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It starts (or, rather, it ends) like this; it's a hot, sweltering summer day and Tommy is being annoying. Not his typical kind of annoying, with loud, boisterous words and impish antics. No, no, something worse.
Tommy is being clingy, and that's more annoying than anything he's ever done before.
Wilbur can't fucking stand it.The AC is broken, and beads of sweat are rolling off of his forehead, clothes itchy and damp. He's uncomfortable and irritated and miserable, and Tommy keeps clinging to him.
Tommy's usually not very touchy: sometimes, here and there, he's hold Wilbur's hand, but that's when he's anxious or scared. And even then, he does it with a shaky scowl on his face. He won't hug anyone, won't let himself be held, won't stand close to anyone most days. Yet, today, in the worst of circumstances, he's in Wilbur's personal space.
First, he slides up to Wilbur's side and presses impossible close. It adds an unbearable warmth to Wilbur's already overheating body, and so, with a groan, he pushes Tommy away. His brother says nothing, and neither does he. In fact, he almost forgets about it, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as he prays for his dad to fix that AC soon, and then Tommy does it again.
This time, though, he's leaning his head against Wilbur's bare bicep, face hot and wet. Wilbur assumes, naively, that it's due to the heat, that the wet surface can be blamed on sweat. Still, it's hot; far too hot for Tommy to be acting like this.
So he lifts his arm and flicks Tommy's head. "Go away, Tommy," he complains. "You're burning up."
He feels the blond tense, neck constricting. Still, he doesn't move away, and Wilbur, hot, annoyed Wilbur, snaps at him.
"God, get off of me. Go to your room or something, you fucking vex. Leave me be."
It's not meant to be mean, it's meant to be stern. Wilbur thinks Tommy's being a little shit like always, making himself a burden on top of the impossible heat. It's then that Tommy, uncharacteristically quiet, obeys, getting off of the couch and stalking away to his room. Wilbur sighs in relief, wiping away the wet residue that Tommy had left on his arm.
He forgets about the experience. He doesn't realize that Tommy doesn't.
—
The door slams open, thunder crackling at a distance. Three heads turn, glancing at the wet mop of blond curls that stares dejectedly at them all. Tommy's clothes are soaked through, probably from the rain, and Techno stares incredulously.
"Where the hell have you been?" Phil asks, angry. It's nearing nine; Tommy's school ended at two. "We were about to call the police, Tommy."
Tommy, the audacious little fucker, has the gall to look at them like he's baffled. "Where have I been? Where have you been?"
"Looking for you," Wilbur answers hotly. "In case you haven't realized, you've been missing for hours."
Techno knows that, technically, they hadn't gotten too upset. They had decided, oh well, Tommy must be fucking around somewhere, and then put on a movie. After all, it's a Friday night; so what if the kid's missing? He's like a stray cat- he'll wound up back at home at some point or another, coming back to bother them. But when it hit supper time and Tommy hadn't been back, Phil got a little antsy. Wilbur's being dramatic though, as usual. Looking for Tommy was an overstatement.
Tommy blinks at them. "I was at the game," he says, slowly, like it held meaning. Techno stares back, confused.
Phil scoffs. "So?" he asks. "That gives you no excuse to not answer your phone. I called you twice. Couldn't you hear it ringing?"
Tommy's brow furrows, something of a revelation widening in his eyes. Techno observes, silently, as Tommy takes a miniscule step closer. "No," he responds, still slowly as before. Like he's waiting for them to take a hint. Casting a glance at Phil and Wilbur, Techno's relieved that he's not the only one completely lost in what the kid's trying to say. "It was in my bag."
"I gave you a phone so that you could answer it, not to keep it in your fucking bag while you watch some- what?- a basketball game?" Phil chides, standing up. His back is stiff, tense like he's trying to restrain his anger whilst being stern. Tommy straightens up, shoulders almost up to his ears. Techno laments as his wet shirt drips onto the living room carpet.
"It's volleyball season," Tommy clarifies. It's the wrong thing to say.
"I don't fucking care!" Phil exclaims. "We were worried sick!"
No, Techno objects mentally. We weren't. Why are we lying?
"I was busy!" Tommy shouts back, eyes blazing, pushing the wet strands of hair away from his face. "I wasn't watching the fucking game, I--"
"You just said you were!" Wilbur interjects, and he's also getting up. He looks just about ready to slap some sense into the kid, but--
But, Tommy's reeling back, affronted. "I was playing!"
There's a beat of silence, and Techno, finally, shatters it. He's confused, still, and he questions, "Playing?"
"Playing what?" Phil asks.
Tommy blinks again, still incredulous. "Playing volleyball. Like I have been for the past month. I told you guys all about it; yesterday, at dinner, I- I invited you all."
Oh. Techno's eyes widen. He'd-- in all honesty, he'd kind of assumed Tommy was inviting them to watch the game with him. So Techno had paid him no mind, and focused on dinner. He hadn't realized Phil and Wilbur had done the same. In his excuse, the message got kind of lost in translation; it's not really his fault.
Wilbur, jaw dropped, ineloquent, repeats. "You play volleyball? Where?"
"For our school, idiot. That's where I go every study hall and gym period; to practice."
"You can't play for the school team. It's varsity, and you're a middle-schooler," Wilbur points out.
If Tommy wasn't angry before, he's angry now. "I'm a freshman!" He yells, slamming his bag down onto the ground. "God, it's like you guys don't care about me at all!"
"It's not that we don't care about you," Phil reassures hastily, coming to his senses and trying to dispel the shouting match that's inevitably going to begin. "It's just that- well, you talk a lot, son. Sometimes we just- we've just kind of learned to tune you out." Techno nods along. It's human nature, really. If you're in a room with a ticking clock for hours upon hours, you eventually learn to let the clock assimilate into the background of your mind. His psychology teacher would agree with him, for sure.
"So you care about me, you just don't care about what I have to say," Tommy says, a hand on his hip as he stares them all down. Hesitantly, they nod. It's apparently not the right thing to do, because Tommy scoffs. "Unbelievable. Whatever. Enjoy your fucking movie." Then, he swivels around, and he's disappearing in the hallway.
Phil runs a hand down his face, stressed. Wilbur pats his on the shoulder, murmuring something about it's not your fault, dad, don't worry. Techno stares at the spot where Tommy had been.
After a moment, Tommy's head pops back into the room. "By the way, I watched that with Ranboo already. The love interesting dies in the end from leukemia." He's gone once more. The sour atmosphere resumes, uninterrupted, and the movie stands forgotten.
—
After a few weeks, a golden trophy stands on the kitchen counter. It's just a foot tall, maybe a bit bigger. At the base, etched in cursive writing, sit the words: Team MVP: Tommy Craft. The next day, the trophy is gone, and Tommy's eyes are dull.
Wilbur offers him a passing congratulations on a car-ride to school. He had almost forgotten the kid played. Tommy, in return, thanks Wilbur for coming to none of his games, a bitter scowl twisting at his mouth. The rest of the ride is silent.
Later that day, Wilbur complains to his friends about his annoying little brother.
—
Tommy's sobs fill the silent house on some nights. Techno watches the ceiling, sleep avoiding him, for hours, listening to his brother's muffled crying. His heart pangs for him (despite his nonchalant exterior, Techno harbors some sympathy), but he doesn't reach out. He doesn't get out of bed and go to comfort his little brother.
Instead, he stares, wide-eyed and guilty, at the roof, willing Tommy to calm down on his own. The boy eventually does, and Techno goes to sleep with a sinking feeling in his chest and shut lips.
—
Maybe it ends with the fact that they never show up to his volleyball games. Maybe it ends of the fact that they don't offer their shoulders after a long day of school, or the fact that he gets the smallest portions of food at dinner.
Maybe it ends when they all collectively forget to buy him Christmas gifts. Maybe it ends when Phil stops doing his laundry of Sundays, or when they stop bringing him to the grocery store with them.
Maybe it ends with the realization that Tommy is truly, wholly, utterly unimportant, unloved by his family.
Or, maybe, it ends with the erection of a gravestone, a two-hour service, and a bedroom door that is shut, never to be opened again.