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Tommy always knew he trusted too much and too quickly. He grew attached to a person just as a barnacle grew on a ship, and he was a pain in the ass to get rid of.
His, now six, foster homes (and counting) had no trouble chipping away at the boy until he fell off their ship, or until he simply got moved to a new home.
The scars pilled up, and he could no longer count them all without losing track or tallying them up as he did count. Maybe that should’ve been a bad thing to admit, but he didn’t care.
After all, how could he care when he had nothing to live for anymore.
House number one, beat him into submission at the age of nine, teaching him how to be a good child that people might actually want. House number two held him close as he cried himself to sleep, letting the barnacles really get attached to their hull until the pickaxe came down on him when they had a child of their own. House number three locked him away in rooms, which only encouraged him to get attached quicker with simple actions such as bringing him meals (which were few and far between) or simply coming into the room he was locked in to tell him to shut up, that they were tired of listening to him cry and beg. House number four wasn’t so bad, but his caseworker seemed to disagree, taking him out of the home after only a month (a new record!)
Apparently not enrolling your foster kid in school so they could work at the age of 15 wasn’t okay, but this only confused Tommy. Sure they also took all his paychecks, and rarely gave him clean clothes to wear to work, and his hours were from seven pm to three am, but at least he got fed. Really it could have been worse. It had been worse and they didn’t notice, but child labor was apparently where the government drew the line.
It didn’t matter, Tommy didn’t care that every few months he had to have his heart ripped out once he was finally pulled from a family he learned to love to be placed in another to follow the same cycle again. He couldn’t care because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to survive. He was barely surviving as was as he packed up a (too small) bag to go off to house number six.
But this would be Tommy’s last house. He was sure of that.
He would make sure of that. Never again would he pack the things he's grown attached to, the only consistent things in his life, leaving behind a family that didn’t care enough, or was too mean to go off to the next.
House number six would be the last house. Maybe not just because he would age out of the system in four months. Part of Tommy hoped that it would be the last house he ever was in.
The car ride was silent, Tommy was too tired to give in to the small talk that his case worker attempted. Who gave a shit about the weather, it was either sunny or raining, why does it matter, it's not fucking “nice” as Sam tried to convince him. Thankfully the small talk stopped between home three and four, Sam learned he wouldn’t be getting a response out of Tommy, so he simply gave up, resorting to letting the music fill the silence.
Once the car came to a stop, Tommy came face to face with a home that looked too loved, too cared for, and too nice.
Tommy hadn’t been to a home that looked like this since house number two. This one was going to hurt like a bitch.
“Try and play nice, Tommy. Please.” Sam begged softly as he walked Tommy to the door, his red bag hanging lifelessly between the two. “This is a really nice family, I think you’ll like them a lot. Remember what I told you about them?”
“Whatever, Sam. You said that about the last two families. Now, look where we are!” Tommy snapped, glaring at the man before turning to the door. “Doesn’t matter anyway, this will be my last home.”
Sam just sighed, knocking on the door and putting on his most welcoming smile, Tommy knew it was fake. “I hope it’s your last, you deserve a good family.”
Tommy almost laughed, because he didn’t get it. Sam was so funny sometimes. The door opening stopped him, however. A man, who looked to be about 30 opened the door with a far too big smile and a green bucket hat. Who the fuck even wore those anymore? His new foster father apparently.
“Mr. Craft, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Sam said, offering his hand to the man, Mr. Craft Tommy learned, to shake.
“You know this old fuck?” Tommy sneered, crossing his arms as he glared at Sam again. “Fuck this, take me to the next one.”
Tommy turned on his heel, walking down the steps he came up just moments ago to wait by Sam’s car. He wasn’t going to deal with this family. He wasn’t going to grow attached to this picture-perfect family, because this would be his last home. He couldn't tear apart their perfect family to make them deal with a funeral for some foster kid that got pushed onto them.
He wouldn’t grow attached to this ship, because he couldn’t take the ship down with him when decided to fall off himself. Tommy may be selfish, but he wasn’t that selfish. He’d rather take down a mean and abusive ship, make them think it was their fault he went off the deep end, and make them clean up the mess.
Tommy wouldn’t do that to the Crafts.
“Come on, Sam. Take me off to another group home or some shit, I’m not going in that fuckin’ house.”
“I’m so sorry, Phil, I don’t know what's gotten into him,” Sam said, just loud enough for Tommy to hear. Then a moment later Sam was standing next to him, his bag abandoned on the porch with Mr. Craft. “Come on, Tommy. Please. Just give them a week okay?”
When Tommy didn’t respond, he tried again. “Three days?”
“Fine. I stay here seventy-two hours than your car better be in this driveway.”
“Deal. seventy-two hours. That’s all I ask.”
They shook on it.
Hopefully, Tommy didn’t get attached in those seventy-two hours. Hopefully, he could manage to stay away, not let anyone enough to offer a home on the hull of their ship. He knew the hull would have just enough space for him until they moved on because they were a picture-perfect family. He needed to fit the picture but didn’t know-how with his broken smile.
Hopefully, the Crafts were just that, a picture-perfect family, that looked perfectly normal to the outside, hiding their darkness behind sickly sweet smiles.
Tommy walked into the house behind the man who insisted to be called Phil rather than Mr. Craft, apparently, it made him feel old. His bag was placed on the steps, being told that they could take it up to a room that would become his, for only seventy-two hours Tommy reminded Phil, ignoring the sad smile on his face.
“Seventy-two hours for what? What's happening in three days, dad?” A new voice called, just as kind as Phil’s. Damn this was going to be hard.
“Tommy, our new foster, will only be staying with us for three days, Wil,” Phil explained to the man that walked into the living room they were standing in.
The new figure, Wil, wore a navy blue sweater and black pants, as well as a pair of round glasses to shape his face, with a mess of brown curls sitting on top of his head. This man looked like he had a huge forehead hidden under the fluffy curls, maybe he could make fun of him for that.
“Oh, that’s short?”
“Yes, well we’ll make the best of these three days, alright mate?” Phil said with a welcoming smile, one that told him there would be warm hugs whenever he asked, that there would be someone looking out for him, it was a smile that told him he’d be cared for. Even if he only stayed for three days.
“Yeah, whatever old man,” Tommy mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He just wanted to be shown his room so he didn’t need to worry that he’d fall into their seemingly gentle arms. Maybe if he just hid away for three days he wouldn’t need to worry about ruining this perfect family.
“I like this kid already, you sure we can’t keep him after the three days, dad?” A new voice asked. It was deep and gruff, a voice that Tommy would under any other circumstance run from. But of course, there was a fucking kind undertone to it, because the Crafts were just the perfect and kind family. Just his fucking luck.
“Techno, you make it sound like we’re going to kidnap him,” Wilbur reprimanded as he turned to look at the new person in the room. He was tall, a head over Phil and a few inches taller than Wilbur. He had pink hair that went past his shoulders, and a pair of square-framed glasses perched far out on his nose, he almost could pass as a librarian if it didn’t look like he could snap a person in half.
“This better be a quick seventy-two hours,” Tommy was tempted to run back outside and hope that Sam was still waiting in the driveway so they could renegotiate the deal. This was just unfair, Tommy wouldn’t be able to survive this home because it was too perfect, and Tommy was just a broken kid. He wouldn’t be good for this family and he knew that the sooner he got out the better. For them of course, who cared if it hurt him.
Shortly after introductions and a quick run down of the house rules (they were pretty much the same as other homes, except it was made clear that he didn’t need to ask for food, and that there would be no physical punishments, he ignored the flutter in his chest at these words though, he was a big man and he was not going to get attached in these seventy- two hours).
After house rules, he was offered lunch but he politely declined and didn’t curse Wilbur out after he was offered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, despite what anyone in a miles radius would say. He was not a child and did not need to eat, the ache in his empty stomach was grounding, a reminder to push this new family away. The pain of moving to the next house would be more painful than the dull ache anyways, it was fine.
After Tommy didn’t curse out Wilbur, Techno showed him around the house. It wasn’t big, but it was a comfortable size and allowed everyone to have their own space, not that it mattered if Tommy had his own though. Seventy-two hours he reminded himself when he got too excited over seeing his room. It was a decent size, with a bed and a dresser. The walls were a pale blue, almost baby blue. It was nice, it was calm and not an obnoxious color that would drive him up a wall in three days.
It was only going to be three days, seventy-two hours.
Then three months went by.
It only took two days for Tommy to find his place on the Craft’s hull. It took a week to lean into the gentle hugs that were offered to him. It took a month for him to be his true self around them. It took him two months for him to trust that they weren’t waiting to chip him off their hull, or that when he made a mistake he wouldn’t feel the warmth on his cheek in the shape of a hand.
It only took three months for Tommy to decide that he wanted this to be the last home he stayed in and that he wanted to be a part of the picture-perfect family he was so scared of ruining. He no longer had the daily thoughts of wanting to make a home in the earth. He had a baby blue room to go back to and a family of soft smiles and loving hugs.
In one month's time, he would be turning eighteen, but in only two weeks he’d be officially adopted by Phil Craft. Tommy no longer needed to fear being kicked out once he aged out of the system, because he was no longer a part of the system.
Tommy just wore a broken smile in the picture-perfect family photo. None of them minded.