Chapter Text
Tommy fucking hates this. He hates getting moved around, passed off to some uncaring family, and then getting his heart broken. And he foolishly believes something will change every time.
His last foster was great—almost family material. He’s the one who fucked it up, otherwise Tommy could be in his designated living room chair instead of some blond bitch’s clean-ass kitchen.
Fingers tapping into his leg, Tommy zones back into the conversation between his social worker and his new foster parent. Was it Bill? Will?
“Phil has your papers, Tommy.” Ah, that’s his name. His social worker, Linda or something, snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. He scowls; what a fucking bitch. “Be nice, and I’ll be back in a couple weeks for a check-in.” With a pop of her gum, Linda, or something, is off, strutting to her fancy Mercedes.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy can see Phil scan over the papers given to him. He watches carefully, all movement stalling in the pure intensity of his focusing. Weirdly enough, Phil doesn’t do the standard “what the fuck did I get into” look or the “this kid is bonkers” look.
Tommy already knows this house is going to be strange, and in response, his other knee starts bouncing up and down too. If he doesn’t get his bouncing under control, this Phil guy is going to think he’s weird. Then Tommy will be sent back; and Linda will be disappointed; and Tommy will do his monthly Depression Mode; and everything will spiral from there.
So yeah, maybe Tommy should try to reign in his restlessness this time; it obviously didn’t work in the previous house.
“Do you want to go over house rules or wait til tomorrow before we go shopping?” Phil asks, giving him that same damned smile from earlier. Can this dude just drop the fucking “the social worker is here” act already?
“Uhhhh,” Tommy stalls. The fuck does he do? “Tomorrow?” Maybe that’s the correct answer. He’s not scared of his new foster parent—the man is only a inch or two taller than him and Tommy’s 5’9” and Tommy’s had more imposing foster parents—but a couple houses ago, the dad would get noticeably angrier every time Tommy answered “wrong.” This didn’t work out because Tommy is never wrong.
“That’s fine,” Phil sets Tommy’s file on the table in front of them, “You’re fifteen correct?”
Tommy nods, it’s literally in the file in front of him.
“Okay, we’ll set you up for school tomorrow, too. Since it’s Wednesday, you’ll probably have to start Friday. Is that alright?”
Why does he keep asking Tommy questions? Most adults don’t bother with his opinion. He nods again, getting more confused by the second. His left leg calms down, thankfully, but his left fingers start tapping on his thigh.
Phil looks down at where Tommy is tapping away, something unreadable passing on his face. Tommy immediately stops everything—his leg bouncing, fingers tapping, and the overall movement he always seems to be doing.
He hates new fosters, they always seem to find something wrong with him no matter what Tommy does to please them.
“Do you want to go to your room? It’s the one all the way down the hall, three doors to the left. Two doors to the right from the stairs is the bathroom and there’s already some hygienic toiletries in a basket for you, ” Phil says, “My son, Wilbur, is upstairs and you might meet him. My other son, Techno, isn’t home right now, he’s working, but he will be later.”
“Um. Okay,” Tommy stammers. No way he isn’t taking this chance to leave.
He takes the stairs two steps at a time, listening out for Wilbur. Luckily, no sounds come from any of the five doors, and Tommy slips into the third room on the left, quickly shoving his duffle bag under the pristine, white queen bed, arranging the blankets hanging over the side to hide the bag. He notices a lock on the door—a fucking lock!—and twists his hand, enjoying the sound of the lock clicking in place.
Letting out a sigh of relief—relief from making it to the room safely and without interruption—Tommy collapses on his bed, the softness surprising him. It’s been… a while, to say the least, since he’s laid on a bed soft enough that it feels better than the floor. It makes him wonder about the rest of the room, and he sits up, relishing in the way the bed bounces under him. He’ll sleep well tonight, especially on a bed 10 times bigger than he’s used to.
The room isn’t extravagant, there aren't any needless things in it for the sake of it, but it’s not undecorated. The bed he’s on has white sheets; boring but nice; and the walls are also white, the only splashes of color coming from two paintings above his bed. They’re random swirls of color, nothing defined in them, but pretty nonetheless. The dresser is also plain, and the closet follows the same pattern, empty and lifeless. Tommy doesn’t think he’ll fit in here, considering perfect rooms and him don’t get along very well.
He’s tired, tired from the removal of his last house, tired of having to adapt to a whole nother family, tired of never having a place to call his own. Tommy goes to sleep with nothing on his mind, exhausted just by life.
Tommy wakes up at midnight, hunger pulling at his stomach and restlessness in his bones. He must’ve skipped out on dinner, and Phil must’ve not cared enough to wake him up. Tommy doesn’t expect any leftovers for him, the act of Phil forgetting about his new ward revealing enough to Tommy.
Doesn’t mean Tommy has to go hungry, though, and he climbs out of bed, feet silent on the carpet. It’s very dark in the room, and Tommy doesn’t want to bother with trying to find the light switch so he creeps across his room in the darkness, stomach unsettled by how dark his room is. He walks slowly to not wake up anybody in the house.
The click of the lock rings out in the quiet, and Tommy freezes, ears straining to catch any rustling from the rooms down the hall. When nothing happens, Tommy carefully starts opening the door, met by more darkness on the other side. God, does he fucking hate the dark. Bad memories come from the dark.
He goes to take his first step out of his room, holding his breath when his foot comes down in something… squishy? Metal-y? “What the fuck?” Tommy breathes, foot frozen as it feels like he stepped in cold dog shit. He slowly bends at the waist, feeling around his foot, fingers dancing along a circular edge, and oh. It’s a plate. Tommy must’ve stepped in foot, covered by metal, maybe foil.
Tommy picks it up and blindly sets it on the dresser, making sure no end is hanging over the edge. He makes his way over to one of his walls, walking around the room with his hand where he assumes a light switch would be and stops when he feels the hard ridges of the switch cover. Flicking the light on, Tommy takes a moment to adjust to the bright light from the overhead ceiling light, accidentally turning the fan on. The cool air feels nice.
He grabs his blanket off his bed, shoving it in the crook at the bottom of the door, effectively (hopefully) blocking any light from leaking into the hallway. The plate seems a lot more obvious in the broad light. He was right, it was foil covers most of the food, an indent from his foot making the edges ride up, explaining how he could actually fucking feel the food around his foot.
Peeling the rest of the foil up, slowly and carefully, Tommy mutters a quiet “wow,” shocked at the quality of food. If it weren’t so… smushed, the food would look really good, despite being cold. Mashed potatoes with gravy, a sausage with a squirt of ketchup and mustard next to it, and some peas.
Might as well not let the food go to waste.
Picking up a fork far too nice for Tommy’s hands, clean from dirt and grime, Tommy shovels a bit of the mashed potatoes on it, grimacing slightly at the cold texture. The flavor is nice though, like Phil put thought into food for a foster kid who booked it to his room the moment he was able to. He tries the peas and the sausage, and damn, the peas are disgusting. Tommy has never liked peas, the texture too weird and mushy, but cold peas? Hell no.
He finished eating the mashed potatoes and sausage, leaving the peas to sit pitifully on the side of his plate. The food was good, albeit cold, and Tommy’s grateful Phil actually left him some food instead of allowing Tommy to go to bed hungry.
His sleep schedule is fucked, though, and he sighs, knowing that it’ll be a pain in the butt to get is back on track. Oh well, Tommy decides, picking up the plate and rolling the foil into a ball. He piles everything onto the plate, his fork, foil, and napkin on top of the peas. If Phil’s going to be nice enough to feed him, he can at least take care of his dishes.
Since he knows the door doesn’t creak when it opens, he flicks the light off, opening the door faster this time, wanting to get downstairs and back to his room as fast as possible. The area beyond his doorstep is unknown, so Tommy resumes his cautious exploration. The hallway is completely dark, but light comes from where the stairs are, and he walks towards it, worrying that the light means someone is up.
He makes it to the top of the stairs and gingerly takes his first step, shoulders dropping when no sound comes from the carpeted stairs. He finishes walking down the stairs, and peers around the corner where the light is coming from, relaxing even more when he sees it’s just a nightlight in the kitchen. And isn’t that wonderful, now he knows exactly where he’s going and doesn’t have to turn a light on to clean up after himself.
It’s quite spooky, creeping across a silent kitchen in a silent house, knowing that Tommy could get caught at any moment. The light doesn’t help, honestly, casting weird shadows across the room.
The sink has dishes in it, another win for him. He can wash the plate and fork and just place it in the sink, not having to hide the clean plate. Phil won’t notice if there is one extra set of dishware in the sink, so this makes it a lot easier for Tommy to finish up quickly.
Damn, Phil really has it good, considering the water from the faucet is practically silent. There isn’t any sputtering or loud spurts of water, it’s a nice, steady stream of water. At this point, Tommy’s nodding his head, impressed by the quality of life this family seems to have.
The dish is spotless, and the fork has no remnants of food on it when Tommy places them in the sink, wiping his hands on the towel hanging from the stove. Satisfied in his work, Tommy starts the trek back to his room, intending to fall asleep again to catch up on the hours he missed in the previous home.
His back to the kitchen, his shadow casts on the ground in front of him, and he stops and stares at it for a second. He’s actually at this house, it’s not a joke, and it’s not a dream. Tommy is truly at a house where the stairs to creak and kitchen sink isn’t grimy.
“Hello?”
Tommy jumps at the sudden noise, years of experience being the only thing from keeping a scream from escaping his mouth. “Wha–” Tommy shakes his head to dispel the warning bells in his mind. “What the fuck?”
There’s a person in front of him, and they are fucking huge. Taller than Tommy, muscles noticeably larger even in the dark, and just fucking imposing. Tommy is fucked.
“What’re you doin’?” The voice says, and not only is the physical stature of the person alarming, so is their voice. It’s deep as shit, and it only shows that the person is old, probably older than Tommy, and therefore able to beat the shit out of him if it comes to a physical altercation.
“Fuckin’–” Tommy gasps, heart still thundering in his ears from the scare. “Don’t fuckin’ sneak up on someone like that, man!”
The person shrugs, at least Tommy thinks they do based off of their silhouette. “Sorry. But what are you doin’ down here this late.” It’s not a question and more of a demand.
“Washing my dishes,” Tommy mutters, looking down at his feet. He can look guilty and shit right now, the person can’t see his face in the darkness.
“Why?” The person’s voice shifts from accusing to confused, “Wilbur does the dishes.”
“Uhhh,” Tommy stalls, “‘Cause I missed dinner?” Is he saying the right things here?
The person sighs, turning to walk up the stairs. “Follow me.”
Tommy has no choice but to do what the person says, and he follows them, rushing the rest of the stairs when the person waits at the top for him. Is he doing it right? Tommy doesn’t want to mess up with his first real talk with someone in the household.
They walk into one of the rooms; Tommy doesn’t know which one because it’s so fucking dark, but he knows it’s not his own. The room is dark before the flick of a light switch is heard, and warm lighting illuminates the space.
The first thing Tommy notices is the person. They are much taller than him, and bigger. They do have large muscles, enough to make Tommy even more wary of them. But then his eyes trail to the person’s hair. They have fucking chest length, bubblegum pink hair that’s slightly wavy. Dark brown roots show at their scalp, but damn, does the hair make the person seem a shit less scarier.
The second thing Tommy notices is the room. There’s a lot more decorations than Tommy’s room—expected, like a bookshelf or the shelves holding trophies—and the walls are a light gray instead of white, the color softer on Tommy’s eyes. The queen bed is all the way against the right wall, and it has light gray sheets, darker than the walls but still not very dark. Something glints on the space above the bed frame, and Tommy blanches at the sight of swords.
“You’re Tommy, right?” The person interrupts Tommy’s observations, and he nods. “I’m Techno, dunno if Phil told you about me at all.”
Tommy shakes his head. “Nothing other than you’ll be home late.”
Techno gives a single nod in confirmation, “I worked late tonight.”
Techno doesn’t explain any further so Tommy takes this as his chance to try to end this awkward exchange. “Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ leave then. Nice meeting you.”
After a moment of silence, Techno eyeballs Tommy, before saying, “Alright, see you tomorrow.” Techno seems like he wants to say something else, but Tommy starts backing up out of the kitchen before Techno can say anything.
But yeah. Tomorrow. Yeah. “Bye.” Tommy bolts from the room, gracefully. Totally not like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Because it’s so dark in the hallway, Tommy has to go back to the stairs and go to his room from there.
He makes it to his room safely, sighing in relief when the lock clicks in place, and he double checks to make sure it is actually locked. The blanket he used to cover the crack is pushed to the side and Tommy puts it back on his bed, laying down next to it. His heart is still slightly racing, nerves from meeting his new foster brother persisting.
Turning on one side, Tommy closes his eyes, not tired in the slightest but resigning to waste time by sleeping anyways.
The next morning, Tommy sits at the kitchen table while Phil makes breakfast for him. He had originally tried to deny his foster father when he was asked, but Phil insisted, spouting some bullshit on how breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Phil is weird.
Tommy is just kinda… sitting there, as Phil flips pancakes for him. It’s been a one sided conversation so far, Phil rambling on about himself, sons, future plans, fucking anything. Tommy focused on the grooves in the table rather than Phil’s voice, though, especially when his foster father was talking about Wilbur and Techno.
Tommy would like to not be reminded that there’s two adopted kids in the household already.
Apparently, Wilbur and Techno are seniors at the same school Tommy’s going to be going to, and are twins. Tommy didn’t know that they’re twins, and it only creates more of a threat. The adopted sons of his foster father are also biologically related. Damn.
Tommy zones back into Phil’s voice as a plate is placed in front of him, steaming, perfectly golden pancakes piled high. They smell delicious, but Tommy doesn’t move a muscle.
“They’re at school right now,” Phil says, talking about the twins. His eyes glance down to wear Tommy’s sitting with the plate in front of him, and concern flickers across his face. “You can eat, mate.”
At the permission, Tommy carefully picks up the fork and knife, cutting perfect squares of perfect pancakes. There’s syrup on the table, and Tommy will not pass up sugar for anything.
Phil sits at the table across from him, and Tommy glances up to see his foster father eating his own pancakes, no syrup on them. “You aren’t putting syrup on them?” Tommy asks, curiosity overriding any caution he has.
Phil makes a face, and Tommy wonders for a split second if they’re supposed to eat in silence. “Nah, mate, I don’t care for the sweetness.” Tommy relaxes minisculely as Phil responds with a good tone.
“Missing out, then.” Tommy shoves another square in his mouth, sugar lacing up and down his tongue. It tastes really good, far better than the meal last night. Speaking of, “Thanks for dinner last night,” Tommy says, hopefully coming across as grateful.
“Of course.” Phil takes another bite. “I won’t let anybody go hungry in this household,” he says pointedly.
Despite the obvious reassurance, Tommy does feel better. His foster father isn’t willing for anybody to go to bed with an empty stomach, and that comforts Tommy.
“Anyways,” Phil says, “Do you want to go over house rules? Then we can go shopping for more stuff. Foster system’s shit about making sure you kids have everything you need.”
Tommy freezes on his next bite, not expecting words so directly against the foster system come from Phil’s mouth. Most foster parents in the past would either praise it, or would be indifferent, not caring unless they received a check from it. “Sure?” Tommy answers.
They finish eating in silence. Tommy doesn’t want to start speaking first and Phil seems content to enjoy his food, not rushing to go over the rules. Tommy would love to go over the rules as soon as possible so he knows what to do and what not to do.
Tommy times his eating with Phil’s, doing his best to end when his foster father is taking his last bite. He doesn’t want it to seem like he was greedy by eating too fast, or ungrateful by eating too slow.
Phil takes both of their plates and sets them in the sink, returning back to his seat afterwards. Tommy unconsciously steels himself, back sitting up straighter as he readies to bear the weight of the rules, left leg bouncing rapidly. Hopefully he hasn’t broken any already.
Pulling out a piece of paper, Phil says, “I’ve written down the rules so you can look back at them at any time, but they’re pretty simple. I’ve also got a list of everyone's boundaries and triggers, and you can also add your own once we’re done.” Phil looks at him for confirmation and Tommy nods, hands shaking under the table.
Phil clears his throat before starting. “Be home by 10:30 on school nights, 12 on weekends. Make sure to do your chores, but we’ll let you off for the rest of this week and next. Respect everyone’s boundaries and triggers, and finally, knock before entering anyone’s private space and never enter without permission. Pretty simple?”
Pretty simple? Those are the easiest fucking rules Tommy’s heard in a long time. That’s fucking it? Tommy does like this house already, but he takes it with a grain of salt, wondering if the punishments are worse since the rules are flexible. Tommy will have to find out about punishments at some later time, mind wandering a bit too much to ask questions.
Who knows if this house will be the one. The one Linda often said Tommy should be searching for. It seems like a really nice house, but how does one be the best house in the system but only adopt two kids. Unless Phil took a break from fostering after adopting Techno and Wilbur, one who he has barely met and the other he’s yet to meet.
“Tommy?” Phil’s voice distracts him from his thoughts, and his mind snaps back to his foster father. Oh yeah, he was supposed to be doing shit or something. “Here’s the paper to write your triggers and personal boundaries if you’d like. You can also change them later.” That’s what Tommy was supposed to be doing.
Phil slides the paper across the table along with a black ink pen. After a quick, but subtle, inspection, Tommy sees the pen is a ballpoint pen, not the worst type but not the best. Gel ink pens are the best, the way they glide over paper is memorizing, and is Tommy’s favorite thing to write with by far.
Shit. He’s supposed to be writing down stuff. He picks up the pen—the ballpoint pen—and jots down his name in the fourth rectangle, the other three filled by Techno, Phil, and Wilbur. It’s a nice piece of paper, lines neat and straight.
Before he writes down his “triggers,” Tommy reads his foster family’s own lists.
Phil:
-Tell me when you’re going out
-No loud yelling
-My room is open for anyone, just knock before coming in
Techno:
-Do not touch my swords or books without permission
-No physical touch without permission
Wilbur:
-Don’t say anxiety inducing things
-Don’t touch things without permission
-Don’t lie about extremely important things
The boundaries seem easy enough, and Tommy thinks it should be easy to follow them. The only one he might have some trouble with is the lying, a habit he picked up from all the years in the foster system.
Tommy:
-Don’t touch shit
-No yelling please
Tommy taps the pen on his chin. He wants to put down no physical touch, but he doesn’t want to push it. If he makes it, he’ll be generous to himself, about 2 weeks, then he’ll put it down.
“I’m done,” Tommy announces, sliding the paper back to Phil. Phil hums, barely glancing at the paper before standing up and putting it on the fridge with a magnet. Tommy stares at the paper, noting the way his handwriting takes up space on the page, fitting in with Techno and Wilbur’s messy scribbles.
Phil claps his hands once, gathering Tommy’s attention. “Wanna leave in an hour for the store?”
“Sure,” Tommy says, standing up and pushing his chair in. He starts heading for the stairs, mentally preparing for the overwhelming store already. He climbs up the stairs before Phil can say anything else, not wanting to stick around longer than he has to.
The door clicks behind him and he sits down against it, breathing deeply. Phil isn’t so bad, but it could be just a front, and Tommy doesn’t want to push Phil too far and reap the consequences.
Tommy grabs a few articles of clothing, only really being able to choose between a couple shirts and a few pairs of shorts. Maybe Phil will be nice enough to buy him some more, but he’s not going to ask if he can. Again, he doesn’t want to push it too much, doesn’t want to make Phil angry in at least the first week.
Before he opens his door, Tommy takes a deep breath, bracing himself to meet his doom.