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Tommy’s back slams into the wall, hands trembling as they grip at his shirt, shoulders hunched, head ducked low, knees buckling so he slides down the wall.
Breathe, he tells himself, Breathe. You know how to do it.
He opens his mouth, tries to breathe in, but he can only manage a tiny amount of air before it’s being pushed out of his lungs.
C’mon, Tommy, he snaps at himself, Breathe. It’s not that hard!
He tries again, squeezing his eyes shut, but then he sees scornful eyes glaring down at him in disgust, he sees clenched fists and jaws taut with anger, he sees retreating backs and cold shoulders. His lungs refuse to cooperate.
Tommy shakes apart, curled in a ball against a wall in an empty room, and not a sound leaves his lips.
Tommy has a problem.
It’s… really hard to admit, even to himself, but that doesn’t change the fact that he well and truly does have a problem.
The SMP Hockey Team is wonderful. They are all so gentle and sweet with him, affection practically oozing from their every gesture and every word. They severed the strings his old coach had tied around his heart and throat, and were all too happy to fold him underneath their collective wing.
And Tommy is happy, really, he is! He adores them, and he knows they adore him. They drag him from his room to do every little thing, watch movies, sit in on other Olympic athletes and their performances, go out to eat, goof around on an ice rink, name it and they’ve done it.
The problem is that Tommy can’t seem to wrap his head around all of this.
To go from having a coach that was strict and abusive—he wasn’t abusive, he was trying to win gold, he was trying to make Tommy something great—to a team of hockey players that are complete and utter dorks is… wild, to say the least. Everything has been turned upside down on its head. Every aspect of everything Tommy has ever known is different.
They threw a celebration party when Tommy won gold.
Tommy has never had a celebration party before.
They had dragged him from his ice rink, gold medal freshly bestowed upon him, and brought him right to his room—and the whole room had been done up with balloons and streamers and a big sign on the wall that spelled out “Congration” because they made Tubbo put each individual letter up.
It was magical.
And yet, Tommy still curls trembling hands into fists and shoves them into his pockets. He still feels his chest tighten with panic because he took one look at George’s glacier freeze Gatorade and saw the blue of his old uniform. He still feels sick to his stomach whenever he sees the team from afar, bright smiles and even brighter laughter following their every move while he stands aside and watches.
He knows they love him, and he loves them, but it’s so hard to remember.
Especially when panic looms right around the corner of every subconscious thought.
“Wilbur, stop stealing my fries!”
“You let Tubbo do it!” Wilbur protests around a mouthful of fries, slouching against Tommy with an arm thrown around his shoulders. Technoblade glares at him from across the table, crossed arms resting on the edge, a plate of fries in front of him that’s lacking a significant amount of fries.
“And Tommy,” Wilbur continues with a sly smirk, giving Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze. “And Ranboo. Something you wanna tell us?”
Technoblade raises his arms in surrender. “You caught me,” he deadpans, “I actually cannot stand you. Congratulations, you figured it out.”
Wilbur throws one of the stolen fries at him. Technoblade catches it and pops it in his mouth with a grin.
Tommy snickers at their antics, exchanging an amused look with Schlatt—who sits on Tommy’s other side—as Wilbur and Technoblade begin bickering.
The team, plus Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo, are out to eat in some hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Sapnap swears by, a loud and rowdy bunch that are probably making their waiter’s life miserable. They have only just gotten their appetizers, and already they are snarking and teasing one another.
“Who just gets a plate of fries as an appetizer, anyway?” Quackity demands from Technoblade’s right, staring as Tubbo—seated on Technoblade’s left—grabs another handful of fries from the plate, handing a few to Ranboo. “Why not, I don’t know, something actually on the appetizer menu?”
“I like potatoes!” Technoblade smacks Wilbur’s hand away from his plate.
“We know,” George snarks from the other side of Wilbur, munching on a mozzarella stick. “You had a phase for almost a year.”
“This is bullying,” Technoblade drawls. “I’m being bullied. Tommy, Tommy they’re bullying me, can you believe this?”
Oh, the attention is on him now. Technoblade is looking at him, patient and kind, but expectant all the same. He needs to say something, does he go the witty route or the nice route? Does he side with him, or does he bully him alongside everyone else?
He’s taking too long. Technoblade tilts his head when Tommy doesn’t answer, raising an eyebrow. Wilbur squeezes his shoulder again, and he can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head. Schlatt sends him a confused look, Tubbo watches him carefully, Quackity—
He can’t do this.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he blurts out, shrugging Wilbur’s arm off and scooting his chair back. He stands up and darts off without another word, his skin crawling underneath their combined gaze.
The bathroom is empty when Tommy stumbles inside, the door falling shut behind him as he makes a beeline for one of the stalls. He slams the door shut, fingers fumbling with the lock. He can’t grip it, his hands are shaking too much, he can’t focus, he can’t breathe, he can’t—
Tommy slides to the floor, hands fisting in his hair, his chest growing tight tight tight. He fucked it up, he ruined their fun, he destroyed the mood. And it’s all because he didn’t know what the right thing to say was.
It was easier when it was just him and his old coach. He knew all the tells, he knew exactly what to say, he knew exactly how to act. But with the hockey team, it’s impossible! They never tell him what they want, they don’t give any hints, they don’t say anything, they just exist and expect Tommy to be on the same wavelength all the time.
They claim they want Tommy to do what Tommy wants, to make himself comfortable, to be himself , but that’s not how it works. That’s not how it works! There’s a right and a wrong decision, and it’s so, so hard to figure it out now that he’s with the hockey team!
What does he do? What is he supposed to do? What can he do? If this keeps up, they’re going to realize he’s nothing but a burden, and then—then they’re going to—
Tommy shakes apart all over again, utterly silent in the bathroom as he tries to breathe.
He feels like an idiot.
Tommy slithers out from the bathroom stall, dragging his feet as he lumbers over to one of the sinks. He catches himself in the mirror, and he winces at the reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks that greet him.
There’s something wrong with him. There’s something not working right in his brain, something broken, because he just cannot get it through his thick skull that the hockey team adores him. If they didn’t at the very least like him, they wouldn’t have practically kidnapped Tommy to get him to this stupid restaurant!
He’s better than this. He was never so panicky before he met the SMP hockey team. There’s no reason for him to be panicky! Why can’t he just be?
Tommy splashes his face with water from the faucet, sighing at the chill against his flushed cheeks. He should go back out there and latch onto Wilbur of Schlatt. Or both. It’d be fun to watch them hold back their jealous quips at each other, watch them play a game of Who Can Hug More of Tommy.
Yeah. That’s what he’ll do. That will calm him down. That will hopefully tell his brain that these freakout sessions are ridiculous.
Tommy moves to open the door, but it swings open before he can grab the handle. It nearly slams into his face as it moves, Tommy jerking back with a startled yell and meeting Wilbur’s gaze.
“Wilbur? What the fuck, man, you almost hit me!” Tommy laughs, but it’s strained and awkward, more like the laugh he fakes in interviews than his real one.
Wilbur frowns, his expression twisted into a look of concern that makes Tommy’s insides squirm. “Sorry,” he says, “It’s just… you’ve been in here for a while. We were getting worried.”
Something warm blossoms in his chest, soft and sweet, thick like honey and languid as it drips into his stomach.
It feels so much better than the searing cold panic.
“Sorry,” Tommy says, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile. He averts his gaze, ducking his head in an attempt to hide his face, and because of that he misses how Wilbur’s own face melts into something unbearably fond. “I’m fine. Big men like me have a lot of business to take care of.”
Wilbur snorts. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“It’s true!”
“Okay, child.” He holds out a hand, prompting Tommy to look back up at him. “Let’s head back?”
Tommy smiles, taking his hand and huffing when Wilbur interlocks their fingers. “Fine, fine, let’s go.”
The rest of the night passes by without a hitch, Tommy laughing and bickering and teasing with the rest of the group, fitting seamlessly into the space given to him.
It was supposed to be a light scrimmage.
Calling their game on the ice a “light scrimmage” is being generous. The game is that there is no game, just six hockey players and one figure skater waving their hockey sticks and batting at a puck.
Tommy is currently trying to shoot said puck into one of the goals, but Sapnap keeps skating in his way, a mischievous grin stretched across his face as he weaves left and right and left and right to block Tommy’s sight.
“Sapnap, move!” Tommy yells, a grin of his own splitting his face as Sapnap continues to dance on the ice in front of him.
“Make me!” he retorts, lunging at Tommy. Tommy yelps, jerking backwards on reflex, and then his big and clunky hockey skates are off balance and they’re not as light as figure skater skates, they don’t allow for the agility and grace Tommy is so used to having while on the ice. Tommy’s arms flail for balance, but he’s already tipping backwards, his hockey stick hitting against something to push him down even faster.
He lands flat on his ass, his skates leaving deep gouges in the ice, his hockey stick landing with a clatter beside him.
But when Tommy looks up, he sees Sapnap down on the ice right in front of him, a hand pressed to his cheek as he laughs at something Tommy isn’t privy to.
“Oh my god!” Quackity exclaims. “Are you guys alright?”
“Yo, Tommy, that was awesome!” Schlatt cheers. “You gotta do that again sometime!”
Huh? Do what again? Fall on his ass? Is this Schlatt’s way of getting revenge on all the times Tommy has failed to teach him a figure skating move?
“Damn, Tommy,” Sapnap cackles as the rest of the team skate to a stop around them, a loose circle forming around the two. “You got me good!”
“What?” Tommy looks around, seeing a mixture of amusement and concern coloring the expressions of the rest of the team. “What did I do?”
George huffs out a small laugh. “You smacked Sapnap with your hockey stick as you were falling.”
He did what?
“You hit hard for a little figure skater!” Sapnap is laughing and smiling, but all Tommy can see is the angry red mark on Sapnap’s cheek. “We’ll make a hockey player out of you yet!”
He hit Sapnap. He hit Sapnap, the big cuddle bug that randomly yanks Tommy into a hug just because he can, the human space heater always happy to share his warmth, the boisterous and loudmouth goofball that is fiercely protective of his own.
“Oh my god,” Tommy breathes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I–”
“Don’t apologize,” Sapnap interrupts, giving Tommy a toothy grin. His stomach rolls with nausea. “Accidents happen! It’s all good!”
No, no, it’s not all good! Tommy doesn’t cause accidents, Tommy doesn’t make any human errors. Accidents and Tommy don’t belong in the same sentence. Tommy is either a failure or the best of the best. There are no accidents in figure skating!
But this isn’t figure skating. This is a game he’s playing with his friends.
Somehow, the thought just makes him feel worse.
He has to fix this. He has to make it up to Sapnap. Tommy hit him, it’s the least he can do! Especially after they’ve been putting up with him for so long. They probably could have been more productive today had Tommy not been following them around like a little lost duckling!
“Uh, I–um, I can–uh…” Tommy splutters, grasping for a coherent string of words and jolting in place when he gets an idea. “Ice! I can get ice packs! I’ll go get some!”
“Tommy,” Wilbur tries to protest, but Tommy is already scrambling upright, waving his arms to balance himself as he gets back on his feet. Technoblade moves to steady him, a frown on his face.
“I’ll be right back,” Tommy tells them before he’s skating off to the exit of the rink. He tears off his skates and doesn’t bother with his shoes, too caught up in where he can get ice packs from as he bolts from the room.
There’s gotta be a place for ice packs nearby. Accidents on the ice happen all the time, even when it’s just a group of people just horsing around. The trainer’s room might not be open right now, but that doesn’t mean someone else isn’t nearby. Maybe there’s a nurse’s office somewhere?
He has to at least get something! Tommy feels his heart thunder in his chest as he looks around frantically. All that’s near the ice rink are food and drink booths, that’s not helpful! He hurt his friend, he needs something to help with his pain, not a fucking sandwich!
They must be so disappointed in him right now. They have done nothing but show Tommy endless kindness, taking his frail and bruised body into their arms and nursing him back to health. And how does he repay them? Oh, by smacking one of them in the face with a hockey stick! Good job, Tommy!
He’s getting lightheaded. He can’t find anything useful anywhere. People are beginning to stare at him, gazes heavy on his shoulders, whispers and mutters grating against his ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t–
A warm hand folds around one of his. Tommy whips his head to the side to see Technoblade standing beside him, and oh, he looks so upset! He’s looking at Tommy with something like heartbreak on his face, and isn’t that just the cherry on top? Tommy can’t stop hurting them, can he?
Technoblade’s gaze flick past him for a mere moment before the man is tugging him along, urging them away from the foyer just outside the ice rink. Where are they going? Is Technoblade taking him to some secluded corner so he can yell at him just like his old coach used to do? Tommy wouldn’t be surprised if it was Technoblade who had to be the one to scold him, he is the team captain, after all.
Technoblade tucks them into a small corner that’s hidden away from prying eyes, and Tommy braces himself for the hurt that’s inbound.
But it never comes.
Instead, Technoblade takes the hand in his grasp and presses two of the fingers against his wrist, right against a steady pulse.
“Breathe,” Technoblade orders, his voice soft and quiet, but Tommy still tries to choke in a breath as fast as he can because he’s already messed up, he’s already messed up so much, he cannot mess something as simple as breathing up!
But his lungs refuse to cooperate. He flinches at his own choked gasps, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid the disappointment that must be showing on Technoblade’s face.
But Technoblade keeps talking to him in that soft and quiet voice, urging him to breathe in for four seconds, one, two, three, four, now exhale for four seconds, one, two, three, four. Very good, you’re doing well. Let’s do it again, okay?
Between the murmured instructions and the steady pulse underneath his fingers, Tommy doesn’t quite shake apart this time.
“You’re okay,” Technoblade tells him as Tommy slumps forward, head falling onto Technoblade’s shoulder. “You’re alright. You wanna tell me what that was all about?”
“Not really,” Tommy grumbles. “Do I have to?”
“I would prefer it if you did,” Technoblade sighs, “but you know that you don’t have to. You should also know that I just wanna help.”
“I know, I know,” Tommy mumbles, sinking further into Technoblade when the man wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know what was going on?”
Technoblade hums an assent. “Sure. Sometimes these things just happen. You kinda freaked out on us out of nowhere back there. I can’t say I’m surprised you ended up having a panic attack.”
“I just wanted to get some ice for Sapnap,” Tommy whines, and he suddenly feels ashamed about his outburst. Technoblade found him trembling and shaking and crying over not being able to locate a bag of ice. There are so many other ways to help with a bruise, and that includes just lying down on the literal ice rink underneath their feet.
He feels really stupid.
“Bruh, just get a cold drink, he’s not even bruising that bad.”
He feels really, really stupid.
Tommy mumbles out an okay, and together, he and Technoblade wander off towards one of the booths selling drinks. His heart sits heavy in his chest with the knowledge that Technoblade found him in the midst of one of his many panic attacks.
If he’s lucky, Technoblade won’t question it too much.
Tommy finds that he isn’t feeling terribly lucky these days.
After the fiasco with Sapnap, Technoblade has taken to hovering around Tommy more than usual–which is a feat, considering how clingy the entire team is sometimes. He’s constantly checking up on Tommy at the most random of times, nudging him with an elbow and a murmured, “You alright?” while the rest of the team is running laps through the stands, or tucking him into his side to let out a whispered, “Relax.” when he sees how tense Tommy is during a regular meeting in one of the lounges.
It’s endearing as much as it is terrifying. He knows the hockey team loves him, but how long is that love going to last before Tommy’s anxiety and panic smother it to death?
He doesn’t know, and the thought looms over him in every waking moment, casting long and endless shadows that stretch into infinity. At some point, the hockey team is going to get fed up with him. They said they wouldn’t, but that’s just how the world works.
Or so he thought.
On one random evening, no more significant than the rest, Tommy finds his solution to his irrational panicking.
It’s… not the solution he thought he would find.
Tommy had always thought that one day, the ice cold panic seizing his heart would melt one day, leave him free to love his group of hockey players and be loved in return. Or maybe the hockey team would figure out what’s been going on and nip his problem in the bud. He certainly thought Technoblade would have caught on by now.
None of that happens.
Instead, Tommy finds his solution in Wilbur.
Not in the way Wilbur holds him hostage in smothering hugs, not in the way Wilbur effortlessly tells him how important Tommy is to him and the rest of the team, not in the way Wilbur is always hanging around and ready to drop everything just for Tommy’s sake.
No. Instead, Tommy finds his solution in Wilbur while he’s in the midst of a panic attack.
He would have never found his friend had he not been looking for a head of brown curls. Wilbur had tucked himself between the corner of the room and a bench used by skaters to lace up their skates. He’s curled in a tiny ball, lanky limbs folded tightly against his trembling body, labored breaths fogging in the freezing air.
Tommy immediately runs to him, dropping to his knees beside his friend and taking his hands into his own. They’re limp and cold to the touch as Tommy intertwines their fingers, unresponsive as Tommy gives them a squeeze.
“Wilbur?” He murmurs, searching Wilbur’s face for any signs of recognition. “Wilbur, can you hear me?”
It takes longer than Tommy thought it would to break through to Wilbur, minutes feeling more like hours as Tommy rubs circles against Wilbur’s knuckles and talks to him lowly and quietly. It hurts to see him like this, so small and so scared, eyes glazed over as he battles something only he can see.
But eventually, Wilbur’s hands return Tommy squeeze, the foggy look in his eye fading as he blinks furiously.
“Tommy?” He croaks, and Tommy lets out a wet chuckle.
“There you are,” He says, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You had me so worried! Are you okay?”
Wilbur’s eyes search his face, and they must find what they’re looking for, because Wilbur gives him a watery smile. “I am now. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Don’t be!” Tommy snaps. “You were having a panic attack! Don’t worry about how I feel, just focus on feeling better! That’s all I want, that’s all the rest of the team wants!”
Wilbur laughs, and it’s raspy and weak, but joyful all the same. Tommy feels vindictive delight swell in his chest, relishing in the melodic laughter… until Wilbur speaks again. “It’s so funny to hear you say that, considering that’s exactly what I want to tell you all the time.”
What?
His confusion must show on his face, because Wilbur huffs out another laugh accentuated by another squeeze to Tommy’s hands. “I think I’m rubbing off on you, Toms. Soon enough, you’ll be saying that to George whenever he’s feeling down, or Sapnap whenever he’s feeling self conscious.”
“What do you mean?” Tommy asks, because seriously, what does Wilbur mean? Of course he’ll help George and Sapnap and anyone else part of the hockey team, but what is Wilbur trying to get at here?
Wilbur beams at him, his smile sunny and warm. “We look out for each other, of course! You’re one of us now, and you’re starting to sound like it!”
That’s–
…
Huh.
“I am?” Tommy asks, meek, shy, uncertain. Wilbur brings their joined hands close to his chest, tapping his fingers against Tommy’s knuckles.
“Yeah,” he hums. “I’m really glad I found you that day, in the studio. I’m glad I could pull you into my little family, and I’m glad you accepted my little family.
And Tommy–
Tommy feels what little is left of the ice cold panic that has been gripping his heart for years upon years upon years start to melt away.
Life with the SMP Hockey Team is wonderful.
They are always quick to drag Tommy into their shenanigans at the first chance they get, whether that’s tugging Tommy along as they run off to cause mayhem somewhere, or if they barge into Tommy’s room to kidnap him for the sixth day in the row so they can do something outside of playing their respective sport.
Tommy, honestly, couldn’t feel happier.