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He stands in front of his fourth period teachers door, and regrets everything that’s led him to this present moment.
He kind of wants to run. His hands are sweating, heart pounding under his skin. He feels a little bit dizzy, whether from the stress or from not eating lunch, it’s anyone’s guess. That’s what he gets for skipping out on the school's sketchy pizza. Better lightheadedness than food poisoning, he’s not even sure that pizza is edible.
He shifts nervously from foot to foot, fingers playing with the sleeve of his shirt. It wasn’t too late to back out, really. He could just turn and take off down the hall, hell, he could probably still catch the bus if he ran fast enough!
...But then Tubbo would ask him about it on the bus. And he’d have to tell his best friend he was too much of a coward to ask in the first place.
Yeah. Bad plan. Scratch that plan. He’d have to just suck it up. Like a man. Be a man.
He just has to be nice, he can be nice! All he has to do is ask her for a letter of recommendation. He’s already asked his other teachers, who liked him considerably less, so this should be a walk in the park. Easy peasy. He just has to be nice and polite, and keep his big fucking mouth in check just long enough to ask her and get out.
Easy. No backing out now.
He grits his teeth and knocks on the door.
There’s the soft clicking of heels, then the door swings in, revealing his teacher, Mrs. Bryson, on the other side. She blinks at him in confusion for a few moments before gesturing him in with a smile. “Tommy! What can I do for you?”
He follows her inside, taking the time to jam his hands in his pockets and swallow. This is it. The big one. He just needs this last one, one last request for a recommendation letter. Fuck.
Mrs. Bryson is his favorite teacher. A sweet, middle aged woman who clearly loves her job. The only teacher that can make him actually pay attention to Shakespeare. She’d always been nice to him, too, letting him turn in things late and not blinking when he ended up spending more time in the detention room than any other of her students. She just dropped his work off with a smile and a wave.
Somehow, though, this was the hardest. Maybe it’s because he actually liked her, unlike his other teachers. If she wrote him a letter of recommendation, it would actually mean something.
She’s still looking at him, waiting patiently for a response. He takes a shaky breath, then opens his mouth, and the words come out in a nervous rush. “S-so I’ve been trying to apply to this college program over the summer.”
“Oh. Oh!” It takes her by surprise, that much is clear, but her bland, customer-service smile doesn’t give much away. “Yes, the one Tubbo’s applying to, I assume?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s. That’s the one. And I, uh, need three letters of recommendation to apply, so…”
He trails off lamely, palms sweating. God, why is this so hard?! But, she nods slowly, seeming to understand what he means. “Right.”
“...Right.”
There’s a pause.
Then, she drifts over to her desk and laptop. The keys click softly as she logs in and pulls up whatever she needs on the screen. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying very hard to be still and not to scream. Holy fucking shit why was this so stressful? The others weren’t even half this stressful, and Mrs. Atkinson had pretty much called him delusional for asking to his face-
“Well, Tommy. I’ve got your transcript pulled up here…”
Andddd there it is. The catch.
He snaps back to her when she talks, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze is locked on the screen as she reads, lips pursed. Oh god. He’s not liking that expression. Fuck fuck fuck.
“...Hmm.” She mutters, clicking her mouse. “Uh huh.”
He sweats.
“Well you see, Tommy…” She starts, but his head fills with static.
He knows that tone of voice. He knows it like the back of his fucking hand. That pitiful, sorry about this, but you’re just not good enough tone of voice he’s heard from teachers and social workers all his life. Well you see, Tommy, I can’t let you pass this class with those grades. Well you see Tommy, you can’t go on this field trip, you’ve been suspended twice. Well you see, Tommy, you’re just not a good fit for this family. Well you see, Tommy-
“...Probably best to consider another option. Have you thought about community college?”
He blinks, then croaks, “...Can you repeat that?”
She smiles at him, but her eyes are full of pity. The sight makes his skin crawl. “I said that I will do my best with the recommendation letter, but I’m not sure it’ll be possible with your current grades. I’ll have to email you back.”
He swallows. “Right.”
“In the meantime,” she closes her laptop, folding her hands as she looks at him in a way that’s eerily similar to his therapist. “Have you thought about community college? With your current GPA, it might be your best option.”
He blinks at her, desperately fighting the urge to scream. Community college? Seriously? What the hell does she mean by best option?! Look, he may not have a 4.0 GPA but he’s not a fucking idiot. Even he knows he can do better than this town's shitty community college.
“...Sure.”
She stands then, ushering him to the door with a hand on his shoulder and the same bland smile plastered across her face like tacky lipstick. “Just think about it will you?”
He nods weakly. “I will.”
“Wonderful!”
She pats his shoulder as he brushes past her and out into the hall. “Have someone pick you up, it’s raining pretty hard. I’ll see you Monday!”
He nods again, and leaves as quick as his shaking legs will let him.
She’ll email him, he assures himself. She’ll change her mind. He’s been good in her class these last couple weeks, only gotten detention once! He got a ninety-five on the test they had the other day! So what if his GPA isnt great, he’s been trying his fucking hardest, goddamn it!
Breathe, Tommy.
She’d email him. She’d recommend him. He wouldn’t be going to some shitty, barely-standing community college. He might not be getting into the same fancy place this program is at, sure, but he knows he’s better than that. He can do better than that.
He walks the long way home, and by the time he gets to the front door, rain has soaked all the way through his favorite hoodie and drenches the shirt underneath. Phil had spent ten minutes fussing over him, sending Wilbur to fetch him some warm clothes and ushering him into the shower, in the meantime.
He’d barely even felt the cold, only realizing how bad he was shivering when his hands slipped and he dropped his shampoo bottle on his foot. He barely felt the pain then, either.
She’d email him. She had to.
-
The text message stares up at him from his cracked, locked phone screen.
Tubbo: Ehat did they say?
He wants to throw his phone across the room until the screen shatters completely. He wants to scream. He wants to break down in tears.
He gives his head a firm shake, no, no. He was not going down that road. He was better than that! This wasn’t anything worth crying about, really. It’s his own fault anyways, there’s no point in whining about it now. The best he can do is just… Cross his fingers and hope. Maybe he’d get lucky!
He turns back to his computer, the screen nearly blinding in the darkness of his room. He has his school email in another tab, and it’s been taunting him ever since he got home from school. He hadn’t checked it all day, just sort of… Left it there. Like if he ignores hard enough it the whole problem will just go away and he won’t have to worry about it anymore.
Except…
He already got permission from Phil to go. Hell, the man himself had been leaning over his shoulder the other day as he filled out the online application. Techno had been on his other side, pushing his glasses up his nose and correcting his word choice as Wilbur cackled from his seat on the kitchen table.
They’d all been so excited when he’d told them he wanted to apply for the same program as Tubbo. He hadn’t even gotten accepted yet and Wilbur was already bothering him about what he was going to pack, even though he wouldn’t be leaving for another three months.
If he got accepted.
It wasn’t like he’d actually be going to the stupid collage. It was just some dumb summer program. Go to the campus for a week, take two “classes”, and get toured around by a bunch of huffy administrators. Blah, blah, blah, get to know the campus, blah, blah, blah, scholarship opportunity, he had just skimmed through the website.
He wouldn’t have done this if not for Tubbo. Hell, he’d never even have considered it if not for the look in his eyes as he told him all about it last week.
Apparently, if you applied with a friend, you’d get a discount on the application fee. Tubbo turned those big brown eyes on him, and he’d folded like a stack of fucking cards.
It was just. Ugh.
It’s so hard to imagine a kid like him in a place like that.
When he thinks of that stupid collage with its pristine white buildings and perfectly trimmed grass, he thinks of stuffy rich kids and their perfectly pressed school uniforms, of that stupid, haughty laugh they all seem to have. The kind of kids that stared at him like he was stupid when he asked for the answer on a math quiz he wasn’t prepared for, and had never scored lower than a 95 on any test they’ve ever taken. The kind of kids that looked the other way when they saw him getting pushed around in the hallways.
He’ll stick out like a sore thumb, he just knows. Tubbo can clean up pretty nice when he puts his mind to it, but him? Ha.
He’s scrawny, all legs, and covered in enough scrapes and bruises that Tubbo, Wilbur and Techno keep boxes of bandaids in their backpacks specifically for him. He can’t keep his big mouth shut for anything, and staying still for longer than a few seconds is torture.
Not to mention his track record, which is pretty fuckimg extensive and not pretty to look at.
But still. Still.
He already told Tubbo he’d at least try.
He worked his ass off over the last month to get his grades up. Pulled out all the stops, did all the extra credit work he could get his hands on, turned in the late work that had been sitting by his desk for weeks. Actually studied for the tests, for once, and manages to scrape by with actually pretty decent grades.
He’d filled out the application himself, with only a little bit of help from Phil and his brothers. He’d gotten all his transcripts and test scores in order, written the stupid five hundred word essay on why he wanted to apply, which he had pulled out of his ass on the spot with only some prodding and editing from Technoblade.
After all that work, all that effort, he barely met the requirements. And, he still wasn’t finished.
Letters of recommendation.
He needed at least two, but he knew for a fact that Tubbo had sent in no less than five. It was easy for him, he barely got into fights and every teacher he’s ever had liked him atleast a little.
“A pleasure to have in class,” they probably read. “Set up for a great future. Would be better off if he wasn’t friends with Tommy Watson.”
Probably.
Fuck ‘em, anyways. There’s nothing in all of the fucking world that could keep them apart for long.
So, he’d gone up to pretty much every single teacher he’s had in highschool that he hadn’t cussed out or otherwise pissed off to much to make it not worth the effort, which turned out to be like, six, and asked for a stupid recommendation letter.
He’s a little ashamed to say that he begged.
He’s not that kind of person, he’s just, not. He has standards, goddammit, and a reputation. He’s Tommy Danger Careful Kraken Innit Watson, for fucks sake, he doesn’t beg. He demands, like a fucking man.
But, for Tubbo, he’d swallowed his pride just this once, despite every inch of him screaming not too.
He’d been civil, perfectly polite. He didn’t even cuss! And he thinks he made some pretty good points. He may not have the highest test scores, but he works hard! Sitting still for that long is just… difficult, and his memory has always been shit. Normally, his grades would make up for the bad test scores, but he couldn't just get normal, average test scores like everyone else, no. For this program, he needed to have the best test scores, smart people test scores, and he’d done it! Sure, it had taken a few all nighters, but still!
Surely they could see that.
Surely.
Hopefully.
They hadn’t looked too impressed. The first five teachers all looking down their noses at him with pursed lips, but still. He had the grades to back him up, all printed out in his unofficial transcript, and they’d all agreed to, “see what they can do,” which is almost a yes.
Mrs. Bryson had agreed to at least think about it, and she liked him more than most of the other teachers, so if nothing else, he’d have at least one.
...Right? Right.
The email app on his computer taunts him. It’s been taunting him all day. He has until the day after tomorrow to submit the application, meaning he’d waited until the last possible moment to see if he had gotten the recommendation letters at all, in typical Tommy fashion. Still, he had some time to try and change their minds, if they didn’t send him the letters he needed.
Which they obviously did. They’d be there. He’d have them.
Because if he didn’t have them, he wouldn’t be able to go. Tubbo would have to go to some big stuffy collage program all on his own, and he’d have to look his best friend in the eye and say, “yeah, sorry I couldn’t go with you all my teachers think I’m too much of a fucking screw up to recommend me,” and-
No! That’s enough thinking like that. Think positively! Positive thoughts!
He’d get in. He had to get in.
He’d march up to that big, fancy school right next to Tubbo. He’d wear one of those fancy uniforms and stick his tongue out at all the uppity rich kids behind their backs. He’d wow all the professors with just how fucking awesome he is, and he’d get a full-ride scholarship come next fall, because he’s just that cool.
But first he just needed to check his email. He takes a deep breath, and hovers his mouse over the icon. He takes another deep breath, and clicks.
You have three new emails!
Three emails.
He’d asked six teachers, and only three had bothered to email him back. Typical. Still, it was more than the minimum! And Mrs. Bryson liked him, so surely she must have written something really good to make up for it!
Hope flares in his chest, and he’s a little ashamed to say that his hands shake as he clicked on the first email.
-Very sorry, but because of your grades this semester, I just won’t be able to. You might’ve had a better chance of you tried to stay out of fights instead of instigating them-
-some of the worst test scores in your grade level, I apologize but I just can’t recommend you. You can try again next year, if you just work a bit harder-
The email from Mrs. Bryson sticks out like a sore thumb.
-In suspension more hours than you were in class. Considering your grades, lack of attendance and behavior, I’m afraid I can’t recommend you to this University program. Have you thought about applying to the local community college like we discussed in class? They have a program coming up in a couple weeks that I think-
The computer screen cracks nicely against his knuckles.
-
He drags himself to the bathroom to clean up his hand.
There’s a first-aid kit under the sink. A huge, bulky plastic box, packed with just about every kind of first-aid thing you could imagine. It’s a bit hard to get the latch open with his one hood hand shaking so wildly, so he brings it to his mouth and gets it open with his teeth. Good enough.
He tries not to look at himself in the mirror. He really, really tries, but it’s unavoidable. When he sets the freshly opened first-aid kit back on the counter, he looks up for just a second and locks eyes with his reflection.
And then he’s stuck, nausea rising in the back of his throat as he stares at himself in the mirror.
He’s never been a huge fan of the way he looks. The washed-out blue eyes, the ash blonde hair. The crooked angle of his thrice-broken nose, the shape of his ears. The way bruises stuck out on his skin, the way his collar bones jutted out more than they should. More than a year at the Watson household, and he still looks like a fucking wreck.
The fact that he hasn’t gotten a full night's sleep or eaten more than the occasional snack over these past few weeks just made it worse. He’d been too stressed over grades. A load of good that did him, in the end. All those all-nighters for nothing.
His eyes are the worst, angry and sharp. An ugly washed out blue framed in deep purple eye bags. No wonder Phil had fussed over him so much when he’d gotten home from school, he looks like he has two black eyes.
He sighs, ripping his gaze away from the mirror and back to his hand. He tilts it this way and that, examining the damage. Damn, He’s cut himself pretty good, holds the hand over the sink to keep from dripping blood all over the floor. Apparently the universe just has it out for him tonight, because there’s more than one tiny shard of glass lodged in the cut.
Perfect. Just fucking wonderful.
He’d have to get it out. He can’t just leave it, with his luck, it’d be infected by morning. He’s gotten more than one talk from Techno about properly cleaning wounds, and the absolute last thing he needs right now is another lecture. Or to lose the ability to move his fingers. Or to get his hand amputated.
...The lecture would be worse.
He sighs, fumbling with the first aid kit as he pulls out the peroxide and a set of tweezers. He could do this. He could totally do this.
He puts his injured hand in the sink, wincing as he pulls at the torn skin. There are three big chunks of glass, and two smaller ones, that he can see. God knows how many teeny tiny little shards there are that he can’t see. God, this was going to suck.
He grits his teeth, and opens the peroxide with one hand, which is easier said than done. The first step is to clean the wound. Which is going to hurt like a motherfucker.
Better to just get it over with. He pours.
He has to bite down hard on the inside of his lip to keep from screaming. Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckFUCK!
It feels like his skin is burning off, and the bubbling caused by the peroxide is not helping to get that image out of his head. He has to tilt his hand this way and that to make sure every little cut is covered, and the pain is agonizing. Like a hundred little bee stings all at once. Or accidentally burning yourself on the stove accept it’s his whole fucking hand.
Finally, finally, he’s finished, and can put the bottle aside. He can’t bite back the whimper that escapes his lips when he looks over his mangled knuckles again, the skin split and torn where the glass is sticking out. Fucking gross.
And, because this night can’t get any worse, his eyes well up with tears. Fuck. Shit. Godamnnit.
He tries to furiously blink them back, but that just makes it worse. Another pathetic whimper slips past his lips, and he shoves his undamaged hand in his mouth to try and stifle the noise, but now that the sobs have started coming they won’t stop. His hands shake too badly to pick up the tweezers and pull out the glass, and his vision is blurry with the tears just just keep coming and goddammit! Fuck! Can’t he do this one thing right?!
He collapses on the closed toilet lid, pulls his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in his uninjured hand. He tries to choke back the sobs, but it’s no use.
That’s just it, isn’t it? He’s a failure. He worked so hard, so fucking hard! He spent hours studying for every test, revising his notes and going through flash cards. He turned in every late assignment, stayed after school at every opportunity for the extra credit points. He walked the long way to every class to keep from running into the same jerks that like to push him into lockers and trip him in the halls.
He stayed up until three am some nights studying. He skipped meals to cram in more time to go over his notes. He did absolutely everything he could.
And it just. Wasn’t good enough.
Not because he wasn’t smart enough, no, it was just because of him . Because he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Because he kept getting into fights. Because he can’t take insults lying down and would rather go home with a black eye and two days suspension than let them get away with talking about his brothers, his family, like the way they do.
He was too loud. To crass. Too much of a fucking spaz to sit still during tests. Too much of a fucking idiot to remember to turn in things on time.
He was a failure. He’d have to look his best friend in the eyes tomorrow and tell him how much of a fucking failure he was-
There was a knock at the door. “Tommy? Are you okay? I heard a crash.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
He freezes in place, head whipped around to face the door. He’s sure he looks like a wreck, tears and snot running down his face, hand still bleeding sluggishly all over the tile floor.
He can’t let Wilbur see him like this. He just. Can’t.
But still, a part of him wants too. A part of him wants to jump up and throw the door open, to collapse in his big brother's arms. Wilbur and Techno always had a way of making him feel better just by being in the same room. He’d run his hands through his hair and bandage his hands, and there’s a part of him that wants that so bad it aches.
A larger part, though, whispers that he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a failure. After all that help filling out applications, he still failed.
“I-I’m fine!” He shouts back through the door, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I j-just, stubbed my toe, is all! I’m good!
The doorknob jiggles. “Tommy there’s blood on the carpet. Open the door. Now.”
FUCK.
There’s no getting around it, now. If he didn’t open the door Wilbur would either bust it down himself or go wake up Phil, neither of which having good outcomes. He’d have to open the stupid door.
He sniffles, furiously wiping his face on his hoodie sleeve and looking over his hand. Maybe he could hide it? Just… Shove it in his pocket or something so Wilbur wouldn’t notice?
He looks down at his blood-soaked hand, rivets of crimson still dripping down his arm, and winces. Yeah, that would be a no.
The doorknob jiggles again, “Tommy-“
“I’m coming!” He snaps back, looking wildly around the bathroom. He nearly slips on a tiny puddle of blood and curses. Fuck, there’s no way he’d be able to clean this all up in time. “Jesus, Wil, just hold on for a second, wouldja?”
Wilbur goes quiet, and he takes the opportunity to grab as much toilet paper as he can and furiously scrub at the spot he made on the floor when he was just standing around like an idiot . It gets off some of the blood, sure, but what little doesn’t come off just smears and oh fuck if Wilbur doesn’t kill him first Phil definitely would, those stains aren’t coming out any time soon.
He tosses the blood-soaked toilet paper in the trash just in time for Wilbur to start counting, “One, Two, Three,” and spins around, throwing the door open just as he finishes, “three.”
They stare at each other, for a beat. Wilbur looking like he’d just woken up, dressed in a shitty band-tee and sweats, complete with awful bed head, and Tommy panting like he’d just one a marathon. The right sleeve of his grey hoodie is pretty much soaked in blood by now, still dripping lazily on the bathroom floor, his face washed out and smudged with tears.
He must have looked absolutely awful, because after the beat of wide-eyed staring had passed, the first thing his brother said was, “Oh, Toms.”
He bristles, opening his mouth to snap back, but Wilbur’s moving before he can. He looks a bit like he’s about to go for a hug, but then he catches sight of the blood dripping from his busted hand and his dark brown eyes go wide. Suddenly, he’s tugging him over tilting his head this way and that, pulling at his hands as he looks for injuries, no matter how much Tommy tries to bat his hands away. Fucking prick-
“Jesus christ.” He hisses in sympathy, moving his hand this way and that as he inspects the nasty cuts on his knuckles. “What did you do?”
“...None of your business.” He hisses, yanking his hand back to his chest. Geez, hasn’t he heard of a thing called personal space? Wilbur purses his lips unhappily and yanks him back into the bathroom by his arm.
No getting out of it now that Wilbur’s gone all protective older brother on him. Fuck. this.
He sits him down on the closed toilet seat with a firm press on his shoulders, Wilbur crouching in front of him as he looks at his hand in better lighting. He can’t find it in him to meet his brother's gaze when he’s looking at him, all worried and shit. Guilt stirs in his stomach, and follows his fingers as he moves and prods at the hand, wincing when he gets too close to an open cut or embedded piece of glass. It’s a good enough distraction.
Wilbur whistles, lowly. “You fucked yourself up pretty good. We might have to take you to the hospital to get stitches.”
He scowls, staring determinedly at a tiny rip on his hoodie sleeve as Wilbur pulls out the bandages. God, he fucking hates hospitals. The sharp, clinical smells, the bright lights and stuck up doctors. The absolute last thing he needs right now is to deal with having to go to the ER at three in the morning.
“Can’t you just do it?” He complains, and he can feel the sharp look his brother gives him as he works.
“I’m not giving you stitches, Tommy.” He snaps.
Tommy flinches back instinctively at the sharpness of his tone, shoulders scrunching up around his neck as he stares at the floor.
God, what a fucking mess. Why couldn’t Wilbur have just minded his own business? He could have done this on his own, thank you very much, and then he wouldn’t feel so guilty. Can’t even fix his own fucking problems without having have his brothers do it for him, huh? What a baby.
Wilbur takes his time pulling out the shards of glass.
They’re a lot smaller sitting innocently on the edge of the sink than they looked embedded in his knuckles. Once the blood has been wiped away, the cuts don’t look half as bad, either, and he can feel his brother relax at the sight. He must have just cut a vein or something, they weren’t nearly as deep as they looked before.
His long, guitar-calloused fingers shake slightly as he wraps up his hand, and he swallows back the guilt he feels at the sight. “...I’ll have Phil drive you to Urgent Care in the morning to get this looked at. Seriously, Tommy, what the hell?”
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, voice pathetically soft.
Wilbur sighs, and he flinches again.
He finishes wrapping up his hand, but he doesn’t let Tommy pull it back and hide it in his hoodie pocket just yet. He plays with his fingers almost absentmindedly, and he hates how small and ugly his hand looks dwarfed in his brothers. How the scars across his fingers stick out on his pale skin, remients from past fights and a lifetime of bloody knuckles and untreated scrapes. Compared to Wilbur’s long, slender fingers his hands look like a five year old.
He rubs his thumb soothingly over the bandages, and he hates the way it makes his chest feel all warm. “...No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.
Tommy’s gaze flicks up, against his will. Wilbur’s face isn’t angry, though, he doesn’t look upset or disappointed, even though he has every right to be. There’s concern in the tiny scrunch between his eyebrows, sure, but his brown eyes are as warm as ever.
When he catches Tommy looking at him, he even smiles, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You just scared me a bit, s’all. Let’s get you back to bed, yeah? We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
For a few moments, all he does is blink.
...Let’s backtrack here a bit. He broke his computer, yelled at him, wouldn’t let him in the bathroom, made him clean up his hands, made him worry, and Wilbur… Isn't mad? Not even a little? He even apologized when he snapped back, even though Tommy definitely deserved that.
There’s a part of him that almost wants him to be mad. Anger is familiar, disappointment is familiar, no matter how awful it feels, but this? This weird concern he has? It’s uncharted territory. A year in the Watson household, and legitimate concern still makes his skin crawl, even after having his brothers fawning over him all year. Now that’s pathetic, truly.
He should be angry, but he’s not. He should be disappointed, but he’s not. He’s concerned, instead, like a fucking idiot.
“Tommy? Are you okay-“
“I punched my computer.” He blurts out, startling the both of them.
It bursts out of him before he can choke it back, and he slams a hand over his mouth too late. Him and his fucking big mouth-
Wilbur blinks at him, bewildered. “What? Why?”
“I can’t apply.” That, too, comes out of him in a rush of tangled words. To his absolute horror, once he starts talking, he can’t stop. “I need two letters of recommendation to apply to the stupid program and I can’t even get one because none of my teachers will recommend me because they all think-“
They think I’m a failure. They think I’m a mess. I’m too loud, I’m too mean, I’m too dumb, I’m not smart enough, I’m not nice enough, I can’t keep my mouth shut, I can’t sit still, I’m fucking broken and they all know it.
“I’m sorry, Tommy, but I just can’t recommend you.”
Is what the emails read, sure, but it’s pretty fucking clear what they actually meant was-
“I’m sorry, Tommy, but because of how much of a fucking train wreck you are, I can’t say two good words about you for this stupid collage program. Maybe your better off at some trashy community collage, it’s where kids like you belong anyways. We both know you’re not good enough for a place like that.”
He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.
Why can’t he fucking breathe?!
“Shh, Toms. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Wilbur?
His chest stutters. He tries to force in another breath, but his throat closes up. God. Is he dying? He can’t breathe, he can’t move he can’t hecanthecant-
“-Panic attack, should I wake up Phil.”
“No, I think he’ll be fine. Tommy, Tommy. You can hear me, right?”
There are hands on his shoulders. Gentle, familiar. They guide his face into someone’s shoulder, and he slumps against the chest of the person in front of him. They don’t smell like vanilla, not like Wilbur’s body wash, and a sick part of him is relieved .
He doesn’t want his brother to see how much of a fucking failure he is, can’t even breathe right-
Their chest rises and falls slowly, and he finds himself trying his best to copy it. He’s lightheaded, the chest he’s slumped against and arm right around the back of his shoulders the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely. He needs to breathe.
“That’s it.” A deep voice rumbles, he feels it against this cheek more than he hears it.” Just follow my breathing, alright? You’re okay.”
He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.
His throat opens slowly, and he could cry with relief as the pressure in his chest eases. The arms around him are warm and gentle, the body he's pressed against even more so. He takes in a deep breath of leather and strawberry shampoo, and feels himself relax.
Wait a minute.
He forces his eyes open, and he freezes.
Wilbur is sitting across from him, back against the bathroom door. His face is stark-white, eyes wide and horrified. When he catches Tommy’s gaze, he slumps with relief, glasses nearly falling off of his nose. “He’s awake, Tech.”
The chest behind him shifts, the arm over his back loosening its grip. “Back in the land of the living, ‘eh?”
Oh, fuck him.
“Wha-“ He tries to ask, but his voice won’t cooperate. Fuck.
His limbs shake when he tries to pull himself out of Technoblade’s lap, and he gives up halfway, resigning himself to his fate. He’s too fucking exhausted , goddamn it. He feels like he got run over by a truck. He can beat himself up over how selfish he is in the morning.
Techno chuckles, his chest rumbling against Tommy’s cheek, chuf-chuf-chuf. “I think he’s still pretty out of it, Wil.”
“Makes sense.” Wilbur agrees. “Jesus, Tech. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him have a panic attack that bad.”
Techno hums. “Any idea what it was about?”
And Tommy stops breathing.
He goes completely and utterly still in his brother's arms, screwing his eyes shut as he buries his face in Technoblade’s chest. He can’t know, he can’t. He can’t know that after all that help, after all that work, he can’t know that he’s just a-
“Easy, Tommy.” Technoblade murmurs in his ear. “It’s alright, we’re not mad. You’re not in trouble. It’s okay.”
A whimper slips through his teeth without his permission, and the hands once pulled tight to his chest clench around his brother’s shirt.
He wants to tell him.
He can fix it. Technoblade can fix anything, he’s just that cool. He fixed his bike and Wilbur’s glasses, reset his broken nose twice . When that ugly senior with the shitty haircut used to harass him and Tubbo on the way to school and bruised two of his ribs, Techno sent him packing with two black eyes and a broken collar bone. Wilbur’s better with words, sure, but Techno? The guy can fix anything.
The opposite of Tommy, who ruins everything he touches.
It’s selfish, another part of him hisses, but he stomps it out. So what if he’s being selfish? He is selfish, goddamn it. He’s tired, and he’s upset, his injured hand hurts, his chest still feels too tight, his head is too loud, and he just wants to feel okay.
There’s a very, very small part of him that sobs. A part of him that wants his big brothers to hold him close and never let go. A kid who was never hugged enough, who’s cuts and bruises were never covered in band-aids and kissed all better. A kid who learned how to find comfort in anger, because at least that was familiar. The part of him he always buried deep, deep down and ignored, because that was what was safer. Even now, because as nice as the Watsons are, you can’t fix sixteen years worth of trauma in a year and half.
Just for now, though, just for now, He wants to listen. He wants to feel better.
“...I can’t apply for the program.” He whispers against Techno’s collarbone.
There’s a pause.
“...That’s it?”
“Technoblade!” Wilbur hisses, and there’s a thump as he whacks his brother over the head with the palm of his head. “He’s upset!”
“That’s it?” What the hell does he mean, “Thats it?!”
There’s a scuffle as Wilbur pressed himself up against Techno’s left side, running his hand up and down Tommy’s back, but he’s miles away.
What the fuck does “that’s it?” Mean???
“Y-you helped me study,” he blubbers into his shirt, probably getting it all gross with tears and snot but he doesn’t even care because he’s fucking confused and tired and miserable and all the words he’s been wanting to say just bubble out of him like tears . “You spent all that time and I s-still can’t even apply because my teachers won’t recommend me-“
He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut as hot tears pour down his face. The emails . God, he doesn’t even want to think about the emails. He wants to forget that he ever read them in the first place, but the words burn themselves into the backs of his eyelids.
“Very sorry, but because of your grades-“
“-better chance of you tried to stay out of fights-“
“-some of the worst test scores in your grade level-“
“-if you just work a bit harder-“
There are hands in his hair, cradling the back of his head, brushing over his shoulders. Wilbur is pressed almost completely against his left side, Techno’s arms still looped around his back.
“Easy, easy, Toms,” Wilbur coos at him, fingers rubbing circles on the backs of his shoulders. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
He’s okay. He’s okay.
He takes a deep, shaking breath, and the chest underneath him moves in time. It’s easy to sync his breathing when he’s practically lying on top of him.
He risks a glance up. Techno is looking at him glasses perched on the tip of his nose. His bubblegum pink hair is a mess, doing it’s absolute best to escape the messy ponytail it’s pulled back into. The hoodie he’s wearing his old and fraying, but it’s soft under Tommy’s hands. He grins, just a little, his eyes tired and the softest he’d ever seen them.
“Oh, Tommy.” Wilbur sighs from next to him, and he risks a glance over.
He looks the way he had before, tired, a bit like he did after he accidentally hit a deer with his bike. His hair is sticking out all over the place, glasses sitting crooked, but his face is gentle, voice hopelessly soft as he reaches for Tommy.
“Is that why you were so upset?” He asks, Tommy leaning into his hand as he talks. “Did you think we’d be mad at you for not being able to apply?”
Slowly, he nods.
The arm around his shoulders tightens, and Wilbur shuffles closer. The tiny upstairs bathroom wasn’t the best place for a group hug on the floor, but they made it work. Wilbur and Techno both looping arms around him, Wilbur’s cheek pressed to his while his oldest brother tucks him under his chin.
“We’re proud of you.” Techno murmurs into his hair, his chest rumbling with the words, and he can feel Wilbur nod in agreement
They’re… Proud of him. Proud? Of him?
If he could cry anymore, he would have bursted into sobs again at the words. They’re proud of him. He didn’t even apply to get in, and his brothers are proud of him.
He's warm. He's safe. For the first time in years, he had people who were proud of him.
“So you're not disappointed?” He just has to ask, voice small. “That I didn’t?”
That I wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t good enough. Too loud, to brash, not a good, quiet, polite kid like Tubbo. Not well-behaved and smart like those stuck up university kids.
That I’m me. Just me, and nothing else.
There’s a pause, both of his brothers freezing, grips tightening around his back just a fraction. For just a second, he’s worried he’s said the wrong thing, and opens his mouth to back track, but then, Wilbur pulls back, just a little. Just enough to meet Tommy’s gaze. There’s no anger. No disappointment, just warmth, and he goes weak with the relief.
“ Tommy ” Wilbur hums, brushing his thumb over his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into the touch. “You worked so hard. How could we ever be disappointed in you?”
And, For the… Third? Fourth? Whateverth time that night, he feels himself break.
He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t think he can anymore, but he does feel himself go limp. Another pathetic sound slips past his teeth, the sound a kicked puppy makes, and Wilbur and Techno waste no time in fussing over him. On his left, Wilbur coos, running his hands through his hair and humming as he presses himself as close as he can get to his brothers without also being in Techno’s lap.
Techno rests the side of his face on the top of his head instead of just his chin, shifting so Tommy can do his absolute best to climb inside of his ribcage. His hands are warm and steady on his back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles, and it’s easy for him to match his breathing as his chest rises and falls.
He breaks, but it’s okay. This time, he has both of his brothers with him, and they don’t mind catching all the pieces.
They’re not disappointed in him. They're proud of him. That’s all that matters.
It’s all that matters.