Work Text:
CREEP (acoustic)
Tom guessed he’d never really appreciated it while you were here, you were a background character, in the chaos of his life. Or at least that's what anyone else would've thought. Not to him though. He regretted everything, not being able to look you in the eye before you left. You were like an angel. Perfect in his eyes. You came too suddenly and left too soon. When he was younger his parents told him not to touch random feathers, that they’d get him sick. ‘Birds carried disease’ His mother would say, scolding him for trying to gift her a white one he found at school one day in the field. That's what meeting you felt like, like a love in passing, that he couldn't get too attached to, that’d only hurt him more. Tom was nothing compared to you. A loser, some weirdo whose foster brother’s go down in the school's history books, he’d just be a recognisable last name because of them. Theseus Watson. Tom Innes. A Creep. A nobody who would’ve been doing his Music GCSEs by your side by now. But no. He’s doing them alone, like he did everything else in his life by now. All he really wished was to be special like you.
It was late-night thoughts like this that made him wonder if anyone would truly care if he just… left. You were the only person to make him feel anything.
He wouldn't care if it hurt, the scars running along his left arm and thighs held to that point. He never cared before, why would he care now? He just wanted control. To feel like he had a grasp on anything in his life. He hated how he looked. He wanted a perfect body, like the boys at his school, the ones doing PE exams that got girls. Not some gangly tranny geek like him. A perfect soul. His mama was religious. A catholic. She taught him about the Bible and took him to Sunday school every week. Mama didn’t think twice when the pastor wanted to see Tom after the lessons: ‘It’ll help, Clementine, you’ll get closer to god, you want that, don’t you?’ She’d say, smiling as she patted her daughter on the back, nodding slightly at the pastor as Tom walked to the strange man. That day was the first time he’d been raped. By Pastor John. He’d cried and screamed and begged and yet now he was impure. He’d never be let into heaven. He’d be a filthy girl forever. ‘A tainted soul’ his teachers would say when he walked around. It was a small town. Word spread fast. The abuse happened weekly. Then they moved, two years later. He was ten now. And maybe, in some ways. He missed it. He’d touch himself on Sundays. Like a sort of tradition. He’d accepted by now he’d never be pure. He just wanted to be clean again. Have a perfect soul. It was late when he told you that. A few weeks ago. He could remember it like it was yesterday. You were on his bed, you lay your head on his chest, your vape idly hanging out of your hand as you listened, you didn’t judge or say anything, just listened, told him that wouldn’t change anything, that you’d be his friend either way. Friend. Friends who fucked on occasion? Friends who’d showered together, who’d made out under school stairs and danced in the rain and stayed up till late talking. Friends. That was all it was. Friends.
Another slice to his wrist. Tears stung the fresh cuts. He wished you’d call. But he knew you couldn’t. Another cut, right above the last one. He hoped you noticed his absence in your life as he did you, but maybe he wasn’t all that important to you like you were to him. Another cut beside that one, Horizontal for attention vertical for results, or whatever the chav at school shouted at him before calling him a zebra. “Control…” he’d mumble before trudging to the bathroom. It was late, or early, technically. 2:45 am. He took the scissors from the sink top and hacked at his hair, he didn’t know what he was doing. He just wanted control. Over his life. Over his appearance. Over- everything. He just wanted to be special, his wrists and thighs were bleeding, and his pelvis was sore, and he wished he could stop but he just wanted to feel whole again. Today was Sunday.
When he heard feet padding down the hallway that’s when he stopped. The heavier footsteps in the family, he didn’t look behind him when the pinkette entered the room, he clamped his eyes shut and prepared for the worst. The worst happened. Instead of some sort of comforting hug, or touch, or assurance, Techno just stood there. Frozen. As his brother began to cry, he felt helpless, because he wasn’t the comforting one, that was Wilbur, and he wasn’t the stable one, that was Phil. And so he stood there, unsure of what to do. And so he just… left. Left his baby brother crying, because he didn’t know what to do.
It was the next morning now. Tom had woken up in his bed. He’s never decorated his room, he was scared he’d have to repack all his things when he eventually left this house too. He had black sweats on and a hoodie on. He got changed into his school uniform, the boys' uniform. Even if he didn’t feel like it. There was blood staining his sheets, but he didn’t care. What more was there to care about?
He made his way downstairs, where Phil was sitting on the kitchen stool, eating. Along with Techno and Wilbur. Tom gulped slightly before he spoke, he just wanted to get it off his chest. “I think I want to kill myself,” he said. It sounded strange, being said out loud. Foreign. You were the only person he ever said that to. And you’d hugged him. Told him he had so much to live for. For the life you two’d have. And he’d smile. Nod, cry but know that you’d be there. Phil just sat there, confused. Unsure. He stood up and embraced the boy, mumbling about how much he had to live for, how he thought the therapy was working, how he thought he was better. But Tom tuned it all out. Just melting into the touch as he sobbed and cried and wept like he was a child again. Phil kept him out of school that day. And all Tom did was sleep. That night he tried your Discord again. Your alt account. The one you’d given him in case ‘all else failed’. He didn’t want to contact it. That was a lie. It was all he wanted. But he didn’t want to bother you. All he sent was ‘hey. miss u. hope yr doing better.” Seven words. Seven words before he got up. To the bathroom, going inside and shutting the door behind him. Filling up the bathtub, opening the medical cabinet and downing Wilbur’s antidepressants before stepping into the bath. Submerging himself in the water.
Drowning
…
Drowning
…
Drowning
…
Drow-
…
Banging on the door. Shouting. Breaking the door, hands picking him up. Out of the water. Compressions against Tom's chest. The snap of a broken rib. Eyes forced open but unseeing. Compressions again. Another snap.
He’d watch you go that night, he’d hugged you goodbye, told you to be safe, told you he loved you. That you mattered. He joked, ‘Don’t kill yourself dude’ You smiled, told him not to count on it. He frowned, you rolled your eyes, saying something about just being joking. He repeated himself, firmer now. “Don’t kill yourself. Please.” He said, before pressing his lips against yours as rain poured down onto you both. He’d slipped some money into your hand, a paper with his number in it, and a Polaroid he took of you two ages ago. He didn’t want you to leave, but you had to. You just hoped that your brother would treat you better than your parents had been. A final goodbye hug and kiss sent you off. He’d known you for four months, and you’d changed his life. Now you were running away. And he might never see you again. But it’s whatever, he thought. He’d live… he hoped.