his.
"When Phil told me we had to share a room, I wasn't super happy, but I feel like it'll work! I moved my stuff over and everything."
Tubbo silently took in the room. His part looked terribly bare compared to the other, but it didn't matter to him. He had never made interior decorations his top priority, because he never knew when he'd decide it was the right time to leave—if he hadn't already snapped the foster parents, of course.
"Well?" Tommy asked, sounding proud.
Tubbo swallowed, slowly turning to face him. He wasn't sure if he should speak or not. He could give a shrug or a nod, but wondered if it was the right response. "It's cool," he finally grunted, lying straight through his teeth.
But lies weren't foreign to Tubbo.
Tommy suddenly looked like he might collapse in relief. "Fuck, thank god," he rasped. "You can talk. I was starting to get worried—that's the first thing you've said all evening."
He realized Tommy was right, and that was indeed the first thing he'd said since he set foot in this house. An hour and a half had passed, and all he had managed was 'It's cool,'.
Tubbo shrugged again, placing his hands in his—technically Tommy's—pockets. "I don't have much to say."
Tommy eyed him curiously. "I think you have loads to say and you keep it all in your brain. But, whatever, I'm just glad you don't have an annoying voice."
Tubbo frowned at the words, pulling his eyebrows together to furrow them once again.
Tommy glanced at him with a little smirk playing on the corners of his lips. He shrugged, as if to say, What? It's true.
Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but that's not what mattered. What mattered was that something about Tommy was just different. Different in a way that he couldn't quite describe. Maybe it was his non-chalant demeanor, or how he seemed like he didn't have any problems speaking his mind, or maybe it was because he hadn't forced the F-Word on him yet, like so many others had done previously.
Tubbo had been forced to share rooms before.
He'd been forced to have twelve different foster homes.
He'd been forced into being called family, when he wasn't.
He'd been forced to do things he didn't want to do for his entire life.
And you could force Tubbo into something, but you couldn't force him to enjoy it.