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Fuck my life, is what happens to be the first thing Tommy thinks when he wakes up on an early Friday morning.
He'd woken up to that all too familiar feeling of pain, twisting and angry in his gut, and when he shifted his position in bed to try and let up the cramping in his muscles, it was only further confirmed to him that it was that time of the month again.
He wished he could ignore it. He wished he could pretend this wasn't happening again and go back to sleep, where being unconscious didn't consist of having to get up and go to school whilst feeling like he was being stabbed in the stomach, where the blade keeps being twisted and pushed further into him as the voice holding it says, "You're biologically a girl, in case you forgot. Just thought I'd remind you!"
But that's not how this whole “living” thing works. He'd give anything to be able to ignore the blood in his boxers, the curves of his body and the way he has to bind his chest to feel even just okay in his appearance, but the fact is this: there's not much he can do about the being he was born as. If he could stay in bed all day and sleep, dismiss the fact he's stuck in a body he feels so horribly disconnected from, not have to suffer being around people while he feels like he's being torn apart from the inside out, he would.
Although, it's quite clear the universe doesn't give a flying fuck what Tommy wants, and not only that, but it decides to spit on him for a reason Tommy can't place. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve having to live such an existence.
It's only when Tommy's oldest brother, Techno, cracks open his door to wake him up that Tommy realizes how much he wants to cry. "You've got thirty minutes Tommy, get up." he says in a tone that Tommy thinks is supposed to sound annoyed but just comes off more flat and bored like it usually does.
Tommy supposes he can't delay the inevitable forever, especially if he plans to shower before they have to leave. He exaggerates a groan, one more "fuck you too, universe" before cringing at the feeling of rolling out of bed. He waddles over to his dresser to grab clothes before making his way to the bathroom across the hall (which, thankfully, Wilbur isn't taking all the time in the world to fix his hair in) to take the quickest shower in the world.
Usually he'd leave the lights off, but since he's in a rush he opts to keep his gaze anywhere but down as he rinses himself off. If he wasn't in such a rush he knows he'd savor the soothing feeling of the steaming water on his skin, and the way it gives him a few minutes to breathe with the way it helps to carefully detangle the tight, constricting knot of pain inside of him. It takes a lot to reluctantly force himself to turn the water off and step out of the shower, dry himself off and bitterly take out the box of tampons shoved deep in the cabinet under the sink— ends up slipping a couple in the pants of his pocket when he realizes he doesn't have any in his backpack.
By the time he's put on a binder, a shirt and a hoodie, pulled on some jeans and made his hair look at least somewhat presentable, he thinks he might actually keel over and collapse with how agonizing the waves of cramps that wash over him are. He takes two pain pills from the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, hoping to whatever gods above they might actually work this time before stumbling out of the bathroom. Wilbur shouts something at him from downstairs, but Tommy only heads down after grabbing a pair of shoes and his bag from his room.
He feels like absolute shit. He's tired, and in pain and it's one of those days where the feeling of the binder around his chest is more constricting than alieving, and the mere feeling of it, the way it reminds him that it's there, that he has to wear it at all makes him feel even more dysphoric— amazingly finds a way to do the exact opposite of what it's supposed to do. A part of him wonders for a second if the feeling is a fair trade for looking like he has a flat chest at all.
Of course it is, he knows he can't go outside or be seen without it on, because then they'll -know. They'll know that he wasn't born a boy— that he's not cis, that he has the chest of a girl which means he has the body of one too which means he's not a boy at all! He's just, what, a boy with period? A girl playing dress-up for attention? A "boy" who isn't really a boy at all—
A hand shoots up to rub fingers into his temple as he silently asks himself, what the hell is wrong with me?
He knows he's a boy. He's never been more sure about anything in his life— is as sure as the sky above him is blue and grass under his feet is green. It's just.. sometimes his thoughts start to spiral like this. He doesn't know why his subconscious decides to invalidate him when he's at his lowest, why he decides to kick himself while he's already down; doesn't see why it's fair at all considering he only feels this way about himself.
He takes in a deep breath, goes to let it out along with the mess that is the jumbled up thoughts in his mind when—
"Tommy?"
He snaps his head up, brows furrowed as he looks for the voice trying to get his attention. He realizes now he's in the kitchen, that he must've spaced out, as a pair of hands are placed on his shoulders. When he looks up Wilbur is there, looking down at him with a questioning— and maybe a little more than slightly concerned— look.
"W— what?" Tommy stutters, his heart beating fast behind his ribs for some reason he can't place. He blinks as he looks to his brother, then to Techno sitting at the table, Phil standing at the counter. They're all looking at him, but Tommy can't understand why.
"I asked if you were okay." Wilbur says, his voice slightly salted with that brotherly type of worry.
"Y— I'm fine." Tommy says at the exact same time a cramp decided to tear through his gut. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to hide a grimace, pushing Wilbur's hands off and stepping around him to grab water from the fridge.
"You look dead." he hears Techno deadpan, his gaze glued to his phone.
"Fuck off Blade." Tommy says despite his older brother probably being right. The quick glance he let himself take in the mirror earlier showed the paleness of his skin and the bags under his eyes were more prominent than usual, but what was he supposed to do about it? He didn't sleep well, woke up wanting to vomit from pain, warm and uncomfortable after sleeping under a heavy duvet and in soaked underwear. The least they could do, he thinks, is leave him the hell alone.
They clearly didn't know he was on his period, as if he would ever tell them or talk about anyway. It wasn't that they didn't know he was transgender— they kinda had to in order for him to be on medical hormones, but it was just.. something they didn't talk about. Tommy preferred just being Tommy, which meant avoiding the topic of being trans as much as he could like he did with most people he knows. It was just preference, really, deciding to be stealth about it.
It wasn't that he was ashamed of who he was or anything, besides the casual internalized transphobia, his mind scoffs. He wasn't! He just.. he wants to be known as any regular boy, not the boy who used to be a girl— who was born a girl.
So he didn't like talking about being on his period. He'd rather ignore it's existence completely if he could help it, even if he was in crippling pain. He didn't talk about it.
"Are you feeling sick Toms?" Phil asks, stepping over to him and putting his hand to the boy's forehead. Tommy shoved it away, uncapping the water bottle in his hands. "If you're not feeling okay—"
"I'm fine dad, don't worry." Tommy says, taking a swig. He nearly chokes on the water when he swallows from a particularly sharp cramp, trying so hard to be subtle about the way he grabs at his shirt, but then he gives in and scrunches his eyes shut, tries to force himself to breathe as the wave passes.
Tommy knows that if he told Phil he just wasn't feeling good he'd let him stay home, and on some level it was true. But he wasn't feeling good because his female anatomy decided reign hell on him once again, not because he had some kind of stomach bug. Boys didn't stay home because of periods— boys didn't have periods to begin with. So why would Tommy stay home?
"You don't look fine." Techno drawls and Tommy groans, rolling his eyes.
"Gods— just leave it be!" Tommy wines, annoyance bubbling under his skin as he plops himself down at one of the kitchen table chairs so he can lace up his shoes. "I'm going, bye." he says flatly once he'd finished, leaving the room without looking back at his family. All the fuss sparked that familiar irritability in him, and he'd rather not stick around to hear them fret over nothing.
He worries his lip as he leaves, not waiting to walk with his brothers like he usually would. It's times like these he wishes they didn't live so close to the school so Phil could drive them, but no, he has to walk through the pain that only seems to continue relentlessly ripping through him.
"At least it's Friday..." Tommy whispers to himself, and it tastes bittersweet on his thick tongue.
If he's being honest with himself, it all hurts so much he wants nothing more than to collapse. Walking feels like a chore, and even sitting through classes felt like physical torture. The pain had only let up for a couple hours when the meds finally kicked in, but even then it was more or less a type of ache inside him. He tried to avoid his brothers in the halls, and at lunch he told his friends Tubbo and Ranboo that he had a headache so they'd let him rest his head in his arms slumped over their usual lunch table.
He'd been doing so good, sticking it through until seventh hour was spent in the bathroom trying not to cry because of how shitty his whole situation was. Every time he'd just barely manage to collect himself tears would slip from his waterlines. He just felt so.. bad, and it wasn't even really just the physical pain anymore.
Sure, it was to some extent, but his own mind was back to kicking him, like the biggest bully Tommy could ever face. Why do I have to be like this? he mulls, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the inside of a stall door, his arms wrapped around himself like a hug from a person completely separate from himself, it's all wrong, I'm all wrong.
Some days were better than others, hell, some days were good. Some days he could live with his body and feel like he was finally growing into the person he was always meant to be. Some days, he could look into the mirror and see someone who's masculine and a boy despite everything and worthy of being loved as someone who is self made. Sometimes, he looked at himself (even sometimes on the rarer occasions, when he's in his binder) and like what he sees, even if it isn't necessarily ideal or ordinary. Euphoria was something Tommy doesn't always get the pleasure of indulging in, especially when he'd rather be causal about feeling good when his t-shirt is flat over his chest or his dad ruffles his hair and calls him "handsome". It felt good all the same, and Tommy would be lying if he said he never chased it like his life depended on it sometimes.
Other days he felt the complete opposite. On bad days, Tommy wanted to give into the thoughts that told him he was a fuck up for being the way he was— for ever expressing himself as something he wasn't on the outside surface. He'd think about his future, and how being transgender meant he'd be unlovable for some reason despite feeling the complete opposite about other trans people. He'd feel like there was something wrong with him, and despite all the good things being transgender has made him feel— unique, interesting, secretly empowered— he instead feels he's some type of alienated freak, and it's not fair. It's not fair to himself, he knows it's not, but he can't help but feel like this huge part of himself is more of a burden than not. On these days, he doesn't want to live inside himself. On these days, he wants to claw at his skin and rip himself apart the same way it does from inside him, make himself bleed out all the bad because his brain is broken for making him like this. He's not right, and if he can't even love himself as someone that doesn't always feel complete in their own skin, who else will?
If every person deserves to be loved for who they truly are, why doesn't that go for Tommy as well?
It's suffocating, and it ruins him and he wishes for once he could run away from this body the same way he did with his dead name, but he can't. That's not how it works. He can't run away from himself, he can't get a break if he wants one, he can't look into a mirror without wanting to look away immediately after and his stomach hurts so much and his binder is really tight all of a sudden and he's trying to breathe but it doesn't come easy, it never seems to nowadays—
He comes back to himself in the stall when his nails break the skin on his palms after digging into them too hard. The feeling is sharp and it stings but it brings him back down to earth, back down to the linoleum tiled floor and the itchiness of his binder and the tears slipping down his cheeks.
The bell rings, and fuck, he didn't mean to skip the hour but he spaced out again and now Phil would probably be mad at him once he found out. He tries to keep his breathing steady as he scurries to grab toilet paper to wipe the blood off his hands hastily. He flushes the toilet and slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder to leave, not wanting his brothers to have to wait too long for him since they usually all walk home together.
He wipes at his eyes, and in the mirror they're red-rimmed and glossy. He sighs, too tired to care as he leaves the bathroom and makes his way out into the courtyard, trying to clear his mind and shove down the dark thoughts that threaten to eat him whole.
The sky is overcast as he makes his way outside, and he flips his hood over his head when he sees Techno and Wilbur in the distance waiting for him. He tries to walk past them but a hand reaches out for his shoulder, spinning him towards a confused Wilbur. "Tommy, are you crying?" he asks softly, just as Tommy was managing to pull himself together again.
"No," he sniffles, trying to turn away, "I'm not." and saying it aloud, hearing that tone Wil only uses with him, only makes his eyes water up more. He just wants to go home and be by himself and sleep. He wants a break from the world, from everyone, from himself.
"Toms—" Wilbur reaches for his wrist when he turns away, but just as he brushes the fabric of Tommy's hoodie the boy yanks it back harshly.
"I'm not crying!" Tommy exclaims, probably a bit louder than he meant, misdirected irritation dripping from his tongue. When he looks to Techno he knows the older can see the remnants of tears on his cheeks, and Tommy truly hadn't meant to snap like that he just, he just—
He spins around and pushes through the burning agony inside him coming back in full force, beginning to walk home without them. Part of him felt bad, but a bigger part of him was just exhausted, drained, depressed.
His head was hurting now too, probably from either dehydration or not having eaten lunch, and everything just felt like too much. He wanted it to stop, and digging his fingernails into his palms again was as effective as throwing a bucket of water on a house fire.
Unlocking the front door was difficult with tears blurring his vision. When he finally managed to, he ignored his dad calling from the dining room and went straight up to his own.
He closed the door behind himself, discarded his bag to the floor. He barely managed to toe his shoes off before he was falling back into bed, crying himself to sleep with clenched fists and a ranging, unforgiving anatomy.
When Tommy woke up sweating in the hoodie and jeans he went to school in, laying in bed with the light of a sunset seeping through the cracks in his blinds, he was.. extremely confused.
His mouth felt dry with sleep, his eyelashes crusted together most likely from crying. His muscles ached and his head felt like it was being squeezed painfully as he tried to remember what day it was, what time it was, why the hell he was in his bed with his daytime clothes on.
You had a breakdown and threw a fit like a child, his mind so kindly supplies for him. It all came back then; waking up, going to school in agony, crying, coming home and passing out. He didn't feel much better now, especially when the memory of how he treated Wilbur after school resurfaces. In fact, it really only served to make him feel worse.
When he checks the time on his phone it reads "6:33 p.m.", which meant Phil was probably downstairs making dinner and he should probably get up before the man comes up to Tommy's room himself. Even if the idea is dreadful and he'd rather rot in his bed and starve right now, he knows it's not a realistic option.
He pulls himself up and stifles a whimper as he clutches at his lower stomach. He wants it to stop so bad. He just slept for three hours and yet somehow he's still bone deep exhausted, and really, this is all getting a bit old.
He manages to get himself to slip out of his room and into the bathroom, reluctantly doing his business before washing his hands, realizing they were still very much crusted with dry blood from having ripped his skin open in little crescent shapes. It stung under the cool water, but Tommy couldn't bring himself to feel anything else over the matter as he stared down at the pink water swirling into the drain of the sink.
His hair is messy from sleep, and the bags under his eyes are still saturated as ever. His binder constricts against his sweaty skin when he tries to take a deep breath, and his ribs are already starting to ache from having kept it on after wearing it all day at school and having not taken it off afterwards, but Tommy can't bring himself to care enough to take it off now. It's uncomfortable but it's not actively killing him, and something in Tommy thinks that's reason enough to be able to leave it on.
When he's dried his hands he pulls his sleeves over then, flicking the bathroom light off and making his way down the stairs. Wilbur is sat facing away from him on the couch watching some discovery channel documentary, and Tommy slides past him into the kitchen to find Phil and Techno talking at the table. There's a scent of some type of food in the air that nearly makes Tommy drool, but his attention is immediately drawn away from it once he fully enters the room.
When his dad catches his eyes, Tommy knows he's in for it. Phil looks mad, maybe— Tommy can't really read the expression because his "mad" face is so similar to some of his other more serious ones. Techno's not far from nearly mirroring their dad's expression, except he looks moreso something like utterly constipated, and if it wasn't for the lingering discomfort in the pit of Tommy's stomach, he thinks maybe he'd actually laugh at it.
"Thank the gods, he's alive." Techno says with perfected sarcasm, and Tommy can't help but shoot a glare his way.
"Tommy's awake?" he hears Wilbur say from the other room, and sure enough, as Tommy looks back at the couch from where he stands Wilbur is looking right back at him.
When Tommy turns back, Phil gives him that look, the one Tommy can't quite put a name to but it's the one he always gives him when he's done something wrong, and it makes him feel a little bit queasy. When Wilbur walks in to lean his tailbone against the counter, Tommy looks to him for.. something, anything, but the older doesn't even seem to offer a rope to throw him.
"Have a seat, Tommy." Phil says, and Tommy frowns at his tone.
Hah, he is sooo mad at you!
Maybe he wouldn't be if you didn't skip class to cry like a big baby.
Maybe if you could just suck it up once in a while, you wouldn't have to get in so much trouble—
Tommy carefully steps up to the table, taking a seat at the end opposite the one his dad's standing at like a robot. This whole thing is really intimidating, with Techno at his right, Wilbur to his left and Phil right in front of him, and Tommy can't help but feel a little cornered. Maybe they don't mean for it to be that way, maybe his brothers just want to be here for whatever Phil's going to say, but it makes Tommy's hands shake nonetheless.
Because oh gods, Phil looks upset, and Tommy isn't sure can handle being berated right now, not when he's feeling like this and his brain is going all dark and twisty again and talking feels like it would take all his energy. He must be still waking up as he tries to rack his brain for what this might me about, tries to think about what he's done wrong, and it takes a moment but then he remembers again—
"Why are you skipping class?" Phil asks, and he doesn't sound necessarily angry, more just sternly curious if anything, but Tommy's leg still bounces furiously under the table.
He knew the stupid teacher would mark him absent, which would notify his dad but Tommy just couldn't go back to class the way he was. He was mid-breakdown and mid-panic attack, but he didn't know how he was supposed to explain to Phil (and his brothers too, apparently) why he was sobbing in a bathroom stall when he was supposed to be in class.
"I... um.." Tommy swallows, feels too choked up to talk.
There was a beat, and Tommy stared holes through the table in front of him as he finally began to tear up. "I'm... s— I.."
Embarrassment rolled over Tommy in a single, all-consuming heat wave, painting the tips of his ears pink and his cheeks even darker. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to talk about this but Phil was going to make him, and that meant telling him about how he cried because sometimes he feels like he's dying inside— inside this stupid, stupid body that doesn't belong to him, and to Tommy that's more important to deal with than a stupid math lesson, but Phil might not think so. Phil will ground him or yell at him or maybe both, and Tommy doesn't know how he'll be able to handle it if he does because he already feels like shit, but hey! Who cares about how Tommy feels, right? The weight of the world is on his shoulders but he should be able to deal with that, apparently, despite being barely seventeen and barely keeping his head above the water.
"Toms?" Tommy turned his head to the side when he distantly feels a hand touching his arm. When he looked to see who it was he found Phil crouching down next to him, "Breathe, Toms, it's okay." he says carefully. Tommy can't recall when his breathing had picked up, or when he begun digging his nails into his palms again but he was and he couldn't breathe. It hurt so much and his ribs protested with every inhale and his stomach— oh gods, his stomach.
He didn't hold back the wince or the whimper as he held his stomach, head going fuzzy from the lack of oxygen he was getting to his brain. "Woah, okay, it's okay." Phil said softly, placing a hand on his back and rubbing, "Is it—"
"No, no, I— ah," Tommy grabbed at his chest, at his stomach. It seemed Wilbur and Techno had left the room— when did that happen?— but it was just him and Phil now as tears streamed down Tommy's cheeks.
"Tommy, tell me what's wrong." Phil said, edging on a plead. He looked so worried, but his eyes also communicated another thing, a question. Tommy knew what he meant, but neither wanted to say it aloud; Tommy because he hated talking about it, and Phil because he knew Tommy did too.
Tommy tried to breathe, looking into his dads eyes. He gave a small nod. Yes, it's that but it's also so much more. I fucking hate everything and it hurts a lot dad, please help me.
"Okay, okay." he says, pulling Tommy in and holding him close, and at that Tommy just sobs.
"Bad day?" Phil asks into his hair.
Tommy nods into his dad's shoulder, tries to focus on the way the man rubs circles into his back and cards through the hair on the back of his head. "It'll be okay, Toms. I'm here, you're okay." Phil says, and he understands, he understands that there's a lot going on without him having to say anything. It only makes Tommy cry harder, makes his dad hold him closer, and Tommy's already cried today but it feels damn good to be held while he does again.
Tommy isn't sure how long they stay like that or how long he cries, but his breathing eventually slows down and he finds himself slumping limply into his dad's shoulder sniffling, until he feels hands on his upper arms pushing him back slightly.
Tommy wines at the action, "I know, it hurts. We'll get you some meds and I'll make you some tea with dinner if you're up for eating, hm?" Phil says softly, and Tommy nods, pawing at his sniffling nose.
"But first," Phil rubs a thumb over one of Tommy's cheeks and the boy leans into it like a sunflower to the sun. With his other hand, Phil takes one finger and pokes lightly at Tommy's chest, "I think you know what you need to do."
"But—"
"No 'but's. You need a break," Phil says, tucking a strand of hair behind he youngest son's ear, "but I think you know that." he gives Tommy that soft, knowing, fatherly smile. He just wants what's best, wants me to be safe.
Tommy knows he's right. His ribs hurt with every move and his muscles ache, but even still, he really doesn't want to confront what's underneath right now. "I'm sure Wil or Tech will let you use one of their hoodies, how does that sound?"
Tommy stops at that, really thinks for a second.
It sounds... nice, Tommy decides after a minute or so. He truthfully still did not want to take the binder off, but then he thought about that one hoodie Techno has that nearly goes all the way down to Tommy's knees, or the sweater that actually happens to be Wilbur's favorite one but is also the perfect amount of baggy on Tommy for bad dysphoria days, and the idea of wearing either is suddenly very appealing. "Okay." Tommy nods, and Phil rubs the side of his arm for good measure.
The boy stands, reluctantly leaving the room and his dad's warm embrace to go change when he finds Wilbur standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding what looks to be few sweaters in his arms. Tommy freezes where he stands, feels the confusion— the surprise— morphing his features. Tommy sniffles, "Wil..?"
"I— uh, I figured you might want— I mean, I have some sweaters, if you.. if you want one." Wilbur says awkwardly, and Tommy knows he was probably listening as he and Phil talked. He couldn't bring himself to be mad though, between the clothes in Wilbur's arms and his anxious expression like he's stepping on eggshells, Tommy can only be thankful he didn't have to ask for himself.
Tommy spots the sweater he loves so much on the pile in Wilbur's arms, and steps forwards. He takes the yellow sweater, feels the softness of it in his hands and holds it close. "I... thank you." Tommy says, moving to wrap an arm around his older brother in a quick hug that squishes the clothes in their arms between them.
"It's alright." Wilbur says softly, and then Tommy's moving past him to go upstairs to his room, keeping the sweater held close to his heart.
Changing clothes isn't as daunting as Tommy thought it would be this time around, slipping the sweater over his head and changing into comfier pyjama pants. The relief of having the garment's pressure off his chest is immediate, and he'd forgotten how much better it feels to breathe without it.
He still didn't feel the best, but he also didn't feel like he was going to implode, and that was a start.
Back downstairs plates have already been set out, but standing in the doorway, Tommy decides he isn't really hungry. "Dad?" he asks shyly, the extra fabric of the sleeves of his sweater balling in his hands. Sure, the man had comforted him but Tommy still skipped class, which meant he could still very well be in trouble.
"How'd you get Wilbur's sweater?" Techno asks at the same time as Phil speaks.
"What's up kiddo?"
"Uh.." Tommy clears his throat, pinching at the fabric over his chest, reflexively hunching in on himself a bit and adjusting his shirt out of habit. He looks to Techno, "he said I could wear it—", then to Phil, "Can we.. eat in the living room?"
Wilbur looks confused, but Techno just shrugs. "I don't see why not." Phil answers.
Nobody says anything when Phil grabs a heating pad and plugs it in for Tommy to lay over his stomach, or when he gets the boy pain meds and tea to go along with it. Tommy leans into Phil as they eat, Wilbur to his left and Techno at Phil's feet as they watch some movie Wilbur picked. His dad made Tommy eat despite him not really having an appetite from the pain, and held him close patiently as the boy explained what happened at school. He explained how he didn't mean to skip, he was just really upset for.. one reason or another, and couldn't go to class because he was crying.
"I'm sorry, it won't happen again." Tommy says a bit sheepish, but overall feeling much better between the heat radiating onto him and the meds, the tea and added pleasure.
"Hey, that's alright kiddo. You'll never be in trouble for being upset." his dad says, tucking a curly strand of blonde hair behind Tommy's right ear. Tommy can't help the way the corners of his lips pull just the slightest bit, smiles softly at how kind his family is to him, even after everything.
"You.. know you can talk to us, Toms." Techno says stealing a brief glance at him, and he sounds hesitant, as if he isn't sure if it's his place to speak in the moment—
isn’t an emotional person but he tries. It catches Tommy by surprise, and then Wilbur agrees, and something warm settles itself into the cavity of Tommy's chest.
"I— I know. Thanks guys." Tommy says, cheeks warm and body feeling a bit lighter with each passing second. With his family, with their support, things feel so much easier, as if even though they might not know the extent of his worse thoughts, his sometimes rather harrowing mind, they know how to take some of the weight off his shoulders and it's so, so relieving; even if they might not know the extent they help him.
"We love you Toms. If you— y'know, feel bad," Phil says, and Tommy thinks they all know what he means— isn't sure how he feels about that but it's okay, "you can tell us. We're here for you, and we love you a lot."
"I—" Tommy purses his lips, eyes suddenly welling up again. They know he doesn't like talking about having his period or a lot of things revolving who he used to be— no, used to present as, and they respect that and there's something so undeniably amiable, gentle, kind about that. Tommy couldn't appreciate it, or them more. "I love you too."
Tommy isn't sure when or if he'll ever be more open about this part of himself. It's nice to know he has people to fall back on, though, for if he ever does decide he needs to talk about it. They accept him for who he is and have never once questioned him, and it's... it's nice. It's more than nice— it's lovely, and Tommy doesn't know what he's ever done to deserve them. They've always been supportive of him, and honestly, he doesn't think he'd be here today without them.
Yes, it's lovely, Tommy muses, to have people there to accept him, even when he struggles, even when he forgets how to accept himself.
They spend the rest of the night watching movies (mostly) snuggled up together, and Tommy has never felt so warm between the heating pad and his family at both his sides. It's nice to be able to breathe easily, and not feel like his insides are being carved out for a change.
It's in moments like this that Tommy doesn't know what he'd do without his family, and simply having them at his side (figuratively and literally) is more than he could ever ask for.