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despite being the most outwardly immature member of the family, tommy prides himself on his independence and peacekeeping. ironically, his shouted insults are often what defuse arguments, not create them.
no, wilbur and techno’s on-again-off-again twinship tends to be the main cause of their family tension. it’s almost ritualistic; several times a year, one of the two will get overenthusiastic or too pushy or too nosy about something, and the other will blow up at them in a nightmarish shitstorm that lasts a couple of weeks before tommy will wake up to the two of them cooking together like normal.
this time is different. it’s been several weeks, and there’s no change, besides a frigid formality that’s developed between the twins. if tommy has to sit through one more monotone “please pass the salt” or “school was fine,” he might actually end it. enlist a doctor to implant a grenade in his brain, thread the pull ring through his spinal cord, and stitch him up so it’s outside of his skull. pull the cord at the back of his head and not only does his spinal cord rip out of his body, but the grenade explodes his brain instantly.
tommy’s getting too creative. the boys really need to pull their shit together.
except, well- he feels for both of them. can’t help but feel protective over techno for how brutal wilbur’s words to him were, but also has a deep sense of empathy towards what’s clearly wilbur feeling overlooked, abandoned. it’s a tough situation, and truth be told, he doesn’t see a right answer. neither, it seems, does phil, who’s run into a tough situation at work and so is spending less and less time at home.
when he is home, he’s just trying to desperately split his time between wilbur and techno. typically, tommy’s just the tag-along to both sides, and the assigned therapist for everyone. for whatever reason, techno and wilbur both tell him things they don’t want to tell phil or each other, and phil laments to tommy constantly about the twins.
he’s laden with enough blackmail material for nine lifetimes.
which is fine. he’s used to being in the middle of everyone else’s hurricane. the day he gets all of the attention on him and his problems is the day pigs fly, the sun goes out, the tides turn backwards.
besides, he gets plenty of attention from hanging out with ranboo and tubbo. who cares if they have their little beeduo thing? they still have plenty of room left for him. even if he’s left out of some sleepovers or study sessions, or when he’s left as the awkward third during partnered projects. that they spend time with him at all means a lot.
lately, tubbo’s been stressed, probably because dream is getting gradually quieter and clinging to karl and george, something he only does right before, usually, a complete meltdown. hey, if anyone gets brother issues, it’s tommy.
ranboo and niki, luckily, get along beautifully. in fact, they have one of the most successful sibling dynamics in their friend group. for that reason, and because they live with a frequently-absent distant relative (their uncle, maybe?), their house is the go-to for tommy, tubbo, and ranboo to hang out.
which is how tommy got here, hanging upside down from ranboo’s sofa, staring aghast as the other boy dips his oreos in peanut butter.
“i mean, honestly, mate, it’s atrocious,” tommy says matter-of-factly. “why would you ruin an oreo when it’s perfect on its own?”
“it doesn’t ruin it,” ranboo protests. “oreos are good plain. i will eat them plain. i just like them better like this.”
“tubbo?” tommy asks.
the shorter boy thinks for a moment, contemplative. “i mean, i don’t hate it. it kinda makes sense, ‘cause chocolate and peanut butter is a good combination. more sense than people dipping french fries in milkshakes, anyway.”
“wh- no, man, you’ve got everything screwed up,” tommy protests. “that makes way more sense than the oreo thing. it’s, like, flavor contrast or some shit. besides, peanut butter is disgusting.”
“i think both of them are good,” offers ranboo, and tommy throws a crumpled paper towel at him.
“suck-up,” he scoffs with no heat.
“hey, do wilbur and techno like oreos with peanut butter?” tubbo asks out of nowhere.
tommy rolls his eyes. “hey, that was a good one, tubbo. very subtle.”
“i’m not allowed to ask about your family?” tubbo deadpans. ranboo tries unsubtly to not look at tommy out of the corner of his eye.
tommy sighs, twists until he’s right-side-up and slumped against the couch. “no clue on their oreo preferences, and no change in the house. still very awkward.”
“and you’re still in the middle of it?” asks ranboo.
“well-” tommy shifts, uncomfortable. “i’m not in the middle, exactly. i’m like- what’s the one country?”
“switzerland,” tubbo and ranboo say at the same time.
tommy nods. “yeah, switzerland. i’m neutral territory. which means everyone brings their shit to me, but better me than each other, aye?”
“well, it’s not exactly fair to you,” tubbo muses. “i mean, it’s kinda not your problem. i know you care about everyone, but you deserve to have someone listen to you, too.”
tommy very decidedly does not choke back a lump in his throat to reply, “what, listen to me complain about women? seriously, it’s fine. nothing i can’t handle.”
“still, you know we’re always here, dude,” ranboo tells him.
he nods, knowing full well he’ll never be that person, never be like his dad and brothers, who, however well-intentioned, saddle their shit onto the youngest member of the family too often.
“hey, do you guys wanna watch a horror movie and order takeout?” tubbo says suddenly.
“i thought you’d never ask,” tommy says reverently, hopping up to grab another coke.
by the time they make their way through far too many shitty b-list films, it’s late and niki is insisting on driving tommy and ranboo home. not that phil’s texted- when tommy had called to check in, he’d absentmindedly reminded him of curfew and said nothing else.
when he gets inside, the house is dark and quiet, but phil’s study has a light on inside. tommy’s guessing both wilbur and techno are “asleep” (i.e., on their respective laptops talking to their respective friends- i.e., the same friends in different groupchats) and phil is still working. as per usual.
he ducks into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and flicking the light on, notices a stack of dirty dishes in the sink.
he heaves a sigh. of course. another side effect of the chernobyl-esque catastrophe has been a distinct lack in cleanliness in their household. not that tommy blames anyone for it.
instead of heading upstairs, he busies himself unloading the clean dishwasher and refilling it. once he’s done that, he takes a minute to straighten up the kitchen, putting away random food items that have been left out and wiping off the counters.
it’s almost ritualistic, at this point. almost sacred. him and the yellowish light and the running faucet and wet food.
gross.
once he’s done, he heads upstairs and collapses into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.
he wakes up to the smell of burning toast and the bitter, burning knowledge that the kitchen will once more be a mess when he goes downstairs.
either his family functions like clockwork or he’s developed the gift of prophecy, because as he stumbles through the hall, still in his pajamas and sporting some excellent bedhead, he’s greeted with the toaster left out and plugged in, peanut butter jar open, used knife just- laying on the counter for some fucking reason, crumbs everywhere, cabinet open.
how hard is it to stick a knife in the sink, for god’s sake, or close a door? except, right- it’s not hard. so he picks up the knife, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher, puts away the toaster, closes and cleans up the peanut butter jar, shuts the cabinet, wipes down the counter.
this, at least, he can count on to remain the same.
he shuffles over to the dining room and slouches in a chair, and only then does he realize how loud it is downstairs, because apparently karl, george, and dream are all over to hang out with wilbur.
george is the first one to notice him. “is that legendary minecraft player tommyinnit?”
“fuck off,” tommy groans, putting his head in his hands. “please. so much noise.”
“hey, tommy,” dream greets him, quietly. and see, that- that’s not the dream they all know and love. nothing about him is ever quiet, from his screaming over discord calls to his horrendous wheezing laughter.
but, you know. not tommy’s circus, not tommy’s monkeys. he has enough going on with his own family. regardless, he’ll probably cave and shoot dream a text later to check in.
(and then sit through it if he needs someone to talk to, even though he has little emotional energy left. dream never reaches out to people. if he did reach out, how could tommy deny him?)
“are you gonna get food?” karl asks tommy, leaning over the table. tommy thinks for a minute, and shakes his head.
“nah, man. kinda nauseous. not a morning person, really.”
wil whips around, concern showing on his face. “tommy, you’re tall as fuck and a teenager. you need to have breakfast.”
tommy’s face burns- how dare you fucking patronize me in front of your friends, like i don’t take care of all of us - but he forces an indignant, “i can work it out myself, wilbur, i don’t need you to coddle me.”
“nonsense,” wilbur insists, and pushes himself up to go into the kitchen. tommy turns to watch, and sees him pulling out the toaster, opening up the cabinet, and getting the peanut butter out.
wil calls, “oi, where’s the knife?” and tommy has to remind himself to breathe deeply and not krakatoa his shit.
karl, from across the room, gives him a sympathetic smile. when tommy halfheartedly reciprocates, karl’s face drops slightly, and he moves around to sit by tommy.
“what do you wanna eat?” he asks him. “i’ll go get you whatever. wilbur’s just going for what he’d like to have, i think.”
tommy blinks, unused to both how perceptive karl is and the consideration for what he wants. “uh… i’m honestly not sure. i really do feel kind of nauseous, i don’t normally eat breakfast.”
“you probably should,” karl says sympathetically, “he is kind of right. do you want, like, apple juice and then we can see if you feel hungry after that?”
tommy thinks, nods. “that sounds good.” and then, more shyly, “uh- thank you. for asking and all.”
karl gives him a bright, sweet smile, and tommy catches dream staring at karl longingly. “it’s no problem! wait right here.”
karl darts off to get the juice, and tommy and dream lock eyes. tommy grins, wide, and dream goes bright red before mouthing what tommy assumes is a death threat in his direction.
“here you go!” karl chirps, setting the glass of apple juice down in front of tommy. as wilbur brings in a plate of peanut butter toast, karl also moves to intercept it, claiming that “dream and i want this, tommy can get his own food.”
“alright,” wilbur says resignedly. “tommy, there’s stuff in the fridge and the freezer, if you want. and techno’s out getting coffee for everyone with niki, so i’m sure he’d be happy to grab you something too.”
tommy’s head jerks up. “coffee for everyone? for who?”
“all… of us?” wilbur says slowly, confused.
tommy’s aghast. “what, like- like you guys are hanging out together?”
wilbur looks embarrassed. “i mean, we didn’t really want to do split custody of the friend group, so. we’re being civil?”
“oh,” tommy says ineloquently.
when the table goes back to their conversation, recovering quickly from the awkward minute, tommy whips his phone out to text techno.
to: technoblade
u and wilbur getting along??
the reply is almost instantaneous.
to: gremlin
No. Civility and friendship are not the same thing.
tommy snorts, and george glances over until tommy waves him off.
to: technoblade
whatever. can u get me a muffin and a hot chocolate please
to: gremlin
Yeah, do you want anything else?
to: technoblade
no thats all thank u Blood God
to: gremlin
[thumbs up emoji]
“the blood god is bringing me a hot chocolate,” tommy announces to the room, going back to his apple juice.
“fantastic news,” karl says. “if you want more sugar, i think your dad just bought more of the good cereal.”
“what!” tommy squawks, shooting up. “and no one thought to tell me ?”
“he literally just got it this morning before work,” wilbur protests. tommy’s already elbow-deep in the cupboard, rustling through until he finds what he’s looking for: cookie crisp. potentially too much sugar between that, the hot chocolate, and the apple juice, but whatever. he is a growing teenage boy. surely it’s fine.
“no child needs that much sugar in the morning,” george says.
“hey, gogy. go fuck yourself,” tommy replies.
george flips him off.
“what kind of muffin are you getting?” dream asks.
“huh?” tommy replies, before realizing. “oh fuck .”
to: technoblade
not bluebrrhu
fuck
no t blueberry
get me one of the poppyseed ones
if you got blueberry i dont want it take it back
technoblade sends back a photo of a blueberry muffin, and tommy gasps aloud.
to: technoblade
NO
to: gremlin
Relax, it’s mine, I got you poppyseed
to: technoblade
oh thank fuck
he heaves a sigh of relief, sitting back. “we’re good,” he assures dream, who is staring at him with a mixture of caution and minor distaste. “i’m getting poppyseed.”
“poppyseed is the superior muffin flavor,” karl says approvingly.
“wow, karl, i didn’t pin you for a drug addict,” wilbur snarks.
karl’s eyes go wide. “what?”
“poppyseeds have opioids in them.”
“no- oh my god,” dream giggles, “they have opiates, not opioids. and it’s, like, so minimal. basically nonexistent.”
“poppyseeds have morphine?” george asks, confused.
“no, no, i thought morphine has poppyseeds? or is it the other way around?”
the debate is interrupted, thankfully, by the front door, and tommy is up and gone before anyone else can react.
he accosts techno right as he’s toeing off his shoes in the entry and swipes his hot chocolate with a “thank you!” that techno grumbles in response to. he also snags the muffin bag and the coffee with a “k” on it before darting back off.
walking back into the dining room, he sets the coffee in front of karl. “assuming this is yours. not sure, though, may have just stolen something.”
karl opens the lid and peers inside, and then beams. “it is mine! thanks, dude.”
“what.” dream protests flatly. “why does he get tableside service?”
“dream, i give you tableside service all the time,” george says mischievously.
“no, no, you give him under the table service all the time,” wilbur corrects, and dream wheezes.
“WHAT?”
“oh my christ,” tommy moans, sinking down and covering his face. “fucking hate it here.”
“tommy, don’t say that,” niki says, patting his shoulder. “we all love having you in the house.”
“what did we miss?” asks techno, distributing the rest of the coffees. notably, he leaves one in the carrier, forcing wilbur to lean awkwardly across to grab it out.
“not much,” george reponds, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. “th child woke up and we have done nothing else.”
“did you give him sugar?” techno asks, and it’s only then that tommy realizes his cereal’s gone soggy in front of him.
“aw man,” he pouts, and goes to pour it out.
when he comes back, techno’s stolen his seat, and all of the others are taken. he ignores the pit in his stomach to grab his food and head upstairs. no one seems to take notice of him leaving, besides karl, who gives him a wave on his way out.
once upstairs, he logs onto his computer and tabs over to a dark room. might as well do something repetitive and mindless while he waits for his friends to get online. and if techno would rather hang out with someone who called him a freak than someone who removed him from the situation and protected him, that’s his prerogative. who cares? it was probably going to be really boring anyways.
raucous laughter from downstairs tenses his shoulders up to his ears, and he puts on a pair of headphones to drown it out.
he wastes the day on and off of his laptop and phone, alternating back and forth. neither tubbo nor ranboo are online, suggesting they’re probably hanging out irl without him, and at some point the twins vacate the house with their friends. tommy falls asleep, and when he wakes up, it’s growing dark and there’s noise from downstairs.
he grumbles, rolls over, checks the time. close to seven. phil’s probably home and making dinner.
except, when he gets downstairs, dinner is already done and the other three of his family members are sitting at the table eating.
“good morning, sleepyhead,” phil calls playfully. “we didn’t wanna disturb you since you were asleep.”
tommy forces a smile. “all good. food’s done?”
“yep,” phil responds, turning back to the conversation. “on the stove when you want it.”
tommy serves himself food, taking probably a bit more than he should- but, he has only had a muffin today, considering no one woke him up for lunch either.
he sits through dinner, listening to techno and wilbur fight to dominate the conversation- “dad, dream said this thing-” “karl was thinking that we all could-” - until he can’t stand it anymore, and gets up to shove his leftovers in the fridge.
he starts the dishes as everyone else finishes eating and sits, talking. eventually, both of his brothers go back up to their respective rooms, leaving the echo of clattering forks and chattering young adults.
phil stops on his way out of the kitchen, leans against the doorframe. “tommy, i can do that in a bit. you really don’t have to.”
tommy’s shoulders tense up to his ears, frustration knocking a dull xylophonic melody down his spine. “it’s fine. i don’t mind.”
“well, thanks for doing it,” phil chirps, and ducks back upstairs.
somehow, the thank-you is even more irritating- if you’re really so grateful, why don’t you fucking help? tommy thinks, savagely. but it’d be unfair to push his idiosyncrasies on other people.
the thing is: if he knows the kitchen is dirty, knows there are plates in the sink and clean dishes to be put away, he can’t just leave it. he has to do it as soon as he knows about it. but forcing that standard on the other members of his family? they’re busy. they wouldn’t have the time when he asked, and he knows that if they say they’ll “do it later” it’ll never get done.
he’d rather put himself in the unhappy role of cinderella. for his own sanity.
it all comes to a head a couple nights later.
unfortunately, the night has actually been going wonderfully. the boys were engaging with one another more, and they’d all made cookies and turned on mamma mia together. it had felt almost normal, tommy yelling, “ oi, dickhead! ” as techno stole more cookie dough from the bowl and wilbur laughing from the corner.
of course, then they all start a card game tommy’s got no interest in, and the dishes from making cookies start to pick at the back of his skull.
he hops up, under the guise of getting water, and goes in to do the dishes. the running water, though, isn’t subtle.
“oi, toms,” wilbur calls from the living room. “you don’t have to do that now. we can get it later.”
tommy hears phil mumble something to wil, but can’t stop himself from biting back: “well, i want it fucking done now, so i’m doing it.”
“tommy!” phil snaps, startled. he appears from the hallway, looking a mixture of annoyed and concerned. “what on earth has gotten into you?”
“it just- it fucking bothers me to know that there are dirty dishes just sitting there, and no one else ever does them, so i have to. and when i know they’re just sitting there i can’t not do them. and it’s almost more annoying when you thank me for doing it because you just tell me i don’t have to and then thank me for it anyway, which means next to nothing to me when i’m still doing all the fucking dishes that i don’t even use !”
the house is dead silent. tommy heaves a breath, and realizes he’s clutching a butterknife so hard it’s digging imprints into his palm.
phil looks aghast, and wilbur’s hovering behind his shoulder, looking almost scared. “i’ll- i can help now, tommy. you never told me you wanted them done now.”
“right,” tommy says savagely, “because it’d be unfair of me to make you do something when i want it done. it’s really fine. i’ll fucking do it. go back to your game.”
“i just- you always do the dishes. i never knew that it bothered you,” phil says softly.
“ how could it not ?” tommy yells, unable to hold back the frustrated tears now pouring down his face. “you all sit in there without me having fun while i slave away in here! i’m family too! i’m going through the same situation as everyone else!”
techo appears next to wilbur. “tommy. you don’t have to martyr yourself for everyone. no one asked you to do that.”
“but i do ,” tommy insists, teary. “if i don’t, no one else will.”
“we can take care of ourselves, mate, it’s okay,” phil soothes, moving closer. “you’re a kid. it’s not on your shoulders.”
tommy’s eyes sting hard. “but you all talk to me about it constantly.”
phil, tech, and wilbur’s faces all drop at once into identical expressions of guilt. the synchronicity would be almost funny if tommy wasn’t devastated and confused.
“we shouldn’t be doing that,” phil concedes. “but when we do, that’s a time when you can share your feelings about it too.” he turns to the other boys, then. “we’re all family. we have to be able to communicate if nothing else.”
the twins nod, and tommy realizes with horror that they’re both on the verge of tears too.
how did their one good night get ruined?
as if he’s reading tommy’s mind, phil says, “there’s still plenty of time left tonight. why don’t we all clean up together and then turn on a disney movie?” then, as an aside, “tommy, would it make you feel better to help, or would you rather go wait for us on the couch?”
tommy feels more shy and awkward than he’s felt since he was phil’s foster kid, before the adoption. “can i hang out in here?”
“of course,” phil reassures him. “while we clean, right?”
tommy pauses- can he ask for this? - until tech steps by, patting his shoulder. “we’ll clean, toms. sit down.”
direct orders, he can do. so he sits, and his brothers talk to him and ask about his day, and his friends, and the cleaning is- kind of fun. it gets done way faster, too, with someone washing and someone drying. the urge to help at the back of his skull shifts and settles, and he’s able to be a brother for a couple of minutes.
when they’re done, phil claps. “i don’t actually feel like a movie yet. does anyone want ice cream?”
all of the boys perk up, ready to argue for their favorite place, before techno smacks wilbur across the chest.
“ow. why.” he protests.
“tommy,” techno deadpans. “where do you want ice cream from?”
and that lifts his heart in his chest, turning it soft and happy. “can we get mcflurries?”
“oh, that sounds good!” phil says enthusiastically, grabbing the keys. “first one there gets shotgun.”
tommy takes off in a dead sprint, and to his brothers’ credit, they don’t just let him win. wilbur puts up a good effort, until tommy bodychecks him hard, slamming him into the side of the car and swinging himself into the passenger seat.
“i win!” he crows, and wilbur sulks in the backseat.
they get mcflurries, messing around at the drive through, and head home, turning on big hero six. at the beginning of the movie, all piled together and splayed out like cats, phil tugs tommy in close.
“i’m proud of you,” he whispers, “and not for the things you give me, but for who you are.”
and, shit. for everything, for all they’ve had to deal with over the past couple months-
tommy really fucking loves his family.