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The Crafts seem to be a perfect family, idyllic and peaceful.
They aren’t really, but every member is perceived to be the epitome of skill and the very models of the ideal citizen.
Phil, the father of the family, emitted a gentle and kind aura. His eyes sparkle blue, bright and caring, and attune to his surroundings and the people around him. The people love him, the children adore him, society dubs him as the man everybody should strive to be like. He's the reincarnation of warm sunshine, welcoming and inviting in everything he does. He loves his family dearly, raised from the ground with a loving hand.
Technoblade, the older brother and the simulacra of strength itself. He's sat on a throne at the very top of his classes, carries his team at fencing meetings, and holds himself in a poised image of stoicism. His smiles only prick the corners of his mouth for the other members of his family, warding outsiders away like a protective wall between the horrors of reality and those he cherishes most. He loves his family fiercely, would do anything to protect them.
Wilbur, the middle brother whose music entranced everybody who heard. Experienced fingers brush over a well-loved guitar with a graceful flourish, a charmingly unpracticed voice still alluring and turning heads with every note. His music brushes over ears, sinks into brains, and invigorates. With a simple strum, lyrics sung beneath his breath, an experimental riff, he was able to serenade everybody and their mother with his musical talent. He loves his family passionately, has written ballads in their name that conveys his soul's deepest feelings.
And there's Tommy, the youngest.
He's...well, not special, not exceptional, not magical. He cannot make people feel relaxed from a small conversation, can't move figurative mountains with natural strength, can't create music that entrances those who dare to hear. He's the dirty boy who ate mud when he was a kid, makes friends with the bugs that everybody retches at, loves the unlovable things like ants parading down the sidewalk or little spiders that make intricate webs in the corners of his windows.
He's himself.
And perhaps that's the worst thing he could ever be.
──────
"Have a good winter break, children, and please remember to do your personal essays due when you come back!"
Tommy holds back a groan at his English teacher's reminder, shoving in his earbuds to ignore the final bell and sullenly zipping up his bag to hoist it onto his shoulder. Unlike most students who can't wait to laze about at home procrastinating on assigned schoolwork, he's been dreading the three weeks off. The essay in question posed a simple prompt: what major event in your life has contributed to the person you are today?
Fuck if Tommy knows.
Maybe if he were Techno or Wilbur, he'd write about first picking up fencing or playing the first notes on a guitar. He would write about how he molded those skills to become useful, unique, something exotic like a blue butterfly amidst a gray landscape. He would write about how Phil would encourage them, write about how his natural ability made a name for himself and didn't make him trapped in the shadow of somebody greater than him.
But, he wasn't either of his brothers. He wasn't special, remarkable, or anything redeemable. At most, he's a dumb teen boy who sticks out like a sore thumb amidst his family.
The essay only makes up part of why he's dreading the winter break. Mainly, he hates staying at the empty shell of the house when the time rolls around. Phil goes out for charity work nearly every day, helping the community and making friends, sharing warm smiles. Wilbur will perform at festivals, win a few awards, and come back home with gold only to rinse and repeat. Techno will practice and hang out with his fencing team, balancing it with applications to universities that will most likely guarantee him a place considering his track record and helping Phil. The house is cold when Tommy wakes up, and every time he hates it.
When he was a kid, winter breaks seemed magical. His whole family would stay home and make hot chocolate, watch cheesy holiday and Hallmark movies at night and do fun activities during the daytime. Decorations went up, laughter echoing throughout the halls and warmth filled Tommy's little kid heart until he felt fit to burst.
Every year they'd gone to the beach together as a tradition, because nobody belongs at the beach during Christmas time. They'd get ice cream and make sandcastles and have picnics watching the shore all together. When they went home with stinging cheeks and sand in their clothes, they'd dress the tree together with too much tinsel, handmade ornaments, and lights that didn't match colors or light patterns, and at the very end, Techno would swing Tommy onto his shoulders to place the star at the top. They would marvel at their work with satisfied smiles, and Phil would take Tommy upstairs and kiss his forehead goodnight with promises of the best Christmas he's ever had every year, each one better than the last.
Now, Tommy puts up the decorations by himself every year when they're not home without even a thanks to pay for his work, each year worse than the last.
They do not go to the beach anymore. Too much of a hassle to deal with sand and sunscreen and ice cream when they could be helping out the people. Too much of a bother to get glitter all over themselves decorating a fake tree and too much of a mess to make cookies in funny shapes with horrid frosting jobs when there was more work to be done. Tommy misses the beach, the family, the warmth that radiated in the house.
He just sets the thermostat to his liking now when they're out. They can change it when they come home.
Tommy follows the crush of students out of the corridor and squints against the afternoon sun when he makes it outside. The cold nips at his cheeks, ears, and nose as he searches the thinning crowd for the bench at the edge of the school yard, peeking over the tops of heads until he spots it.
Perched on the bench sits his two best friends (which is a sad sort of way to say they are his only friends), Tubbo and Ranboo. It's not like he’s begrudgingly stuck with them or anything, he wouldn't trade them for the world. They were the just the first ones who didn't expect him to live up to his family name, didn't shame him for living in a shadow and instead listened to his sorrows and shared the resentment for his family with such vigor that it was a bit surprising to even Tommy himself.
Tubbo is more outward with it, claiming that he'd beat the shit out of them or drink from their milk jug to inconvenience them or some other heinous crime that would land him in jail. Ranboo is less vocal about it, but more often than not would agree with Tubbo, acting as an enabler, and making sure Tommy knew he mattered to them.
They are his foundation, his stability. Without them, Tommy's certain he would have given up by now.
Making his way to the bench, Tubbo perks up and waves him over. Ranboo sends him a smile, looking just left of Tommy's eyes, antsy about the eye contact. They sit together on the bench, Tommy crushed between his two best friends as they talk about their days and shit talking teachers. Occasionally, Tubbo will headbutt his shoulder or Ranboo will tap his ankle to Tommy's as a sign of silent affection. Their little signs of love languages comfort Tommy, making him feel secure, heard, and seen, all of which he cannot get at his own goddamn home.
There's a period of silence before Tommy opens his mouth to speak, to commentate on something before his voice peters out before it can even start. For a fleeting moment, it feels like he's suffocating before he clears his throat and says, "I can't wait for when we come back." That's all he gets out before the silence overlaps them again. It feels painfully quiet, like two ellipses placed before and after his statement, revealing how vulnerable he is in this moment. Too quiet, so un-Tommy that he wants to hit himself over the head for it.
What was that?
"You should come stay with us," Tubbo says, knocking his temple to Tommy's, "my sister won't mind. I think she would make you banana bread and then shout at Wilbur and Techno. Just to scare them a bit. Scare 'em real good."
"I can't," Tommy says faintly because spending the holidays with Tubbo and Niki would feel like betrayal to his own family. "Who would - I have to put up the decorations."
Like clockwork, every year. An annual chore that receives no recognition.
"They don't notice, Tommy," Ranboo says gently, all too knowing and understanding. "Do they?"
It feels like defeat admitting it out loud. Pressure builds in Tommy, like he's hanging above an endless height with nothing but a thin unbreakable thread. It feels like defeat, but he says it anyway. "They don't." A sniffle and the sudden push of tears are at his eyelids, ready to spill over. "They never see me anymore." Cracked vowels and a feeble voice, Tommy lowers his head.
Tubbo immediately tucks himself against Tommy's side, a little huddling ball of warmth as Ranboo leans so he can lean his head on top of Tommy's and curling around him.
They sit there, for a moment, not saying anything. Just being.
Tommy closes his eyes and breathes.
The silence is deafening, is acceptance, and is a spoken sentence that began and ended in ellipsis.
──────
Tommy has a secret.
Tommy has a bad secret, lining his soul and staining his fingertips with ink. An oath sworn to confidentiality made his insides curl every time he dared to think about it. Written with a ballpoint pen, rushed and smudged with falling tears of a past life, Tommy's summer was laid out on a sheet of college ruled lined notebook paper. The summer his family first left him for a majority of the days, the first time they told him that they couldn't go to the park and come back with sun-kissed skin, the first time he grew up too quickly all at once.
The pressure had been too much to handle, too heavy for him to hold on his shoulders. The sudden absence of his family and the impending doom of having to choose what he was going to be was too immediate. Tommy had wanted to get away from all the prying eyes so desperately that he wrote his goodbye with his soul pouring out all over the words and bleeding through the indents of the words into the paper. His backpack had been packed, food and water shoved into every conceivable pocket, the time set and the cloudy night a planned cover.
At two in the morning, Tommy had set a hand on the doorknob.
And went back to bed.
He did not tell anybody what he had almost done. Not even Tubbo and Ranboo knew that they might've had a missing third when they went back to school from the summer. Nobody knew that the final member of the Crafts family would have been written off as nothing but a bad dream, that they wouldn't have to pull his weight now if Tommy had gone through with his plan.
Instead, he folded up the note he had written, tear-stained ink and all, and tucked it into his pocket.
It reminds him, even in his darkest hours, that he had to stay. If they had gone through all this trouble to give him what others couldn't have, food, shelter, water, a place to stay, then he shouldn't take it for granted. He had something to prove, with nothing and everything to lose. If he ran away from his problems, he had no shot of getting to make them proud, to fix everything that was fundamentally wrong with him. It was the most convenient way to make sure he has that constant guilt to keep him rooted into place.
‘Don’t look for me,’ it reads, black ink permanently stamped into the paper that nobody would ever see. ‘Don’t bother looking for someone you don’t love, even if I loved you with all my heart.’
He could theoretically use the note as a point for his essay. He could write about the urge to leave home to a place where nobody knew his name or his supposed legacy. He could write about crying out for his family in an empty house and about traditions left to gather dust on a shelf of memories and about beaches where the sense of love provided warmth more than the sun did.
He couldn't write about it because it was too vulnerable, too open. No doubt the English professor would read it then pass it on to the other teachers who would tell Techno, or worse, Wilbur, then Phil would know and then everybody will look at Tommy with all eyes on him and judgment lining the creases of their eyes and disappointment written over their expressions. He can picture them with their sympathetic little smiles and whispered conversations behind closed doors. The impending realization that they don't love him for who he is, just his potential lies in wait, ready to show its ugly face just when Tommy least expects it.
He couldn't handle that.
So the night that Tommy goes home for winter break, when Tubbo and Ranboo walked him home because they didn't want to let go either, he runs upstairs without a hello to Phil, Techno, or Wilbur. They're all in the kitchen, probably eating dinner or discussing where the twins would be heading off to next. They wouldn't notice, anyway. Too busy for annual traditions and certainly too busy for Tommy.
He slams into his room, drops his bag and falls onto his bed with a heavy sigh. The tension from the day snaps and floods anxiety into his veins, ice cold and buzzing just beneath his skin. He closes his eyes, patting around his coat pocket before locating the outline of the paper, reaching into the space and pulling it out by the corners with the pads of his index and middle fingers. Tommy holds the letter like it might burn him before rolling over and clicking on the lamp on his nightstand.
His handwriting erupts across the page from the darkness, clumsy and not at all like Techno's neat lines or Wilbur’s elegant loops. Tommy closes his eyes, brushes a hand over the words like he could soak up the meaning with just a touch. He can almost picture that day perfectly, hunched over his desk and furiously scribbling down his pains to be displayed for all the world to see while unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears. Gripping both sides of the paper with eight fingers, he opens baby blue irises and let's himself read what he wrote, clinging onto the fragile paper tightly almost like parenthesis.
Every word hurts, every correctly used apostrophe (of which there were very few) like a stab to his heartstrings and making the cardiac muscle sink inside his chest. He remembers wanting to scream, wanting it to hurt because they had things to busy themselves with while Tommy was left to occupy himself. Tubbo and Ranboo certainly did everything they could, and XD bless them, but they had their own families they could rely on. Good ones that made sure they knew they were loved no matter their achievements or if they did something with their lives. Ones that didn't question however long Tommy was around and welcomed him with open arms.
That's the kind of family Tommy wants, the kind that he wants back. He wants to be a kid again, wants Techno to ruffle his hair affectionately with his secret smile and teach him video games. He wants Phil to cut him up fruit slices as a snack just because he felt like it and help him with his multiplication tables when it was hard to remember what was equal to what. And Wilbur, gods Wilbur, he wants to pulled by the elder from the wrist, listening to him yapping excitedly about getting a lyric to work or a new chord progression being the missing puzzle piece to his new ballads. He wants Wilbur to tell him his bedtime stories again, and to go on walks together just because they could, and to go feed the ducks grapes because Wilbur taught him not to feed them bread.
The creases of the paper bend beneath his fingertips, as the words blur from the tears in his eyes. The hurt pulses, a pang in his heart and a wild yearning tugging on his emotions.
Tommy gets up, harshly folding the letter back. He flings open his closet doors, shoving through heavy and thick fabric until he reaches the very back and forces the crumpled paper into the pocket of an old winter's coat he hasn't used in a few years. He can't bear to look at it anymore, shame coloring his cheeks red and the water in his eyes beginning to burn like acid. He shuts the doors, sealing away the letter and attempting to obstruct the memories.
There are no more beaches, no more traditions, no more pain. He has to accept that. So why does it hurt so much as he falls asleep, trying to block out the images of smiles and sun and sand?
And on the day that marked the start of winter break, Tommy grows up just a little bit more.
──────
The snow during December is beautiful in the way that it falls on the ground.
Two years ago, Tommy had clambered out of bed, staring out his window as he watched the flurries descend. With excitement, he threw open his door and called excitedly for his family members one by one, shouting that it was snowing. They could make snow angels and get into fights and make a snowman that looks exactly like Phil with his ugly striped bucket hat! Tommy had a smile bigger than any he's had in a while as he barreled into the dining room where they were supposed to be having breakfast.
He was met with a note on the table letting him know that everybody was out and there was a plate of food in the microwave.
That must be the first time the cold wrapped itself around him and sunk in past his thick flannel defenses. It frosted his insides, and he shivered even though the heat circulating the house was toasty. They had left him behind, discarded because they didn't want to be responsible for him. That must've been it.
Tommy spent the whole day sitting outside on the front porch steps, watching the snow even after it stopped falling. Wilbur had come home first, eyes widening upon seeing his little brother curled up on the wooden steps and herding him inside with worried questions and warm touches that left Tommy's ice-cold skin burning from the contrast. It made Tommy a little guilty that he'd caused Wil to worry so much, but he couldn't deny that the affection was something he’d missed ever so dearly. The next year, Wilbur was not there when he waited on the steps and this year would be no different.
When Tommy opens his eyelids to falling snow, he blindly reaches for his phone and checks the time. Right beneath the numbers is a message from Tubbo that states he and Ranboo are going to come around for a snow day, somehow cursing out Phil, Techno, and Wilbur in the same sentence. Reluctantly, Tommy rolls out of bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking to the window where gray light slips through the crack in his curtains. Today feels sluggish, set in slow motion as he drags himself out of bed, dresses, and chokes back a few grapes for breakfast.
Not a moment later, incessant knocking erupts from the front door and Tommy opens it to reveal one Tubbo and Ranboo. Tubbo's got an evil little grin that lets him know there's going to be a snowball fight today while Ranboo seems a little nervous, most likely coming to the same conclusion. Tommy silently notes to watch a couple movies with him and make the taller boy some popcorn as compensation.
"We have come to collect our best friend for a day of fun," Tubbo announces and Tommy rolls his eyes but allows a slight smile to perk on his lips anyway.
"Yeah, yeah. Get in here, you're letting in the fucking cold, boys."
They follow Tommy up to his room and he lets them dig through his drawers to decide what he'll wear to protect from the cold. Ranboo, ever the mother hen, goes through all of Tommy's pants to determine which would be the coziest and warm to wear while Tubbo searches through the jackets in Tommy's closet.
"Do you think the khakis will keep you warm if you layer it up with something?" Ranboo asks, tossing the said pair of pants onto the best alongside a pair of thick jeans. "Why do you have bootcut?"
"Techno," Tommy says numbly, "he got them for me in his potato phase, saying I couldn't help him out farming potatoes if I didn't have the proper style."
"So we burn them. I got you."
Tommy doesn't even get to say that he'd rather keep them when Tubbo hisses a, "What the fuck?" behind them.
Turning, Tommy goes to ask what he seemed so passed at when he spots a certain sheet of paper in Tubbo’s hands. College ruled, crumpled, and every line covered with Tommy's shaking handwriting, every sign had the boy's stomach dropping and dread curling over his shoulders.
So, maybe the lining of a winter's coat mightn't be the best place to hide a summer secret.
Tommy lunges forward to grab the paper back before Tubbo dodges, thrusting it at Ranboo who scrambles to catch it and quickly squints at the words with a furrowed brow. He looks up, as if he were seeing Tommy in a new light, eyes holding pity, confusion, and sorrow.
"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," Tommy spits, snatching the paper from Ranboo's hands and balling it up to the point that he's almost sure it tore in his haste. His heart is pounding with adrenaline, hoping, hoping, hoping that they didn't think little of him now that they had seen something they never should have known about.
"Tommy," Ranboo begins, reaching out and wincing when Tommy shies away from the touch. "We're not mad, I promise."
"I am," Tubbo snaps, and for a moment, Tommy fears that he's going to fall out with one of the only people he has left. "I'm going to fucking kill them. I'll fucking gut their insides for making you even consider on running."
"Tubbo," Tommy lets the ball of paper drop, drooping his shoulders and frowns. A wave of embarrassment washes over him, shameful of his secret being revealed. His ugly mind, put out for the only two people he trusts to see. Acceptance and defeat. "Please don't…I didn't mean to -"
His words are silenced as a body barrels into his, arms nearly squeezing the life out of him as a head is shoved under Tommy's chin. Tubbo makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat like he's on the verge of tears.
"Shut up," the younger boy murmurs, "Ranboo get the fuck over here."
True to his demand, Tommy feels Ranboo drape around them like a blanket, arms around his shoulders and squeezing gently. An overwhelming sense of safety washes over him, trapped in the arms of his best friends who hate everything that hurts him like it personally offends them. He breathes out, forces the tension to leave his shoulder and relish in the hint of warmth that touches his soul.
"Can we just," Tommy begins, quieting and only continuing when Ranboo makes an encouraging noise, "can we just stay inside and watch a movie or two?"
"Yeah," Tubbo agrees immediately, "let's watch Up until we know all the words and we get sick from eating popcorn and drinking hot chocolate."
"Sounds good to me," Ranboo inputs, "let's go downstairs."
They do, and that night, Tommy falls asleep on the couch that's definitely too small for three growing teenagers, but it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. That night, he dreams of nothing, and in the morning, the snow had been coming down in flurries. Beautiful, finite, and fragile.
He wakes up Ranboo and Tubbo, makes them breakfast, and they go outside to have a snow fight.
──────
Tommy severely needed to get a topic for his essay. So the easiest solution was to think about a random childhood memory and bullshit his way about how it built his character.
At first, he thinks about all the love and care that the other three family members showered upon him before they became too busy, but he immediately crosses it off the board. Much like the note, it was too personal and Tommy wasn't keen on trauma dumping onto his English professor. He could also talk about meeting Ranboo and Tubbo, but it might come off as a little stereotypical claiming that only his friends truly got him (which they did, but most likely, he wouldn't be taken seriously). With those accounted for, Tommy considers writing about the beach before also deciding that it would hit too close to home.
So he settles for writing about a random festival he attended as a kid.
As far as he can remember, he'd been about six years old. The image in his mind's eye is faint, a little fuzzy around the edges with only a spare few details kept vaguely clear. He remembers that it was hot and Phil had fretted over his wearing sunscreen for the longest time because of it. The twins had been about fourteen, still discovering themselves in their fresh teenage years. Wilbur had been traveling between different booths, marveling at handmade goods and little trinkets that he thought were unique. Techno stayed by Tommy, holding the toddler's hand securely like a steady protector and glaring at anybody who seemed to look at his little brother for too long.
Most important he remembers is when Wilbur had finished purchasing everything he thought was interesting, and began pestering Techno to get his 'Tommy Time'. The elder snorted and nudged Tommy into his side just to spite his twin.
"You've had him all day," Wilbur whined, "give me the child."
"Your arms are full of bags," Techno pointed out placidly, and earned a withering glare in response.
"Then carry some so I can take him."
"No."
"I am not past vehicular manslaughter, Techno-"
"Boys," Phil cut in, amused, "you can share."
Tommy remembers two hands enclosing each of his. One had been the hand that had been holding his all day, hands rough and with fresh calluses from various activities. Techno's grip was solid, and unyielding. Protective, even. The other hand had been soft to the touch and gentle in its hold. Wilbur held onto Tommy delicately but firmly as if we're made of glass and was not to be damaged. Tommy remembers looking up and earning twin faces returning his gaze with matching fond smiles.
He doesn't remember much past that, so instead of entirely making up shit, he decides to ask Wilbur if he still had any pictures of the event. Back then, the elder had been obsessed with taking photos with a heavy camera that the kid version of Tommy couldn't hold on his own. He usually backed up the files on his computer and sorted them into neat little folders that took up most of his storage space. While Wilbur resigned to taking aesthetically pleasing Polaroids nowadays, he did take out the big camera every once and a while.
It was one of the rare days Wilbur was home, having been out late doing a gig the previous night before. Tommy was trying to sort out his nerves, reminding himself over and over that this was just his brother. The same one who tried flirting with a girl by comparing her hair to a salmon and somehow ended up landing a date anyway. This was just the same brother who annotated his atlas with red Crayola marker and knew too much about the specific histories of hand gestures and probably knew the evolution of the art in shadow puppets for no apparent reason.
There was no need to fear Wilbur (it could be Technoblade, which would have been arguably much worse) so Tommy stands outside his door, ready to knock. He actually stands there for an impressive amount of five minutes before biting the bullet and rapping on the wood three times.
A shuffle is heard from within followed by a thump and a muffled cuss. The door swings open with a creak and there stands Wilbur in all of his glory. He's grown since fourteen, as a person and in height. Motherfucker had to duck beneath doorways sometimes. Confused irises focus on Tommy as if he were trying to decipher why his little brother was knocking on the door. It felt like creeping across cracking ice on tiptoes or walking on eggshells. One wrong move and it was all over.
"Hey," Tommy begins, and it sounds awkward in his own ears, "I have a project thing going on for when I go back to school and I was wondering if - fuck, do you remember that one festival we went to as kids?"
"Festival?" Wilbur's eyebrows knit together.
Tommy struggles not to backtrack and run. "Yeah!" he laughs nervously. "You remember, you were goin' around buying all sorts of cool shit. I think it had an archery range?" Tommy doesn't think it had an archery range. "I figured you may have taken some pictures since it might help jog my memory. I just remember that was a really good day, y'know?"
Wilbur's lips purse, the way it does when he's in deep thought. "I think," he begins slowly, and Tommy knows he's getting an answer he won't like, "every photo I took that festival got lost in my camera. They weren't really that important to me."
They weren't really that important. Thanks, Wilbur.
"Oh," Tommy says, feeling dumb.
"I can look through it if you'd-"
"No."
Wilbur's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as if he were expecting Tommy to demand the photographs. Like he wasn't expecting resignation so quickly. "Tommy-"
"I'll figure something out. Thanks anyway," the words fall from the boy's lips before he's booking it away to his room, shutting the door as softly as he could before sliding down to the floor.
It's the sting of being denied without a second thought. It's the insecurity that comes with not knowing what he did wrong and resolving that he should just choose to not ask next time. What had he been thinking? Of course Wilbur would tell him no. The offer to look through the camera roll was most likely out of pity or something along the lines of it. In the end, it would be wasted effort and Wilbur would be burning precious time on Tommy.
Tommy decides it's not worth the trouble anymore. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the festival in his head, but it appears too much like an overexposed Polaroid where the smiles of Techno and Wilbur are smudged out by the lighting.
And suddenly, Tommy realizes he doesn't remember when either of his brothers had last directed one of those smiles at him.
──────
Phil, as any parent was inclined to, loved photos.
Unlike Wilbur who cares for beauty and specific angles, his reasoning is for capturing memories and displaying them proudly on the walls of the house. Every major achievement his sons had, it went up on the wall. Techno's first fencing victory, Wilbur's first award for one of his songs, Tommy's first place in the spelling bee he'd been in as a kid. Each photograph tells a story, and while the bias between the three brothers presented tipped heavily toward the two elders, Tommy likes to think that that little detail in of itself was enough to tell its own story.
Don't get him wrong, Tommy doesn't resent his family. He doesn't hate them, doesn't think he could ever really. They are just too busy with things to ever make time for him, and it’s something he is just going to have to accept. Their shadow is simply too big to overcome, too smothering to get a foot in the world to establish who he is. It would take a miracle for Tommy to get a say in what people expected of him.
But he loves them, and that may be what's killing him from the inside out.
Phil harbors no ill will. The man is the epitome of kindness in of itself, but it’s fairly obvious who he favors in the family. One of the pictures on the walls depicts the boys on the beach, supposedly all sunny and bright. Because of this and Phil's lack of knowledge for using a big camera, the photo came out horribly underexposed but he had insisted it go up on the wall anyway. Even through the quality, Tommy could see Wilbur and his K Records t-shirt, arms dramatically around Techno with their hands clasped together and matching smiles. Tommy stands alone beside them, thumbs up and putting on his best shaky grin with a mouth full of braces. The distance between them, between Tommy and his two other brothers literally in the photo and metaphorically in the present, sends a pang through his heart.
Figures.
It's at times like these that Tommy feels like running. When he feels like booking a spot on the local bus and letting it carry him out of the borders and into the great unknown. He could become a new face in a new town and nobody would ever know where he came from or the expectations he destroyed for himself. Maybe Tubbo and Ranboo would go looking. Maybe his family would take two weeks to search before they gave up. Maybe they'd do nothing at all.
The most terrifying part is that he wants it to hurt. He wants them to look and realize that he's gone without a trace. He wants them to cling onto what they had left of him and he wants it to hurt. He wants that feeling of being missed, to know that he was a piece to someone's puzzle that couldn't be filled. He wants to be irreplaceable.
He wants them to go to the beach and miss him. He wants them to be unable to look at the sand because it will remind them of what they had lost. He wants them to fear the ocean because of the memories and the ghosted smiles and the space of one less sandwich in the lunchbox.
Tommy is selfish, cruel, and unlovable. He wants the people he loves to hurt because he doesn't get the attention he wants and he wants to leave when he had everything he ever needed right in front of him. Tommy is unlovable when he loves everything, is cruel when he treats every living being with gentle understanding, is selfish when he would give the whole world if someone asked.
Tommy wants his family to go to the beach, and he wants them to mourn.
──────
Halfway through winter break, Tommy wakes up in the afternoon.
He can't remember why he had slept in so late, whether it was from staying up late in a Discord call trying to help Ranboo stop Tubbo from building a nuke or crying himself to sleep when they were gone, but the afternoon is fresh and Tommy is behind. He flings himself out of bed and stumbles downstairs to find the boxes of Christmas decorations he planned to put up today.
The routine is methodical, and thought out. First, Tommy would put up the dull garland and stockings on hooks that stuck to the wall above the couch. Then, he would do the tree, fashioned with silver and blue for this year (last year had been red and gold) and get the step ladder out of the garage for the star. Last, he would set out the props. The little ceramic village buildings, machines that played Christmas tunes when a button is pressed, a bowl of cinnamon scented pinecones. All of them are to be evenly distributed throughout the living room.
Tommy opens the first box, met with a collection of garland that he untangles with ease. Silently, he notes what colors are fading and which ones are falling apart and makes a mental reminder to order more before the next year rolls around. The lights are at the bottom of the box and some of the bobbles had been shattered beneath some sort of weight or pressure. He'd have to replace them with the spares they had in the junk drawer.
He retrieves the step ladder from the garage and sets to work pinpointing where the garland would wind around. Halfway through hooking it, the front door opens abruptly and a wave of fear hits Tommy all at once. Nobody was supposed to be home all day so what -
"Hey, Toms!"
He almost falls off his ladder.
Phil is there in the doorway to the living room, smiling at him and the sight of the disorganized mess in front of him. "Aw, mate. Are you decorating?"
Tommy opens his mouth, eyes furrowed to demand why Phil is home when Wilbur shuffles in after him, peeking curiously over his shoulder. It gets even worse when Techno is added, silently taking in Tommy's stiff posture and stilted movements as he comes down from the ladder. They all watch as he comes closer, abruptly stops, and backs away hurriedly like he is afraid.
Their lighthearted expressions fall as Tommy's eyes go wide, tripping over boxes and catching himself on the coffee table.
"Tommy?" Wilbur calls out gently like he was talking to a wounded animal.
It makes it worse because Tommy wants to scream. He wants to destroy everything and nothing all at once because his family is there in front of him with sand clinging to their fucking clothes.
"You," the boy swallows and tears burn brighter and harder than ever before, "you were at the beach."
Techno's eyebrows knit together. "Yeah?"
"I thought we were supposed to go together," he chokes out and one by one, their faces pale, "I thought it was a family tradition."
"You were asleep," Wilbur tries and his voice wavers feebly, "we didn't want to -"
"Shut up!" Tommy cries out, the heat exploding outward with a wet sort of anger that is packaged with tears and voice cracks, "Shut the fuck up!"
He slides a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at the roots and laughing humorlessly. He had fucking jinxed it, hadn't he? He wanted them to go to the beach and they did.
"Mate," Phil frowns, guilt written all over his expression, "we thought you wouldn't want to go. You've been walking like you've got no purpose lately and we figured it may be from lack of sleep."
"Like I need a purpose," Tommy backs around the couch, discreetly for the stairs. "That's all that matters to you."
"Tommy," Techno warns and if it had been a normal day, he might have cowered at the dangerous lilt in his older brother's tone.
"Fuck you," Tommy hisses. "Absolutely fuck you all, I hope you die. I don't care about your shitty beach anyway." Deflecting he knows, and he suspects they do too by the way they all seem crestfallen.
Wilbur bites on his cheek, a reflex he does when apologetic and guilty. Phil reaches out, like he can't bear to see Tommy hurting when he already has. Techno frowns, expression twisted into deep thought like Tommy is a puzzle he had to unravel by the seams carefully lest it shatter. It's so painfully transparent the way he can tell they went to the beach, from how the sand falls like golden glitter from their insoles.
Their eyes meet his, and all he can read through them is guilt, worry, apology. 'You're the B-side,' their expressions read, 'I'm sorry.'
The second side of a record. The less important, the less favored. The forgotten.
And Tommy -
Tommy can't stand it.
He shoots up the stairs, his footfalls thundering on the floorboards as he slams into his room. His backpack is being dumped out, pencils and pens clattering to the floor and his books flapping pages wildly as they fall out. Tommy doesn't care what he grabs as he drives a hand into his drawers, pulling out whatever he attached to first. Pants, shirts, undergarments, his deodorant, a hairbrush, and more are all scrunched into the bag and zipped up roughly.
If they wanted to go to the fucking beach without him, fine. If they want to share their traditions without him, fine. If they don't consider him family, fucking fine. If he had to be perfect to stay in this family, might as well get a headstart on leaving before they made him.
He lies in wait for hours, listening for the sounds of the family to quiet down before he makes his move. The night air is cold when he throws open his window and it's a long way down from the second floor. Tommy doesn't care, barely registers the pain in his legs when he falls. He just knows that he's outside, he's free, and that he has to go .
So he swings his backpack on, pinpoints the streets he has to navigate, and runs . The only place he has in mind is the bus stop.
After that, there was no going back.
──────
Contrary to popular belief, Phil is not the best of parents. Wilbur and Techno are not the best of brothers, but they make do with what they have.
Upon watching his youngest rush up the stairs in a mess of tears and betrayal, Phil feels the oldest he's ever been. He thought that it'd be okay. Wilbur and Techno had wanted to take Tommy, but Phil had been so adamant on letting his son rest that he had never considered that maybe it was common sense they should have all gone. He'd talk to him tonight, apologize, make Tommy see that he meant no harm.
Even worse is when Phil realizes he doesn't know anything about Tommy the way he used to. He does not know if his favorite color is still red, if he still loves cows, if his favorite instrument was still the guitar just because Wilbur played. He watched his son grow up then became so swept up in his jobs that he lost sight of what was important. How long has this outburst been stewing? How many hours had he longed for the golden hue of sand and sea, but felt too stifled to ask? How many months had his baby been suffering alone?
A whimper catches his attention and Phil turns to see Wilbur hunched into himself, small even though he's the tallest in the family.
"Wil," Phil murmurs, and his heart breaks when he sees the tears leaking.
"Two years ago he waited for us to come home," Wilbur sniffles, yanking himself away when Techno tentatively rests a hand on his shoulder, "hours of just sitting in the cold in hopes one of us would find him. How long has he been waiting, dad?"
"I don't know," Phil admits, disappointed in his own answer. "Let's give him time, alright? We'll talk with him tomorrow."
Wilbur is clearly unhappy with the conclusion, and Techno nudges him.
"We'll call the rest of the break off," Techno says, looking at Phil. "He's more important."
"Tommy's everything," Wilbur scoffs, cheeks blotchy. "If only I had-"
"Don't beat yourself up, Wil," Phil holds up a hand, "all we can do is fix it and heal."
Empty words. He knows Wilbur will be overanalyzing what he could've done differently to prevent this. Even Techno, silent in all his emotions and secretive thoughts, looks like he wants nothing more than to storm into Tommy's room to hold him and never let go. Phil himself plans to spoil Tommy as much as he can when the morning comes.
"Let's all rest for the remainder of the day," Phil suggests, nudging a box full of ornaments with his toe, "we'll help him decorate tomorrow, yeah? Just like old times."
The twins are unhappy, Phil wants to turn back time, and Tommy has shut himself away to protect himself from his own family.
Phil wonders how this had happened when they used to be so close.
The day drags slowly, and Phil busies himself cleaning up the living space so it could be organized when they decorate the next day. He looks up recipes online to make holiday sugar cookies, pulls up his old playlist that had all the cheesy Christmas songs on it, and makes himself hot chocolate when the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Wilbur has been stuck in his room all day, a burst of guitar chords and the occasional keyboard fiddles emitting from behind his door. Techno has silently seated himself in the living room's armchair, reading War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. He's only moved to go to the bathroom, nibble on something to eat, or get a drink before he dives back into the literary work.
The night is young when Phil stands from where he’s sitting with a knitting project, busying his hands with something to do. The moon does not shine through the windows, covered by the ethereal cover of clouds. It matches the mood of the house. He makes his way up the stairs carefully and pauses, just outside of Tommy's door. He's almost surprised when there's no low murmurs of his son's voice confiding in his friends, so perhaps he had gone to bed early. A little peek wouldn't hurt.
Right?
Phil carefully sets a hand on the doorknob and twists.
The hinges creak upon opening.
The wind blows harshly outside, a sad gasp in the air.
Phil's eyes adjust to the darkness, and he looks to where he expects to see his son sleeping safe and sound.
The bed is empty, and Phil's heart stops.
Upon pushing the door open wider, he can see that the pane of the window is slid up and letting into the cold air, the sheets a mess of creases from where Tommy must have left them this morning. Piles of clothes are left on the floor, and his books have been tossed carelessly onto the ground with bent and torn pages. The room does not feel lived in. It looked like it was just left abruptly, to wait for someone to come salvage it. To come save it.
Phil stumbles back, reeling as if he'd just been punched in the gut. He can barely breath, catching himself on the wall as his legs begin to give out beneath him. The world tips on its axis and the ground shifts beneath his feet.
Tommy is gone, Tommy is gone, his baby is gone.
Phil screams for Wilbur and Techno, voice full of anguish. Techno comes barreling up the stairs as Wilbur's door flies open and he emerges with alarm written all over his features.
"What's going on?" Techno demands.
"It’s Tommy, he -" Phil gasps for air and points at the room whose door is still ajar. He can't get the words out, can't admit it out loud because that would make it real.
"Tommy?" Wilbur whispers, striding to the door, then says louder, "Tommy?!"
There's two of them panicking now and Phil's fairly certain Techno is as well. The eldest brother raises his eyes to meet Phil's, fiery determination alight in his irises.
"We have to find him. There must be something that can tell us where he went. Maybe call up one of his friends or -"
"Guys?" Wilbur cuts in during Techno's theorizing, voice scared and terrified, "come see this."
Phil looks over to find a piece of paper in his hands, wrinkled beyond recognition. It's regular lined notebook paper, and he would have thought nothing of it if Wilbur hadn't practically shoved it into his hands. The contents were horrifying.
'Phil, Wilbur, Techno,
Im writing this down because I cant take it anymore. I tried I really did and I want you guys to know I never meant to hurt you this summer has gotten to my brain and I can't figure anything out. Im going away. I'm gonna pick a direction and take a bus so you won't have to worry. I know Im being selfish by doing this and you can hate me forever even if I could never hate you. I hope you have a good year and I hope that wilbur gets the prize for your new boyfriend and that techno becomes team captain or whatever it is he's trying to do and I hope phil finds what hes been looking for. Don't look for me. Don’t bother looking for someone you dont love, even if I loved you with all my heart.
I'm sorry.
Tommy'
Wilbur had presented 'Your New Boyfriend’ two years ago, and had gained that prize when the summer had ended. Tommy planning to run was something they could have seen, something they should have caught onto.
Techno takes the note, reads through it with twitching lips and an intense gaze.
And Techno, strong and unmoving who has never been stoppable and would move mountains for his family, reads his little brother's suffering laid out on notebook paper.
And Techno cries.
──────
Tommy's lungs are ice cold. His skin is freezing, his heart hurts, his legs ache, and the bus is nowhere in sight.
Sat on the bench in the freezing temperature, Tommy curls up with his knees to his chest as he tries to steady his breathing like the techniques he sees in movies. Anxiety ripples through his muscles as he mulls over what comes next. He could wait for the bus and let it carry him far away or he could shuffle back home. To be honest, he doesn't even know if he could find his way home. He's not sure if the house he grew up in constitutes as home now when it hasn't felt like one in ages.
His thoughts are slow and he considers that this might be where it all comes to an end. Maybe he would close his eyes, and sleep. Nothing could hurt him if he wasn't conscious to know it was happening.
Tommy shivers, tries to cuddle into the fabric of his hoodie and shuts his eyes. He shoves his nose into the dip between his knees and tries not to think too hard.
It doesn't work. Everything that has happened this winter break weighs him down like an anchor to an endless depth of the ocean. He regrets not throwing away that note, wishes he was stronger, prays that the bus would come soon to whisk him away. He doesn't want it to, really. Does he? He's not sure.
He thinks of Phil, who would lose a child and of Wilbur and Techno who would lose a brother. He thinks of Tubbo and Ranboo who will look for him in their shared classes only to find him missing. He thinks of an eternal snowstorm that will inevitably freeze his emotions if he chooses to leave. He thinks of how the emptiness will leave him hollow and cold with no fire to ease the pain.
Tommy breathes, his little wheezes being the only thing that he can hear in the empty bus stop. The world has gone dark by the way his brow bone is pressed into the shape of his knees, suspended in a quiet stillness. Occasionally, the sound of a cicada will call out and the crickets chirping will swell before receding. The axis has stopped turning for a precious moment, and the world stops around him.
It's just Tommy alone in the cold. How cruel that it is a familiar scene.
Faintly out of nowhere, the sound of footsteps barely register, but he hears them. He hears the crunch of boots on dried grass, and they pause in their stride before resuming, coming closer and stopping right at the bench Tommy has balled himself up on. The newcomer seats themselves on the opposite end of the bench and for a beat, there's nothing but the sound of labored breaths.
"I remember," the person, Wilbur, begins saying softly, "when you first saw snow. You were just a little thing, still wanting me to carry you everywhere."
Tommy curls up tighter as if that would protect him from the words.
"You cried the day I took you outside. You held onto me tighter and told me that it was too cold," Wilbur continues, "and a few weeks later, you came to me saying that it was 'too cold' again."
The boy tilts his head slightly, just enough to see his brother out of the corner of his eye.
"I asked you what you meant, worried it was too chilly in the house. I could always bump up the thermostat or get you a little heater after all…but you weren't cold because of the temperature," Wilbur leans over, resting his elbows on his knees. His breath makes puffs in the chilly air. "You pointed at your chest. 'Cold in here,' you told me because Techno and Phil were a bit busy and you wanted attention."
Wilbur pauses, and looks at Tommy. His eyes are red, his cheeks flushed like he's been crying.
"I told myself you would never be cold like that again," he says quietly. "It seems that I haven't been doing a good job of keeping you warm."
Silence hangs between the two, a wall in the middle of the bench. Both of them sit there, letting the tension brew before one of them speaks again.
"It's freezing, Wil," Tommy whimpers, his voice cracking. "It's freezing on the inside."
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't be."
"I should and I am. "
Tommy shudders, finally getting the nerve to turn his head to see Wilbur a bit better. The man looks back, all focus solely on his little brother like nothing else in the world mattered in the moment.
"Everybody wants me to be something," he says feebly, words curling from his lips like cigarette smoke. Something elegant and deadly. "Phil is kindness, Techno is strength, and you're music. But, what am I? I don't - I'm pretty sure I'm worthless."
Wilbur makes a wounded noise, like Tommy's thought process was an insult towards him.
"No," he denies softly, shaking his head, "no, no, of course not. Tommy, it's not what you like, it's what you're like as a person. If - if Phil is kindness and Techno is strength and I'm music…then you, my dear, must be love."
"...What?"
Weak, nervous, and unbelieving.
"Tommy," Wilbur says his name so gently, carefully like it's something to be cherished or uttered with care, "you love the things everybody doesn't seem to care about. You love the little things that people don't bother to look twice at. You make friends with the grasshoppers and the ants and the beetles, you call dandelions works of art when others call them weeds, you love without consequence."
"Then why does it hurt so much?" Tommy asks, his voice small. "Isn't love supposed to be a good thing?"
"Love can hurt," Wilbur corrects, "and it's been hurting you when you haven't done anything to warrant that pain. I'm sorry that you haven't been getting enough of it yourself.
Tommy pauses, considers this and decides it's too much to wrap his head around.
"Wilbur."
"Yes, Tommy?"
"...I'm cold."
He extends a hand out from his ball of protection, an olive branch. A silent proposal of forgiveness. Love, attempting to seal the wound it created.
Wilbur wastes no time taking a hold of the invitation, scooting closer until Tommy is close enough that they could bump shoulders if he moved. The heat that emits from his brother is too enticing, too full of hope. Before he knows it, Tommy shoves himself against Wilbur, nudging the crown of his head just beneath his chin. Arms fumble for a bit before they're being clasped around Tommy, holding him tightly like a vice but not at all uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," Tommy babbles, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt anybody. I just wanted - I want -"
Wilbur shushes him, situating Tommy so that he can practically cradle the boy against his chest. Warmth bleeds from his body into his little brother's, blocking out the stinging chill.
"All that matters is that you're here," Wilbur murmurs, crushing the boy into him, "and you should know that you are loved. No matter what."
Tommy screws his eyes shut, buries his nose into his brother's chest.
"We'll go to the beach together," Wilbur promises, running fingers through Tommy's hair and gently working out the knots, "and you'll be at the center of it all, safe, loved and warm."
And Tommy believes him.
──────
Phil and Techno will receive a phone call a few minutes after Wilbur finds Tommy.
They jump in Phil's SUV and rush to the bus stop that the two are at, melting at the sight of the baby of the family curled up against Wilbur like he is a kid all over again. Some things never change, it seems.
Phil kneels down, brushing curls away from Tommy's face and cooing when the boy blinks sleepily and mumbles, "Dad?"
"Yeah, it's me, Toms," he affirms, "you ready to go home, bud?"
"Home," Tommy agrees, barely protesting when Wilbur picks him rather than letting him walk on his own.
Techno rolls his eyes, bumping Wilbur's shoulder with his own. "Give me the child, you've had your turn."
"Over my dead body."
"Boys," Phil sighs, but smiles, "put him in the backseat in the middle and you can sit on either side."
The ride home is quiet, Wilbur playing with Tommy's hair as Techno checks him over for injuries. When they get home, they close Tommy's window and urge him to change into pajamas. Phil cleans up the room, putting things into piles for them to deal with at a later time and they all join together to tuck him into bed.
Tommy drifts off to sleep just as Phil kisses his forehead goodnight.
──────
Light spills through the cracks in the curtains, brightening up the room in such a way that Tommy has to blink awake. For a second, he considers shoving his face into the pillows and going back to sleep. He nearly does before he remembers where he is and what had occurred just the night before.
Sitting up, Tommy looks around and sees that his room has been slightly reorganized. The memories come in flashes. Finding out about the beach, packing in fury, running away, and making it to the bus stop. Wilbur finding him, words of affirmation full of love and affection, Phil taking him home, and Techno complaining that he never got enough time with Tommy.
Speaking of which, a knock at the door has Tommy shrinking back reflexively. Maybe the kindness was a ruse and they'd be angry today. That'd be worse than any punishment they could ever give him.
Techno peeks in, eyes flicking around the room before settling on Tommy and his shoulders immediately lose their tension. "Hey, Tommy."
"The Blade," he replies, voice still thick with sleep, "did you need something, big man?"
"Yeah, actually. I wanted to talk."
Techno comes into the room, shutting the door quietly and going to sit on the bed by Tommy. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He seems out of his element before he takes a deep breath.
"You know we would have looked for you forever."
Tommy blinks, urging him to continue.
"Last night, when Phil showed us your empty room, I didn't believe it. I thought it was a joke at first, maybe trying to get back at us for going to the beach without you. But then, you didn't even reply to Wilbur calling for you," Techno looks at Tommy, expression unreadable. "I was prepared to get every resource available to bring you home. I would have burnt down every house, turned over every stone until you were back."
"You would have?"
"I still would," Techno purses his lips. "I may not act like it, but you are one of the most important things in my life, Tommy. I may not have been around like I should have, but that changes now and I want you to know that if there's anything, anything at all, that you need, you come to me. Alright?"
Tommy frowns before folding his legs beneath him and launching himself at Techno. Just as a big brother should, he catches the boy in his arms and pulls him close, burying his nose into the junction between Tommy's neck and shoulder. They sit like that for what feels like an eternity, where Tommy feels untouchable. Technoblade was immovable, indestructible, and could never be broken. If there was anywhere in the world Tommy could be safest, it had to be with Techno.
"I love you, Tommy," Techno murmurs and it's everything Tommy's ever wanted to hear. "Never forget that."
"Okay," he whispers, "I won't.
Eventually, they head downstairs, Tommy holding Techno's hand like he was a child dependent on that guidance still. Wilbur greets him enthusiastically, getting up and hugging the boy until he almost felt like he would pop. Phil smiles, watching from the kitchen where he's making pancakes.
"Big day ahead," he announces, "we're putting up decorations and making cookies. Wilbur, you're sitting at the counter."
"What?!"
"You swapped the sugar and salt one year just because you wanted to be a chaotic piece of shit," Techno flicks Wilbur's temple roughly, earning a shriek in return.
Tommy watches, a smile creeping onto his face subconsciously.
That day, they all decorate, and Techno gets stuck in the tangle of Christmas lights that Wilbur eagerly snaps a picture of. Their tree is a little messy and they definitely overdid it on the tinsel , but it's something they did together and it's more than Tommy could ever ask for. They make cookies and Phil lets Tommy handle the frosting, though he restricted any phallic shapes to which Tommy pouted at. They turn on the radio and Wilbur shouts All I Want For Christmas at the top of his lungs while swinging Tommy around and pinching at his cheeks.
It's the first time he's smiled genuinely in a long while. The ice seems to melt ever so slowly and the house seems to come alive with the laughter that echoes through the walls. It's familiar, but it's not painful to remember. It's nostalgic and real and in the moment.
Tommy calls Tubbo and Ranboo that night when all the festivities had died down and he found himself available. They listen quietly as he recounts what had happened the night before, the tremors in his voice more than enough signal that he was nervous. And at the end of it, they are silent as Tommy stews in the anxiety of the quiet.
"But, you're safe now?" Ranboo asks softly.
"I am."
"And your family?" Tubbo butts in.
"Guilty, I think," Tommy breathes in, a sad little gasp. "I worried them, I know, and I kind of feel bad about it. But, now Wilbur wants to show me the album he's been making with a few of his friends. A band, he's dreaming of making them, and he wants me to be with them every step of the way. Techno wants to teach me some fencing, introduce me to his teammates. He says that I need to build muscle or some stupid pussy shit."
Another bout of silence blooms, but it's less tense now. It's calmer, like it's tied to the fluctuating emotions of his best friends.
"That's good," Ranboo murmurs warmly, "that's really good. We'll come over to give you your Christmas presents soon and we can celebrate."
"What?"
"Christmas Eve is tomorrow, boss man," Tubbo snickers. "Time is a social construct. Did you really not notice?"
"I guess I didn't," Tommy admits, flushing.
"Get some sleep, Tommy," Ranboo huffs with amusement, "we can do a sleep call."
He does just that, listening to the soft sounds of his friends arguing playfully lulling in his ears as he drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up, he does so with a smile.
──────
Phil is the only one in the kitchen when Tommy comes down, and for a moment, his chest falls upon seeing the lack of his brothers. Doubt stabs through his chest, thinking they might have already begun to forget everything that happened, thinking that the day before was just a temporary fix with no actual permanent solution.
Amid his pondering, Phil turns around and finds his youngest staring numbly at the countertop where the cookies they made the other day are covered with ceramic wrap on a plate. Following his line of reasoning, he quickly folds the tea towel in his hands and comes forward to cup his son's face in his hand.
"Toms? Tommy, can you hear me?"
"Did they leave again?" He asks faintly, nearly unable to believe it himself.
"No, no," Phil brushes messy curls from his forehead, "they're out getting gifts for us since they forgot Christmas is quite literally tomorrow."
"I forgot too."
"Runs in the family," Phil muses, "come have breakfast, mate."
He does. Tommy doesn't even get to dive into the pantry for something to eat before Phil's placing a plate into his hands stacked with an egg, toast, bacon, and a pancake decorated with a butter smile. The sight almost makes Tommy burst into tears right then. Phil softly nudges him towards the dining table and fiddles with his phone as his son eats. It's one of the best meals Tommy thinks he's had, even if it's simplistic and didn't appear very special at all.
"Mate, we need to talk about what happened," Phil begins and Tommy's heart sinks.
"Of course," he agrees, pushing away his plate as his appetite depletes. "What's it gonna be, then? Chores? Homework? Grounding?"
"Slow down, Toms," Phil soothes, "I'm not going to punish you for doing what you thought would protect your feelings, but I won't deny that it was wrong. I just - I just want to know what we can do so you don't have to feel like you have to do that again."
Tommy sits back, considering. Everything he wants is within his reach. He could take the opportunity to berate his own dad for leaving him, beat the dead horse and press the fact that the past two years have been absolute hell. He has a better head than that, though, so he opts for a tamer answer.
"Stay around more, I think," Tommy starts slowly. "I think that…I've just been feeling a little left behind. I don't have a hobby or a trait or anything that makes me unique or anything. The rift between me and everybody is only worsened when you guys are all away constantly."
"We can do that," Phil agrees immediately, then pauses. "About the hobby thing, actually…"
Tommy watches as his dad ducks down, the sound of his fingers fumbling with metal before he rights himself up. In his hands is some sort of tin container, butter cookies advertised on the lid. Phil slides it over and motions for Tommy to open the lid.
Inside are spools of thread, needles, crochet hooks, and knitting utensils. Pins in little containers, a little tomato cushion to go along with it. Confused, Tommy looks at Phil for an explanation.
"When you were little, you were in this sewing camp, and you absolutely loved it," he smiles, a bit sad, "you'd always come home having learned a new stitch or some sort of embroidery, but we had to pull you out because I got too busy to take you. I always regretted taking it away from you, even if you tried to assure me it was okay. You have real potential, I think, and even if this isn't what you want to do, I want to help you find something you're passionate about. It's what a good dad would do."
Tommy looks from Phil to the kit in front of him, water welling in his eyes. Pushing away from the table, he gets up and flings himself into Phil's arms, tears soaking his father's robes.
"Thank you," Tommy sobs, "thank you."
Phil gets his arms around his boy, pulling him close and sighing in relief. "Of course, Tommy. Anything for you."
When they finally manage to part, Phil takes Tommy's plate and encourages him to pick a piece of the kit and start wherever he likes. When the twins come home with arms full of bags, they lighten up upon seeing Tommy in the living room with two knitting needles in his hands and tongue poking out as he creates a chain. Wilbur drops his stuff on the couch and comes around to jab his fingers into the boy's stomach, causing him to shriek with laughter at being tickled and cussing out his older brother breathlessly.
Techno ruffles Tommy's hair affectionately, admiring the chain and complimenting him on his quick learning. He receives a dramatic gasp in reply, in awe that his older brother was giving him such praise, and Techno snorts fondly, taking his bags to his room to wrap for tomorrow.
Tommy's gifts for his family and friends are already under the tree. They've been in his room hidden behind various objects so that Ranboo or Tubbo wouldn't accidentally stumble upon theirs if they were over.
Phil proposes they go to the beach the following day for Christmas if Tommy felt up to it in the morning, and they settle in at night to watch Rudolph, Elf, The Polar Express , and other films that they could all probably still quote. Techno makes the kettle corn, Wilbur cusses trying to set up the DVD player until Phil takes over, and Tommy makes fun of them all with a smile on his face.
He decides then that this must be what his essay could be about. It could be about family traditions and finding what mattered most in his life. It could be about running and the cold and the warmth that comes with loving and being loved.
When the room is dark and credits are rolling on the screen of their fourth movie, Wilbur turns to Tommy, expression melting into fondness. Their shoulders have been pressed up against each other all night. Cupping the boy's face in his palms, he asks, "How do you feel, sunshine?"
Tommy looks from Wilbur to Techno to Phil, all waiting on his answer and listening tentatively like all they cared about were his words. He looks back to Wilbur, whose eyes are shining with so much hope and love that Tommy nearly buckles beneath the gaze.
With finality, he smiles, and answers.
"I feel warm."