Work Text:
Their homework had stopped being homework about twenty minutes ago. Tommy had made that executive decision somewhere around the point Tubbo started drawing increasingly elaborate weapons in the margins of his worksheet. Neither of them had actually written anything useful in several minutes, but there was something comforting about sitting at the same desk, pretending they were still working.
Tommy spun his pencil between his fingers.
“What’s the answer to number seven?”
Tubbo didn’t look up. “Seven.”
“No, the actual answer.”
There was a pause before Tubbo glanced down at his own page.
“...I don’t know.”
“You’re supposed to be the smart one.” Tommy stared at him.
Tubbo shrugged. It was a little strange. Not enough to mean anything, Tommy decided. Tubbo was always weird when he was tired. And he had been staring at the same page for ages, so maybe his brain had simply given up.
Tommy leaned across the desk and looked at his worksheet.
“It’s not even on that page, Tubbs. It’s literally on the other side.”
“Oh.”
Tubbo flipped the page over. Tommy watched him do it. Slowly. That was the other strange thing.
Tubbo wasn’t usually slow. He fidgeted constantly, drummed his fingers against things, or bounced his leg under the table. He’d normally have finished the question before Tommy had even finished complaining about it.
Now, his pencil rested loosely between his fingers. His other hand had crept up to his temple. Tommy didn’t notice until Tubbo started rubbing at it.
“You alright, mate?”
Tubbo stopped. “Yeah, fine.”
Tommy waited. Tubbo just looked at him.
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
Tommy went back to his own work.
A minute passed before Tubbo shifted in his chair and squinted at the laptop between them. Tommy glanced over.
“You can't see it?”
“Yeah, I can.”
“You're squinting.”
“I'm not.”
“You are too.”
Tubbo rolled his eyes and reached for the laptop. The screen brightness went down. Then down again.
Tommy frowned. “Why are you making it darker?”
“It’s bright.”
“It’s a screen.”
“Yeah. A bright one.”
Tommy snorted. Tubbo returned to his worksheet and for a while, neither of them said anything. The house was quiet around them. Rain tapped intermittently against the window, and the desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over their papers.
Tubbo’s pencil stopped moving. His fingers went back to his temple. Tommy looked over.
“You must be getting old.”
“Shut up.” Tubbo gave him a tired little laugh.
“There’ll be grey hairs next!”
“I hate you.”
“You’re practically Phil’s age!”
That got another laugh. It was small, but it was there. Tommy grinned and returned to his worksheet, satisfied. Everything was normal.
Mostly.
Until a few minutes later, Tubbo whispered, “Can you turn that off?”
Tommy looked up. “The lamp?”
Tubbo nodded. Tommy stared at him.
“Why?”
“Just turn it off, please.”
There was something about the way he said it that made Tommy pause. Still, he reached over and flicked the switch. The room fell dim. Tommy’s eyes adjusted.
“You’re so dramatic Tubbo.”
No response came. Nothing.
Tommy looked at Tubbo. Tubbo wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes were fixed stubbornly on the desk, one hand pressed against the side of his head. Tommy’s smile faded,
“You good, Tubbs?”
Tubbo gave a curt nod. But this time, he didn’t smile or laugh.
Tommy left the lamp off.
He didn’t know what. There was nothing particularly wrong with the room without it, and Tubbo had asked, so that was reason enough he supposed. He shifted the laptop further away instead, letting the pale light from the screen sit between them.
Tubbo didn't look at it. That was the first thing Tommy noticed.
His worksheet remained open in front of him, but he wasn't reading it anymore. His eyes stayed downcast, occasionally slipping shut for a few seconds at a time. Not the slow blink of someone tired. Longer than that.
Tommy watched him for a few seconds, then looked away. A minute later, Tubbo’s eyes closed again.
“Are you falling asleep?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly. Tommy raised an eyebrow. Tubbo opened his eyes, stared at the worksheet for perhaps three seconds, then shut them again.
“Right.”
Tubbo ignored him. His hand moved from his temple to his eyebrow, pressing firmly into the skin above it. He held it there for a moment before dragging his fingers back towards his temple, then further still, until they settled against the base of his skull.
Tommy frowned. He’d seen Tubbo do that before. He’d never really thought much of it though. People got headaches. People rubbed their heads. It wasn’t exactly unusual.
Except Tubbo kept doing it.
Every few minutes, his hand returned to the same places, as if he couldn't quite find a position that made whatever was bothering him stop. Tommy tried to focus on his own work. He managed two questions before Tubbo pushed his chair back.
“I need water.”
Tommy glanced over as Tubbo stood. For a second, everything looked normal.
Then he stopped.
It was barely noticeable. Just a pause in the middle of the room, one hand catching against the back of his chair. Tommy’s stomach tightened.
“You ok? Dizzy?”
Tubbo shook his head. “No.”
He stayed there for another second before he continued towards the door.
“You sure?”
“I said I’m fine, Tommy.”
There it was.
Tommy had heard it a thousand times. I’m fine. Usually Tubbo said it while laughing, or rolling his eyes, or shoving Tommy away when he’d done something stupid. It was a throwaway answer. Something that meant stop asking rather than anything else.
This time, it didn’t sound like that.
It sounded rehearsed. Like Tubbo was saying it because it was the answer he was supposed to give.
Tommy watched him disappear into the kitchen. He could hear the tap running. Then silence. Then the sound of the cupboard opening. Tommy waited.
When Tubbo came back, he was carrying a glass in both hands. He sat down carefully. Tommy stared at him. Tubbo took a sip of his water.
“What?”
“What's wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Tubbo.”
“I'm fine.”
Tommy frowned. Tubbo looked back at him, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then Tubbo sighed.
“I’ve just got a headache.”
Tommy blinked. “Oh.”
That was it. A headache. He'd been expecting something worse, apparently. Something that would explain why Tubbo was acting so strange. But a headache made sense.
Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Take something.”
Tubbo went still. Not dramatically. Just a tiny pause. His fingers tightened slightly around his glass. Tommy noticed.
“You’ve got painkillers or something, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then take some.”
Tubbo looked down. “I already did.”
“When?” Tommy’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t seen Tubbo take anything.
Tubbo didn’t answer. It had only been a second, maybe two, but Tommy felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest.
“Tubbo?”
“Earlier.”
“Earlier when, Tubbo?”
Tubbo's thumb moved absently along the rim of the glass. “I don't know.”
“You don’t know?” Tommy stared at him.
“Like… earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
Tubbo shrugged. Tommy looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly midnight. He looked back at Tubbo.
“Wait.”
The thought came together slowly. Tubbo had been quiet when they'd started. He'd been rubbing his temple before Tommy had even noticed. He'd turned the brightness down. Asked for the lamp to be switched off. Stopped looking at the screen. And now he'd said he'd already taken something.
Earlier.
Tommy's stomach sank.
“How long have you had a headache?”
Tubbo didn’t answer. That was enough to answer. Tommy looked at him properly for the first time all evening.
The closed eyes. The hand pressed against his head. The way he'd stopped moving. The pause halfway to the kitchen. None of it had started ten minutes ago.
“How long?” Tommy swallowed.
Tubbo’s shoulders rose and fell with his breath. “A while.”
“How long is a while?”
There was another pause before Tubbo answered quietly, “Since this afternoon.”
Tommy stared at him. The room suddenly felt much too quiet. Tubbo had been sitting with this for hours and he’d been hurting this entire time. Tommy had no idea what to say.
Since this afternoon.
The words sat between them, far heavier than they should have been. Tubbo took another sip of water. Tommy watched his face.
He looked worse now that Tommy knew what he was looking for. His skin had gone pale beneath the dim light of the laptop. His eyes remained narrowed, as though even the little glow from the already dimmed screen was far too much.
“You should have told me.”
Tubbo shrugged. It was the same shrug he’d given him all evening. Tommy opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Tubbo’s face tightened. His eyes squeezed shut and one had gripped the edge of the desk.
“What?”
Tubbo shook his head. Nothing. Tommy waited. Tubbo breathed in slowly through his nose, then let it out through his mouth. His fingers pressed harder against his temple.
“Tubbo?”
“Don't.”
Tommy stopped. The word hadn't been sharp. It had barely been audible. Tommy looked at him. Tubbo was staring down at the desk, eyes still shut.
“Don't what?”
“Just...” he swallowed, “Don't talk.”
Tommy nodded. For once, he didn’t make a joke. The laptop screen went black a few minutes later. Tommy hadn’t touched it.
Tubbo had simply reached over and shut it with more care than necessary, like even the sound of the hinge closing was too loud. Then he stood. Tommy immediately looked up.
“Where are you going?”
Tubbo didn’t answer. He made it three steps before stopping. His hand went out to the wall. Tommy was on his feet instantly.
“Hey.”
Tubbo shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re literally holding onto the wall for dear life.”
“I know.”
He sounded irritated now, but the irritation didn't have much force behind it. Tommy didn’t push. He followed him into the living room instead.
Tubbo crossed the room straight to the curtains and pulled them shut. Then he shut the second set. Then he stood there for a moment, forehead pressed lightly against the fabric. Tommy watched. Tubbo turned around.
“Can you turn everything off?”
Tommy looked around. “The lights?”
Tubbo nodded. Tommy switched them off. The room disappeared into darkness.
“Phone.”
Tubbo pointed weakly towards the coffee table. Tommy picked it up. The screen lit when he touched it. Tubbo flinched.
Tommy immediately turned the brightness all the way down and put the phone face-down. He looked back at Tubbo. Tubbo had curled himself onto the end of the sofa, knees drawn towards his chest. There was something almost methodical about it.
Curtains. Lights. Phone. Quiet.
Tubbo reached for the glass of water he'd brought with him, took a tiny sip, and put it down again. Then he closed his eyes.
Tommy stood in the middle of the dark room. He had no idea what he was supposed to do.
“Do you need—”
Tubbo made a small noise. Not quite a groan. More like the beginning of one. Tommy shut his mouth.
Right. No talking.
He stood there for another few seconds, uselessly watching his best friend curl further into himself. Then Tubbo suddenly sat up. Tommy's heart jumped. Tubbo covered his mouth. He moved quickly towards the bathroom. Tommy followed, stopping outside the door.
He could hear Tubbo being sick. The sound was quiet. That somehow made it worse. Tommy looked down at his hands. He wanted to do something. Anything. But he didn't know what he could do.
When Tubbo finally came back out, he looked exhausted. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Tommy understood enough now.
“Do you want water?”
Tubbo gave him a tiny nod. Tommy got it.
When he returned, Tubbo had moved back to the sofa. Tommy handed him the glass though he drank barely anything. Then Tubbo’s eyes flickered towards the kitchen. Tommy followed his gaze. He had remembered to turn the light off.
“What?”
Tubbo shook his head. Nothing. Tommy waited.
Then, Tubbo whispered, “Cold.”
Tommy understood… eventually.
“A cold pack?”
Tubbo nodded. Tommy went searching. It took him longer than it should have. By the time he came back, Tubbo was lying on his side with his arms tucked against his stomach. Tommy crouched beside him.
“Here.”
Tubbo opened his eyes. They were glassy. He reached for the cold pack. Tommy hesitated.
“Do you want me to–?”
Tubbo gave him another nod so Tommy carefully placed it against his forehead. Tubbo’s entire body seemed to loosen at that.
Just slightly. But that was enough.
Tommy sat down on the floor beside the sofa. He didn’t talk. Not even another whisper. He didn’t know if he was allowed to. So he just watched.
Watched Tubbo breathe. Watched his fingers twitch occasionally against the blanket. Watched him shift whenever the pain changed.
And slowly, horribly, Tommy began to understand. Tubbo knew exactly what to do.
He knew to turn the lights off. He knew to close the curtains. He knew to keep water nearby. He knew to put his phone away. He knew when he needed to be sick.
None of it was hesitation. None of it was guesswork or done on a whim. It was routine.
Tommy’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t the first time. Tubbo had done this before. Maybe dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. And he'd done it without Tommy.
Tommy looked at the boy curled up on the sofa, face half-hidden beneath the cold pack. The frightening thing wasn't that Tubbo knew how to survive a migraine. It was that he knew how to survive one alone.
Tommy shifted closer. Not touching him. Just close enough that Tubbo would know he was there.
The room stayed dark. Quiet. Still.
For once, Tommy didn't try to fill the silence. He let it exist. Because it was obvious now that Tubbo didn't want anything from him. Not answers. Not jokes. Not reassurance. He just wanted the world to stop touching him.
He just wanted the world to stop touching him. So Tommy sat quietly beside him and let it.
Tommy stayed where he was. The cold pack had begun to warm against Tubbo's forehead, so Tommy reached over and replaced it with the other side. Tubbo barely reacted. His breathing had evened out.
Not asleep. Tommy could tell from the occasional twitch of his fingers, the way his eyebrows drew together whenever a pulse of pain seemed to move through his head. Tommy watched him for a while.
The question had been sitting in the back of his mind since Tubbo had said this afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to ask. It felt wrong to make Tubbo talk when talking seemed to hurt. But eventually, the silence became too heavy.
“How often does this happen?” he whispered.
Tubbo didn’t move. Tommy wasn’t even sure he’d heard him. He waited anyway. The room remained dark.
“Tubbo?”
He gave a soft hum in response.
“How often?”
Tubbo’s eyes stayed closed. For a moment, Tommy thought he might not answer. Then his mouth moved.
“Most days.”
Tommy went still. Most days. He stared at him.
“What?”
Tubbo swallowed, “Most days.”
It shouldn't have been surprising. Tommy had already worked out that this wasn't some random headache. He'd known there was something more to it from the moment Tubbo had said he'd taken something hours ago. But somehow, most days was different.
It was too simple. Too ordinary. Like Tubbo had said he'd had breakfast. Like it wasn't a sentence that changed everything Tommy thought he knew about him.
Tommy sat back. Most days. His mind started pulling things apart.
Tubbo leaving parties early.
I'm tired.
Tubbo disappearing upstairs halfway through hanging out.
I just need a minute.
Tubbo rubbing his forehead while they talked.
Headache.
Tubbo turning down invitations because he couldn't be bothered.
Maybe next time.
Tubbo refusing food sometimes, pushing his plate around until Tommy eventually ate half of it for him.
Not hungry.
Tubbo getting annoyed when Tommy turned on the big light.
It's ugly.
Tubbo sleeping through entire afternoons.
I was up late.
All of it.
Tommy had accepted every explanation because they had made sense individually. But now they lined up into something else. Something that had been sitting right in front of him. Something huge.
“How long?”
Tubbo’s fingers curled slightly into the blanket. “A while.”
Tommy almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because apparently a while was Tubbo’s answer for everything right now.
“How long, Tubbo?”
“About a year.”
Tommy’s stomach dropped. “A year?”
Tubbo nodded. Tommy just stared at him.
A year.
He tried to imagine it. A year of headaches. A year of hiding them. A year of waking up and not knowing whether the day would be good enough to make it through. A year of deciding whether the pain was worth mentioning. And Tommy hadn’t known a thing.
“Every day?”
“No.”
Tommy waited.
“Most days,” Tubbo corrected.
There was something almost apologetic in the way he said it. Tommy hated that.
He looked down at his hands. A year. And apparently Tubbo had decided that this was just something he dealt with. Something he could fit around everything else. Something that didn't need to become anyone else's problem.
Tommy felt anger rising in his chest. Hot and immediate. But it had nowhere to go. There was no one to be angry at. Not really.
He couldn’t be angry at Tubbo for being sick. He couldn’t be angry at him for not telling him. Even if, God, he wanted to.
Instead, he looked back at the sofa. Tubbo had gone very still. His face was pinched with pain, the cold pack slipping slightly down his forehead. Tommy carefully adjusted it.
“You could’ve told me, you know.”
Tubbo’s eyes opened a fraction. Tommy expected an excuse. Maybe another ‘I’m fine.’
Instead, Tubbo looked at him for a few seconds before saying, “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Tommy's chest hurt. Of course. Of course that was why. Because Tubbo knew him. He knew Tommy would worry. He knew Tommy would start asking questions and hovering and trying to fix things that couldn't be fixed. He knew Tommy would look at him differently. So he'd kept it quiet.
Tommy swallowed. “I would've worried anyway.”
“I know.” Tubbo gave the smallest shrug.
That hurt more. Tommy looked away. He wanted to tell Tubbo that he was the biggest idiot he knew. That he should’ve said something anyway. That Tommy would’ve come running anyway. That he could’ve called him at three in the morning and Tommy would’ve answered. But Tubbo was lying there in the dark, already hurting badly enough that he had finally told him. Badly enough that the world itself seemed unbearable.
There was no point making him carry Tommy’s own feelings on top of it. So Tommy said nothing. He reached for the cold pack instead. It had warmed again.
“I’ll get you another one.”
Tubbo’s fingers caught his wrist before he could stand. Tommy looked down. Tubbo didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Tommy sat back down. The cold pack could wait.
For a few moments, they stayed like that. Tubbo’s hand clinging loosely around Tommy’s wrist. Tommy sitting beside him. Neither of them speaking.
And Tommy thought about all the times that Tubbo had said ‘I’m fine.’ All the times that he had blindly believed him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever hear the words the same way again.
The next morning, Tubbo woke up to silence. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. He laid still, eyes closed, waiting.
There was still pain.
He could feel it, dull and heavy behind his eyes, lingering at the edges of his skull. But it wasn’t the sharp, overwhelming thing it had been last night. The room didn’t feel like it was pressing against him anymore.
He opened his eyes. Darkness. The curtains were still closed. For once, he was grateful for it.
Tubbo shifted carefully. Something pulled against his shoulder. He looked down. Tommy’s hoodie. Tommy was still there. He'd somehow fallen asleep sitting half upright against the sofa, his head tipped at an awful angle and one arm still resting loosely around Tubbo. His neck was going to hurt like hell when he woke up.
Tubbo stared at him. Tubbo stared at him. He should have told him to go to bed. He should have woken him. Instead, he stayed still.
There was something strange about seeing Tommy asleep beside him. Tommy, who usually couldn't sit still for five minutes. Tommy, who complained when he was tired. Tommy, who had apparently spent the entire night on a sofa because Tubbo had a headache. Tubbo looked away.
On the floor beside him was a glass of water. Fresh, with condensation still dripping down the sides. Next to it sat the cold pack, already replaced and ready to use again. His phone was on the coffee table, face down. The brightness had been turned almost all the way down.
Tubbo stared at it. Then he noticed the plate. Someone had left food beside the sofa. Nothing complicated. Something plain. Something Tubbo could eat without having to think about it.
Tommy hadn't asked. He'd just left it there. Tubbo's chest tightened.
He reached for the water. The movement woke Tommy. He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a complaint, head lolling to one side.
“You awake?”
Tommy blinked. “Unfortunately.”
Tubbo almost laughed. Almost.
“How do you feel, Tubbo?”
“Better.”
Tommy nodded, still half asleep. “That’s good.”
He didn't immediately ask how much better. Didn't start interrogating him. Didn't tell Tubbo he should go to a doctor or stay in bed or do anything else. He just sat there for another few seconds, eyes half-closed. Then he looked at the glass in Tubbo's hand.
“You ate anything?”
Tubbo shook his head.
Tommy pointed vaguely towards the plate.
“Eat that.”
Tubbo looked at him. “Bossy.”
“Yeah, I am.”
Tommy rubbed at his eyes. Then, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “Next time you get one, you're telling me.”
Tubbo's fingers tightened around the glass. “I don't—”
“Not asking.”
Tubbo stopped. Tommy looked completely serious. Not angry. Not worried in the way Tubbo had expected. Just certain.
A smile pulled faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”
“Good.” Tommy nodded.
Then he slumped sideways, apparently satisfied with that answer. Tubbo watched him for a moment. The pain was still there, dull now. He knew it would probably be there tomorrow, too. Maybe the day after that too. Tommy couldn't fix that. He couldn't make the migraines disappear. He couldn't make the light stop hurting or the nausea go away or give Tubbo back all the days he'd lost to pain.
But he could close the curtains. He could turn the brightness down. He could leave water within reach. He could sit in the dark and say nothing. And, apparently, he could stay.
Tubbo took another sip of water. Beside him, Tommy shifted in his sleep, drifting closer without waking. Tubbo didn't move away.
For the first time in a long time, he didn't have to.