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one: field trip
Tommy measured his breath. It was just a slip of yellow paper with big text, blaring about some field trip or other that tied into a science unit. He might've made a joke about how it was just to get the kids off the teacher's back about wanting a field trip if he wasn't nervous as hell just reading it.
Field Trip to a Nature Preserve! Chaperones needed, bullshit, bullshit, something, something, parents sign here. School not responsible for injury- nothing important.
The backside of the sheet was worse, and was just what he hated to read.
Students will be required to walk and stand most of the day. Benches and rest spots will not be available apart from lunch tables. Students must carry all belongings with them for the entire trip.
Tommy sighed through his teeth. Maybe there was an inkling of a chance that he might wake up that day, perfectly cured of an incurable condition, legs working perfectly and with no pain. Well, at least that was more likely to happen than his father not get a call home about how he should really consider letting Tommy stay home that day. Whatever. It didn't fucking matter. It was just the one fun break of the year where he'd get to spend a day looking at bugs and talking to his friends with no semblance of schoolwork to mix in.
As if only to taunt him, Tommy's wrist pulsed with a sudden pain, causing him to drop the yellow sheet and it to drift down to the floor. He set his jaw, ignoring the way his wrist burned, shifting and stretching to reach the paper, only for his shoulder to give up, too, deciding it no longer cared to support the weight of his arm, and shocking him with another sudden bout of dull pain. He hissed, grabbing it back and cradling it to his chest with the arm that hadn't decided to fuck him over yet. One of Tommy's tablemates reached over and grabbed the page for him, setting it on his desk and offering an awfully pitiful smile.
"I don't guess this is one you can go on?" Tubbo asked, keeping that awkward smile of his and tapping his fingers on the desk.
"I don't care if I can, I'll do whatever the fuck I want," Tommy muttered, resting his elbow on the table to remove some of the strain from his still-protesting shoulder. "The assholes who chose the field trip are smart enough to get into education; they're smart enough to find a way for me to participate."
"Watch your language," called the teacher. "I don't want to call your dad again."
Tommy spat out a slightly softer curse at that, settling to running his pain-free hand across the smooth desk surface.
"Cane, crutches maybe?" Tubbo suggested.
"Yeah, maybe, but I just have to place my bets that my body won't choose too much vengeance that day," Tommy mused. "I'm gonna fucken' try 'til I can't, though. Nobody can tell me what to do."
Upon arriving home, Tommy slammed the page down in front of Phil, demanding a signature with lots of promises to be careful, not to strain himself, to tell somebody if he needs a break, unimportant shit that will never matter, ever. Eventually, after a lot of bargaining, he does get it signed. He stuffed it into the depths of his backpack.
If he overheard bits and pieces of a call telling his dad that he shouldn't go, he ignored it. After all, nobody could tell him what to do. Nobody, not even his bitchass body.
On the day, he held his child-sized cane close to him at all times, as if afraid to let his only support stray from him. Tommy repeatedly tugged on the straps of the little bag that held his lunch, water, and painkillers, trying to ignore the unease in his chest. It was just nervous anticipation, he repeated to himself. Only that, nothing else. Tubbo and Ranboo stood at either side of him, almost protectively, and on any other day, Tommy might've called them clingy or stupid or bitches, but now he couldn't muster the will to be mad.
On the bus, they shoved three to a seat, ignoring the pointed look the teacher sent Tommy's direction, and the poorly concealed pity of parent chaperones. He could hear the cries of poor boy with a cane! How will he ever get around? Who forced him to come? echoing through his skull. It only made his ever-present headache just that bit worse. He just hoped that the teacher hadn't sent out a fucking disclaimer about how being a chaperone might require them to help the wee ole disabled boy. Poor disabled boy, can't ever do anything for himself. Tommy resisted the urge to kick the seat, because as pissed as he was, it wasn't the fault of the girls sitting in front of them (and maybe it also helped that his didn't want to hurt his ankle this early on in the trip).
When the bus screeched to a halt, Tommy and his friends were the last ones off, the blond boy taking great care on the steps down. Because stairs fucking suck. He took a less than graceful final hop onto the concrete sidewalk, but it was easy to put the stares of the other students out of his head. It wasn't malicious, or even necessarily because he was the cane kid. It was probably just because he was one of the last people off. Probably.
The kids were all separated into predetermined groups with chaperones. Tommy decidedly hadn't used the disability card to get his two best friends in his group, but they were anyways, and he ignored that little nagging voice that said that it was because nobody else knew how to deal with him.
There's nothing to be dealt with, he bit back, shaking his head to clear it. He absentmindedly hit the side of his cane against a fence to knock the dirt off of the bottom, watching the broken brown mush tumble to the concrete. A gentle hand on his shoulder reminded Tommy to follow his group, pointedly ignoring the extra stepping noise his third leg made.
At first, all the plants and fish and birds and bugs were really cool. Plaques displayed information about them that the group would pause to read. Tommy may have leaned heavily against the metal fencing, but that was for a better view into the enclosures, nothing else. Birds stared back, deer paused their eating, and bugs flitted and rested next to him. It was nice.
When his worse hip started to bite with every step, he just leaned harder on his cane and gave an annoyed glare when one of his friends dared to look concerned. He took to relaying information about the wildlife that everyone had already read about, but nobody mentioned it, instead watching him with great care, as if he was barely holding together. He wasn't even hurting (a lie he'd continue to tell), let alone falling apart at the seams. After all, no matter how bad everything started to hurt, from his ankles to his knees to now even the shoulder and elbow on the side of the cane, he could still walk, and would continue to do so, because not even his bitchass body could tell him what to do.
Aaaand, maybe it could. Tommy felt the telltale tingling and swaying, and his vision blotting with spots was all it took to confirm it. He gripped his cane with white knuckles, knocking his other fist into the nearest person, who happened to be Ranboo at his side. After alerting the taller boy, Tommy brought a hand to his chest, rubbing his palm across his ribs in some vague hope that it would make his heart calm down. His breath shallowed, and that, combined with his unsteadiness, was enough to get the message across that he needed help, but in his foggy state, he couldn't really put it into a cohesive thought. Luckily, Ranboo guided him to the ground, leaning him against the base that held a plaque about some kind of plant.
Tommy screwed his eyes shut, and the touch that guided him disappeared while his face flushed hot and his fingers' tingling sensation started to fade off. He continued to press at his chest, more of a habit now than anything that really helped, taking slower, deeper breaths in an attempt to calm his heartbeat. He felt a bit sick.
When he found the resolve to look around again, he found Tubbo and Ranboo both sitting beside him, and the chaperone leaning over an enclosure but repeatedly looking back and forth to check on Tommy. At least she hadn't treated him like he was dying, Tommy thought. A water bottle shoved into his face dissuaded Tommy from any urges to just get up and move on with his day.
"Drink shit," Tubbo said. When Tommy had taken the bottle, he started rummaging through Tommy's lunch box, content to find a bag of pretzels. "And eat shit."
"Fuck off, man," Tommy said with little heat, snatching the pretzels. "I was meant to eat that with lunch."
Tubbo gave a pointed stare that all but verbally asked what Phil would say about this. Tommy sighed dramatically and ate one of the pretzels, following it with a swig of his water bottle.
"I doubt you'll even last until lunch," Ranboo commented idly, twiddling his thumbs and staring straight ahead.
"Fuck you, boob boy." Tommy flicked the open bottle in Ranboo's direction, splashing him slightly with the drink. The taller boy just gave an unimpressed stare before returning to watching the trees.
"Alright, let's get going," Tommy eventually said, getting ready to push himself to standing when Tubbo stood in front of him, hands resting on his hips.
"No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?" Tommy hissed, scrunching up his nose.
"I mean you can't," Tubbo pressed stubbornly. "I'll ask the teacher if we can stay at the picnic tables for the rest of the trip, but like hell you get to keep walking around."
I can't.
two: birthday party
It was Tubbo's birthday.
Tommy had a gift and a smile and some joy, just about everything you need for somebody's birthday. The gift was wrapped as well as he could manage, though he was too lazy to find a box to put it in, so the paper clung loosely to fabric and lumped around soft edges of the stuffed bee he'd bought with his own allowance. He knew with confidence that it was perfect, even if it was partially stitched together by the big man himself (before he'd handed it off to his older brother, Techno, to finish, since he knew it looked shitty).
He bounced in his seat as Phil's minivan approached the building where the party was held. Big bright text read Skyrat Skating Rink above two doors set into walls covered in stylized graffiti-like designs. Tommy had never been rollerskating, but he wasn't no puss boy and was more than eager to give it his best shot, and master it immediately.
Inside, he was greeted by an excited Tubbo, who dragged him over to get his skates. Tubbo, of course, was rollerblading instead, because he was cracked. Tommy settled for skates, despite his confident status, because he did, actually, value his tailbone. He wasn't too embarrassed by it, since Ranboo was very unsteady beside him, nearly skidding away despite trying to stand perfectly still.
Once the previous party had cleared out of the rink, Tubbo bladed his way straight onto the smooth surface, spinning on one foot to prove just how skilled he was at the craft. With how much he seemed to enjoy it, Tommy was really surprised he hadn't been invited to skate with Tubbo earlier.
Nonetheless, clutching onto each other's arms, Ranboo and Tommy made their careful way into the rink alongside their friend, near immediately slipping if not for the shaking support of one another. Tubbo just laughed, holding his arms wide and spinning again. Tommy jerkily slid towards the brunet, latching onto his arm and suppressing the instinct to kick him for daring be skilled at anything ever.
Tommy didn't feel bad at all as he skated. Sure, maybe his knees would twinge a bit at a crouch or his jaw would ache from laughing, but that was far from as bad as it could be, gliding around on a slick ring of wood. He could see why his friend enjoyed skating; the air rushing past his face, the little effort it took to send him moving, and the atmosphere the colorful lights and 80's disco music brought to the establishment. He tired quickly, but was more than willing to press on, because, hey, you only turn twelve once.
He eventually managed to get the hang of moving around the rink, able to make laps with only light touches of the wall to steady himself. Tommy made his best effort to catch up to Tubbo, and caught him by surprise, slamming all of the weight into the shorter boy's shoulders and knocking him off-balance, made easier by the rollerblades instead of skates. Tubbo managed to recover and push Tommy back down, who immediately whined about hitting his ass. Tubbo left him there, taking a full glide of the rink before deciding to help him up, since he seemed to be content to lay there and bitch.
(Tubbo was decidedly not scared that he'd hurt Tommy. After all, if he could complain, he was probably fine.
When he'd stood up, Tommy didn't even have a limp. He didn't slow down. He was fine.)
"I'm tired of skating around and picking up your sorry asses," Tubbo said, grabbing Tommy's elbow. "Let's sit down and open the gifts."
Instead of dignifying himself, Ranboo pitifully crawled forward off the rink on hands and knees. He'd clearly fallen down a lot, if the barely formed bruises on his knees were anything to go by. When he wobbled to standing, he gripped the half wall separating the rink from the rest of the building like it would save his life. He scooted slowly to a bench, followed by his audience of two. The three sat down, but only Ranboo was tall enough for his feet to reach the floor, the other two having to settle with the weight of their skates hanging limp in the air.
Tommy was convinced that it was normal for his ankle to feel so stretched by that weight, so he ignored it, latching onto whatever conversation had been started in the few seconds he'd zoned out. Ranboo had shoved a gift into Tubbo's arms, watching as he pulled out excessive amounts of tissue paper to find a silicone duck inside. He tossed it experimentally at the gifter's face, laughing when he had the same look as when a cat was hit with a slice of cheese.
Tommy pulled out his rumpled ball of amalgamate wrapping, knocking the duck out of the way for his clearly better gift, if the size was what to judge it by.
"Alright, this one's better. Best for last, innit?" Tommy patted Ranboo's shoulder a bit aggressively, almost as a challenge.
Tubbo pulled the bee out of the wrapping, inspecting the stitching. "Woah, look, you're appealing to the only personality trait of mine that you remember! Thanks!"
"Of course, as always." Tommy leaned back as far as he could on the bench, kicking out the foot with the stretched ankle, only to wince at a painful pop.
"Shit, not again."
"Fuck, do we need to call Phil?" Tubbo jumped out of his spot, bee plush forgotten, pulling out his phone.
"He's gonna have my head if we don't," Tommy said, scrunching his nose at the feeling of the misplaced joint. He supposed he should've recognized what it felt like to be so close to a dislocation, having gotten at least one severe one each year of his life in addition to numerous partial ones, but that was beside the point. "But don't tell him that I'm putting it back in myself, 'cause he's really gonna be upset about that."
"And you're relocating it yourself, why?" Ranboo asked, ever the realist, supposedly.
"I have more experience with dislocations than a hospital intern," Tommy said seriously. "I've done the little ones myself since they began. I've watched them do this a ton of times, it's fine. I don't need no bitchass doctor who thinks he knows more about me than I do."
He unlaced the skate as quickly as he could without messing with the dislocation too much, feeling a rush of relief he wasn't really expecting when the weight fell off and rolled a few inches away. He braced his hands on his socked foot and rested his knee against his chest before pushing both parts together with a shockingly painful snap. Tommy shook his head out, and despite how often he felt it, he figured he'd never get used to the surprise of relocating something.
"See? It's fine." Tommy gave the ankle an experimental roll before wincing at the remaining pain.
"That's disgusting. I hate that you know how to do that." Ranboo made a face, grabbing back the gifted duck and fidgeting with its body.
"Yeah, whatever, can you just go ask the desk guy if he has ice?" Tommy asked. "I'm sure people get hurt here all the time."
With something helpful to do, the taller looked relieved, dashing off to do what he was assigned while Tommy continued to feel around his tender ankle and comparing it to his uninjured one to make sure he had relocated it properly.
Tubbo's hand dropped to his side, phone in clutch, as he gave Tommy a warning look. "Phil's absolutely going to kill you."
"Did you tell him I put it back? I told you not to," Tommy accused.
"No, you stressed him out." Tubbo slumped onto the bench beside him. "He's not really that mad, just all worried again."
"He shouldn't be, by this point," Tommy pointed out, wrapping his arms around his legs. "You're not really worried, are you?"
"Of course I am," Tubbo said, right as Ranboo returned with ice, that Tommy readily accepted. "I'm never going to not be at least a bit concerned that your foot is in the wrong position."
"I hope you get over that eventually." Tommy sighed, resting his face on his arms. "It's fewer gray hairs before you turn eighteen."
"Can't help it," Tubbo shrugged. "And you know you can, like, opt out of things that will hurt you, right? We won't care. We'll probably just plan something else to do that you can participate in."
"If this is about the party being skating themed, then you've got the wrong idea." Tommy pulled at his sock. "I didn't think it would be a problem, but look where that went. It wasn't even the skating bit, it was the sitting down bit."
"You're like a jack-in-the-box. You pop out of place when we least expect it," Ranboo joked.
Tommy huffed to hide his laughter, moving the ice around a bit. He bit back shedding a few tears at how it hurt, but he really shouldn't, not when he should be used to it, not when it could be worse, not when it didn't really matter anyways. He didn't need anyone's help, since all that was wrong with him just made stuff inconvenient, that's all. The ache in his shoulders was becoming apparent, even through the pulsing of his ankle. He sighed out loud, frustrated with himself for ruining everything again. Nothing was fun when he was around. At least he knew how to relocate a fucking ankle, if nothing else.
Phil burst into the building, scanning the benches wildly for his son, and all but grabbing Tommy like a sack of potatoes. He checked over the injury, running his hands along the joint, before letting his tension out with a sharp exhale.
"Doesn't look dislocated, kid," he said at last, pulling Tommy into a hug.
"Yeah, I know, I put it back," Tommy admitted. "Did I at least do it well?"
Phil jerked backwards, grabbing his foot again, and Tommy bit his cheek through the jolt he felt at the sudden movement. Phil examined the extremity carefully, trying desperately to find a fault with the treatment, but ultimately failing to.
"Surprisingly, you did." Phil patted his knee, pulling a cane out of seemingly thin air, and unfolding it for Tommy to grab. "Sorry, kid, would've brought you something else, but this was all I could grab in a rush."
"'s fine," Tommy mumbled, taking to shaky standing and slowly following Phil towards the entrance, where he only put one shoe on and carried the other in his free hand.
"I hope you know that you're not allowed to skate anymore," Phil commented once they were outside.
"What?" Tommy burst. "Why?"
"The weight of a skate was enough for you to dislocate your ankle," Phil reminded. "There's no way you can try that again."
"I guess," Tommy said slowly.
"And I mean it," Phil repeated sternly. "You can't."
three: dinner
With every grand something-or-other reunion came a meal for some few dozen guests. They were all family, whether found or blood, (though a few of the blood ones Tommy didn't know well at all,) and when there was an event, the house was swamped with people ready to celebrate. This, of course, meant that for dinner, poor Phil needed about all the help he could get. Kristin was busy greeting people and finding them a place to sit, entertaining the aunts and uncles and grandparents, which was honestly harder than the huge meal. Nobody could express how much they appreciated her sacrifice. May she rest in peace; or perhaps just may she learn to survive the onslaught of pointless stories during which the teller gets sidetracked.
Tommy was helping Phil around the kitchen, and while the rest of his family was made to suffer, Technoblade was hiding, as he so tended to do. One of the nosy aunts would eventually remember where the older brother was, however, and all but drag him downstairs with everybody else.
Tommy balanced on his toes to smell what was going in the saucepan. It was, like, brown, or red, or something. It looked edible. It smelled edible. He poked at the lumps with a wooden spoon, and they bobbed under and back up again while the fluid popped around them.
"Uh, what is this?" Tommy asked.
"A family recipe," was all Phil said.
"No, what's the meal called?"
"The Family Favorite." Phil looked over. "Come on, you've had it before, and you liked it."
"Okay, sure, but why are the lumps hard?" Tommy poked at it again, lifting one out to try and tell what it was.
"They're not hard!" Phil glared. "The meat is stewing. It'll soften."
"That's actually just so disgusting," Tommy responded.
"I'm about to kick you out to go entertain your family," Phil threatened.
Tommy held his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry."
"Just go set the table," Phil huffed light-heartedly.
Tommy dashed away, silverware clutched in each fist, setting them down haphazardly at each spot in both tables. After he'd made multiple trips to get more utensils, he returned and straightened them all slightly so he wouldn't get a mutter about how he was a feral little fucker that was raised wrong or whatever it was this time. He returned to the kitchen to grab two plates of Family Favorite at a time, setting them down at each spot. He intentionally selected the most empty plate for himself and the fullest for Tubbo, intending to make his friend experience the family gathering in full. He made a grab at chili flakes when he was back in the kitchen, sprinkling a hearty amount on his friend's meal. Frankly, Tubbo had been a bit of a bitch that day, laying his whole-ass self on top of Tommy while he was trying to play a game. Tommy paused, adding another shake of the flakes for extra power. The guy would simply have to pay for his crimes of self-draping and general bad vibes.
Tommy swung around the doorframe into the living room, calling out a simple "dinner!" to the family. He might normally incorporate a creative placement of 'bitches' or 'ass-faces', but he didn't want the great uncle whose name he'd long forgotten to talk about how he was a delinquent and Phil ought to start raising him right.
People trickled into the kitchen, taking their spots at the crowded tables alongside their nexts-of-kin. Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo, despite being basically, functionally, mature adults, still opted for the plastic kids' table. Techno, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the political chaos in the other room. Tommy guided Tubbo over to the slightly redder plate, even pulling out the chair for him like some kind of little kiss ass. To be fair, he was a kiss ass with a devious plan.
Everyone sat down to eat, and Tommy ducked his head, though keeping an eye trained on Tubbo as he chatted with one of Tommy's cousins neither of them knew. It seemed that Tubbo had no qualms with the ever-suspicious Family Favorite, since he took a large bite of it without hesitation. Tommy followed more tentatively after, and was both pleasantly surprised and not that he enjoyed it. He was determined to pretend he didn't like it out of spite.
Tubbo immediately set his fork down in place of grabbing his water, taking a gulp of it before setting it down. His face had flushed pink and the faintest sheen of sweat made itself visible, though he remained calm and collected. Tommy gave him a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his plastic kiddy chair.
"You-" Tubbo whipped his head around at the toddlers. "I wish I could cuss right now."
"Wow, Tubbo." Tommy shook his head. "Curse words? That's no example for the little kids, is it? Do I need to tell Phil?"
"I didn't even say anything," Tubbo retorted. He took a pointed bite of his food, maintaining intense eye contact. The tip of his nose was a distinctive red.
"Mm, but you wanted to," Tommy responded. "Phil would believe me. I have never lied. Besides, your face is all red and you're sweating. You've gotta be lying."
"You spiced my food!" Tubbo hissed. "Not that that's bad for me. I can handle it extremely well."
"Sure, tell that to Phil. He'll totally get it."
Tubbo groaned in frustration, kicking Tommy's seat a few times extra hard until it scooted along the floor. Tommy just continued to eat his meal with a dirty smirk and a deeply satisfied feeling in his chest.
If only 'deeply satisfied' was the only feeling in his chest.
After he'd finished eating, Tommy pressed his palm into his ribs, wincing as he attempted to ease the burning he felt. It happened a lot, the heartburn after eating, but he could never predict what would cause it. Sometimes it could be the mildest shit, like a banana, and he'd still live to regret it. He occasionally scrunched up his nose, almost to distract himself more than lessen the pain. It wasn't so much that the heartburn particularly bothered him, just that it was so fucking often and he couldn't stop it, plus it just made him feel like he had to fix his diet or something, because surely only eating unhealthy his whole life would cause him to feel that way. (Spoiler: he didn't eat unhealthily. His digestive system was just slightly fucked, like every damn thing else in his body.)
"Oh, fu-uck," he muttered, pushing to his feet and ever-glad that he didn't need to use a cane today. The toddlers at his knees made it hard to navigate already, let alone if he had a little stick that would cause them to cry if they so much as brushed it. He was not in the mood for another fucking relative getting into his damn business about how her son was brutally beaten with his cane or whatever and he should stop being disabled, immediately. At least they acknowledged (kind of) that his problems were, at least momentarily, real, and not something he'd made up or played up for attention. He literally could not make this shit up.
Tommy pushed away the tangent, instead making his way over to the couch while leaning partway on walls and chairs as he went by. He found a spot on the arm of the couch, luckily with the socially-suffering Technoblade as a buffer between him and everybody else. He reclined as comfortably as he could onto the couch back, though that wasn't much, considering, well, couch arms aren't comfortable. Techno spared him a glance, but he didn't linger. He was too wrapped up in a grandparent's story and trying to seem appropriately interested in a completely uninteresting topic. Tommy didn't blame him for what he spent his attention on, but he did kind of want a share of it himself.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, Tommy's stomach clenched in a cramping pain, and he scrunched his nose again, but ultimately ignored it. He didn't care much to avoid foods that made him feel sick, since it felt like they were everywhere and always changing, so he was more used to the sensation than he'd like to be. Though, he supposed, it was leagues better than being unable to walk from pain, so he'd take a win(?) where he could get one.
"Have you come to join us?" Techno said dryly.
"I've come to die," Tommy grumbled. He picked up on a slight 'oh, what a dramatic boy!' and a knee slap from across the living room, but opted to ignore it.
"I hope it's slow," Techno whispered from the side of his mouth and without looking at Tommy.
"I will fucking haunt you," Tommy hissed back. "Don't test me, I will!"
"Join the club. There's a queue," Techno muttered good-naturedly.
"Hey, can you do be a favor, as, like, a last wish or whatever before I pass on?" Tommy asked, leaning his head vaguely in his brother's direction.
"What?"
"Tell Dad I can't have anymore Family Favorite."
four: gaming
If you asked Tommy when he was, say, nine, if he was ever going to be in pain from moving his thumbs slightly, he would've called you a dumbass bitch and told you that was even more farfetched than the idea of being unable to eat a hot dog. Fun fact, Tommy couldn't eat hot dogs sometimes, since his jaw would dislocate.
Yet, here he was, since his foresight was never a gift and nine-year-olds are stupid fuckers with idealistic worldviews. He remembers the distinct thought along the lines of that even if he were unable to do anything, at least he could spend his days playing video games. Young Tommy was such a naive little shit.
He'd left an unfortunate amount of people on read that day. It'd just so happened that everyone had decided to try texting him on the rare day where his thumbs ached from moving slightly across a phone screen, because of course they did. Of course they fucking did.
But that wasn't important, anyways. Tommy's popcorn ceiling was much more interesting to stare at than his phone. He could make constellations that kind of looked like bees and flowers and, like, Ranboo's face maybe if he stared long enough. It was a great way to pass the time when he didn't feel like doing anything.
Movement from outside of his room quickly piqued Tommy's interest, though. His gaze zipped over to the door, as if that would make the cause of the noise reveal itself, before he slowly shifted to sitting up, pausing when he felt his heart rate surge from the slight motion. He breathed through it, waiting until he couldn't feel it full-on pounding anymore before he wobbled to standing. He made his sluggish way to the door, pressing an ear half-heartedly to the wood, hearing a few voices but not quite caring enough to decipher their owners. He turned the knob and peeked blearily out.
"Oh, fuck, I forgot about you," Tommy muttered to himself, stare grazing over Ranboo and Tubbo, the two he'd completely forgotten were coming.
Two heads whipped towards the door, stares owlish and big, startled by his sudden presence.
"I was wondering when you'd get up," Tubbo commented. "It's almost like you'd forgotten about us."
"I did," Tommy snarked ill-temperedly. "And it was wonderful."
"Harsh," Ranboo mumbled.
"I mean, you invited us," Tubbo pointed out. "And I will make it your problem."
"Oh, joy." Tommy brushed past him and into the kitchen, looking for something to eat whose appearance didn't immediately make him feel sick in anticipation. He scanned over multiple fruits and kinds of bread before settling on an apple, rinsing it off as his demeanor was gawked at by both of his friends.
"It's gaming time, gamer boy," Tubbo insisted. "I'm going to beat your ass, no matter what you choose."
"Don't know that I'm exactly up for gaming today, big man," Tommy replied shortly, gritting his teeth when reaching for a dish towel knocked his wrist part of the way out of the socket. He set down the apple and relocated it in a practiced motion before returning to the towel. "Body's not super happy with me at the minute."
"Come on, it's just fingers on buttons," Tubbo complained light-heartedly. "It's not like I'm having you play dance-dance revolution."
"No, but I'm telling you that my hands aren't playing nice today and texting hurts," Tommy retorted. "If I give it a try, will you hop off my dick?"
"Yes! And we'll play Mario Kart or something so it's more like, full-arm movement instead of hands if you want," Tubbo cheered. "You're good with that, right, Boo?"
"Uh-huh, yes." Ranboo glanced up from his phone, which he'd gotten distracted with picking at the casing of.
Tommy took a sharp bite of the apple, taking the opportunity to lead his little band into the living area. He incidentally felt pretty weird being entirely able to walk and perambulate and whatnot, but his hands of all things being what made him reconsider what he could do. He'd almost say he felt invalidated or like some kind of faker, but he didn't, really, as he was so reminded by as little as shifting his grip on the apple. He was long past the stage of pretending it wasn't real or that it didn't affect him, because, honestly, his body could stand to chill the hell out sometimes. Like, damn, he gets it, he's fucked up and has a dollar-store quality of body, but he couldn't get a fucking break.
Tommy half-fell in a practiced collapse to his knees in front of the TV, switching out the game in the console for Mario Kart and grabbing the controllers. He may be impulsive, but he wasn't about to let a joycon break for his laziness, so he did actually stand to give the controls to his friends instead of just chucking them at their heads like his brain so desperately wanted him to. He took his spot on the couch, loading up the game and selecting his character, Tubbo and Ranboo following suit shortly after.
After a few laps, it was clear that Tubbo was the best at the game, since no matter what the others' luck might be with powerups, he still couldn't be overtaken and never ran into walls or off of the track. He sped straight through the finish on the last round, letting out a cocky cheer and falling back onto the couch spine.
"I'm going to beat the shit out of you," Tommy grunted, elbowing back into the shorter kid.
"Sore loser," Tubbo crowed. "You lose, lose, lose!"
"Sore winner," Ranboo snipped.
"Those aren't real." Tubbo waved a hand, loading into a new round.
"Ah, wait a sec-" Tommy started, being cut off by the loud in-game count and drowned out by the GO!
He grit his teeth a pressed on the gas anyways, despite the way his fingers protested, sending waves of aches up his digits that settled heavily in each joint. He clenched the joycon, knuckles paling significantly as the tight grip only served to increase the dull aching. His thumb swiped over the joystick a few times, fighting him the whole way with sets of clicks and burns with each movement that worsened as he continued. Tommy made a slight face, wincing as his thumb clicked out again with another bout of pain. Halfway through the second track, his hands clenched stock-still and partially open, allowing the controller to clatter loudly onto the hardwood while his hands radiated washes of aches that nearly had them shaking if not for how tightly they stiffened.
Tommy threw his head back slightly, grimacing and slowly relaxing his hands while he waited for the pain to subside. His shoulders were brought high and taut, eyes screwed shut and joycon forgotten. He missed the shared glance between his friends and even the brother who looked up from his scuttling around in the kitchen behind them. He was too busy focusing instead on the darkness of his shut eyes instead of the way his hands continued to protest despite him having stopped using them.
"Dude, you alright?" Tubbo shook his shoulder, and Tommy slowly cracked open his eyes and looked over with his head still tilted back and jaw clenched.
"Never better," he forced out snarkily, head dropping forward soon after.
"No, really?" Tubbo retorted, positively oozing disgusting levels of sarcasm. He leaned down and grabbed the abandoned joycon with his free hand, setting it on the coffee table next to his own.
"Maybe a big man knows his own body, aye?" Tommy half-joked, slowly balling his fists to test the waters slightly. It still hurt a bit, but not to the point that he couldn't move his hands. "Should listen to me when I say I don't wanna play or something. I'd hate to pull this shit on you again."
"Sorry," Tubbo mumbled sheepishly, drawing his shoulders up with a slight attempt at a placating smile.
"I'm not mad or anything," Tommy said, though it just sounded tired. "And I mean that genuinely, but I just... shit sucks, alright? I'd rather just go ahead and give up before I break into itty-bitty pieces that somebody has to sweep up off the floor and glue together again like a fucking vase."
"Yeah, I guess so." Tubbo rubbed at the back of his neck, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Tommy couldn't blame him; what was he even meant to say to that, anyways?
"Do you need ice?" Ranboo cut in, sparing the others from an awkward lull in conversation.
"No, that'll just make them all stiff," Tommy responded heavily. "I like having a bit of fine motor function, even if it hurts like a bitch."
Ranboo nodded, shifting around in his spot. He started to shut off and put the game away wordlessly.
"You can still fucking joke or whatever," Tommy butted. "I don't care. This doesn't have to be a damn mood killer every time."
"Bu-"
"And talking about normal shit," he continued straight through Ranboo's protests with a raised brow. "Is not insensitive. It's not. I'm not a fucking toddler, I know how to move on from something."
"Okay, fine, fine," Ranboo conceded. "But you're really okay, right? I'm allowed to be a bit worried immediately after you suddenly drop your controller because it hurts too much."
"Happens all the time, boob boy," Tommy responded, leaning back into the couch.
"That's not what I asked," Ranboo said dryly, giving a pointed stare when Tommy hesitated.
"Not by the common standard, no, but by mine, the whole being forced to adapt to able people's lifestyles because if I ever ask for help or accomodations, I'm complaining too much thing, I'm positively great."
"Fair enough." Ranboo shrugged. "I don't know what I really expected, but that's cool, I guess."
Tommy barked out a surprised laugh. "Usually I get an awkward 'oh, sorry', but I love me a good change of pace."
"Nothing I can get for you, though? Before I move immediately along to other things, I mean," Ranboo added hastily.
Tommy snorted. "No, I'm seriously good."
"Well, I was thinking, maybe we could try this again at my house tomorrow?" Tubbo piped back in.
"I think I can make it," Ranboo agreed.
"I can come," Tommy said. "But, well, with how these things-" he held his hands up, but refrained from wiggling the fingers. "tend to go, they're probably not going to want to cooperate until Monday or so. I'm perfectly willing to watch, though. Y'know, just- just can't, sometimes."
five: walking
Everything hurt.
It was awful. Tommy felt all wrong, lying flat on his bed and staring numbly at the ceiling as he tended to do so frequently these days. His shoulders burned tightly in place, fingers dully throbbing, knees aching, ankles and wrists stabbing, all just from nothing. If he let himself drift enough, if he stopped thinking so much, he could almost wash the pain away, but it always sat and festered in the base of his skull until he startled back to attention from shifting wrong and reigniting the flame in whatever joint.
He also felt sick. His head hurt, too, and his toes were nearly numb. From where he laid, he could see the purple ends, but had little reaction to it, since, hell, what did it even matter at this point? He was also bone-tired, completely devoid of all energy to move much, but unable to fall asleep from how some pain would spike up every time he got close. He brain was spinning in circles like a buffering screen, stuck between thoughts of boundless boredom and how much he hated it here to quickly being swallowed by a wave of fog that dissolved those ideas into something he could tell was there, but not quite solidly grasp.
Tommy just wanted to get up, to do something, to be okay. He wanted to function on a base level today, but the possibility seemed years away. Even looking over to his door instilled him with a mild feeling of daunting pressure, like the idea of ever walking over there in the near future was something unheard of and not quite real.
He finally managed to notice the noise of the vent in his room, the rushing of the air not an entirely pleasant noise, in fact, one that irritated his headache more, but it at least was a thought separate from how much he hated this. It also reminded him that he felt too warm, as if he needed something else to complain about. Nice going. It didn't help with the sick feeling. Noticing it actually made the dim nausea stir slightly in his gut, enough to be uncomfortable but not to need a trash can, and thank fuck for that. There was zero chance Tommy could manage to get it for himself, nor do the monumental task of rolling over and grabbing his phone to text somebody, and there was no way he was going to shout, not with how he could barely string a thought together, let alone words, in addition to his headache.
His brain strung together a foggy image of an attempt to stand that immediately led to Tommy crumpling onto the ground, spending fifteen minutes at least slumped over on himself and regulating his breathing to slow his heart. He even startled himself with how vivid the idea was, even through his haze, though he had the mind to suppose it made sense that he could get lost in his head, dreaming up scenarios that could last so long as to think he was living out a normal day instead of laid pitifully in bed.
Tommy shifted his shoulders slightly mid-thought, enjoying the feeling of the moving sheets underneath him but decidedly not enjoying the feeling of his collarbones dislocating and relocating under his skin with the movement. He cringed slightly, since that's fucking disgusting, but all in all cared less than most would expect him to, since, well, that's just Tuesday when trying to get clothes from his wardrobe. Similarly, while he hated the burning pain in too many joints, he wasn't unused to it or even reacting much, since his pain tolerance was busted. That's what happens when you spend your preteen years with the musculoskeletal pain of a fifty-year-old man with arthritis. Point is, Tommy's perspective on this shit is broken to all hell and back and it's occasionally funny to watch his friends panic when he relocates his finger for the third time that week because he was writing too fast. Hey, he has to get his entertainment somewhere.
What do you mean it's not normal to have the back and knee pain of an overweight middle-aged father of four by the time you're barely a teenager?
In some distant realm of his brain, Tommy is cursing out stairwells. They're horrible. Shit invention, honestly. Why don't people just, like, stay on the ground? Or at least wait until they can invent elevators and just put those everywhere? He can't even use them most of the time these days because he'll end up sitting on one of the steps and rethinking his entire life to ask how he'd gotten to that point, wishing his knees would dissolve and he could just fall down the rest of the flight and die. It's only made worse by Ranboo's pitying stare as he puffed his slow way up the stairs, leaning almost all of his weight on the handrail and his heart entirely trying to beat its way out of his chest by the time he arrives. He's at the point where he full-ass crawls up the stairs on his hands and knees when he has to go up them at home just to spare himself slightly. Everyone just kind of accepted it as one of his weird quirks, but, no, guys, he's actually in a lot of fucking pain so please just take your bitchass selves and leave before he snaps and says something he shouldn't.
Tommy was unbelievably thankful that his friends hadn't tried to pry their ways into Tommy's room yet today, since hearing anyone's voice all cheerful about whatever might've just made Tommy's head explode already. Besides, it already feels halfway there, so all it takes is a light to the fuse, and boom, you've got a mess of brain mush to clean up and oh gosh he's imagining it, that's kinda fucking gross, but he's not squeamish, because he's shoved his own fucking bones back into socket without so much as blinking at it.
I'm so fucking cool, he thought, half-dazed by his fog, still, but lucid enough to realize that he was being a bit dopey. He let out a silent half-laugh that cut off mid-way through when he realized that the only noise coming out was a raspy breath that sounded like it was being dragged over gravel. Suppose that's what not talking or drinking for the past sixteen hours will do to you.
He started imagining another scene, this time full of utopian-esque bright green grass and perfect daisies in some kind of wonderlandish field. He could run freely, and was, with nothing to hinder him, no pausing to puff out breaths in an effort to slow his crackhead heart, no stabbing up his ankles or shots through his knees. It was fake and beautiful and it was that stupid picture of heaven that he always wanted with the cerulean skies with fluffy clouds and laughter, so much laughter that it was annoying in a content kind of way, and gosh, he could just move right without having to stop for one reason or another or needing a scrap of metal to help hold him up. He could jump around and chase his friends and play tag for the first time in twelve fucking years, like a normal kid. He could skate and go hiking and play games and eat whatever he wanted to, surrounded by a crowd of people that included him without giving an odd sideways pity stare and mumbling about there being something wrong with him. He could play as well as the other kids and hold more than one book without his hands freezing up, he could keep up in phys ed, he could take notes normally. Nobody would treat him like china, worried about hurting him with the slightest touch. He could roughhouse with Techno and Will, even if they were older than him and would win no matter how normal he was. He could cry and complain to his parents when he lost without them worrying that he'd really hurt himself and forbidding him to keep playing.
The air was fresh, the grass was soft, and Tommy Innit was normal.
But it wasn't real.
The bed was real. The pain was real. The noise from the vents was real, and his damn headache was real. He couldn't do what he wanted, eat what he wanted, be what he wanted, play with the other kids, keep up with them, or be properly included, and that was just how it was.
Tommy's a tough fucking guy. His pain tolerance is impressive, he can relocate a lot of his joints all on his own, he pretends not to hear the ableists and weirdly careful people and deals with his own shit. He made his peace with not being able to do things normally a long time ago, even if he doesn't like it.
That's just how it is.
He tells himself that he likes being different, since being normal is boring or whatever it is his first grade teacher said. He tells himself that this is all fine, it's great and peachy and he's the best and biggest man for the job, since he can handle it, and maybe others couldn't, or something. He puts the facts that he hates the pain and being confined by what he can and can't do to another part of his brain. After all, hey, it really is a good thing, since he can scratch all parts of his back without help. See, he's really better off than everyone else. Poor saps can't even reach the middle of their backs. How it must suck to be so average.
Tommy nearly laughs out loud. It's so stupid, and he knows it, but he can't really help it, can he?
A slight buzz on the nightstand pulls him out of that train of thought.
A notification in a groupchat of Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo reads wanna go movies? i'm buying
Tommy sighs, grabbing the phone with more effort than he'd like, shoulder aching and popping and thumbs protesting as he clicked out a response.
i'm literally dying
can't
And, well, maybe he was just fucking right.
+one: beach
Tommy was tired.
It was a new kind of tired, though. Not the kind where he can't think because ten hours of sleep apparently isn't enough to keep him functioning or the kind where he's tired of existing because his entire body decided to give up on him. It was the kind where he was tired of being stuck. Maybe the whole being forced to skip out on plans repeatedly thing was starting to get to him, just a smidge. After a few too many nights spent wishing he could be a kid who did things instead of sitting out, he was kinda fucking pissed at the world.
A notification rang his cell phone.
tubo
beach day
more like bitch day
Ah. There it is, the perfect opportunity to spite whatever external force he felt like, and with two friends to help him do so.
ranboob
don't forget to pack towels
and water
and food
and tommy
wait tommy's coming right
Tommy rolled his eyes. Any other day, it'd be a reasonable question whose answer would probably be 'no', but today he was in a really huge fuck-you mood in the general direction of the outside world.
tommy
i'm in the damn groupchat for a reason boob boy
ranboob
i mean
it's kind of an important question these days
so you're good?
tommy
no lmao
but i don't really give a shit
tubo
oh no he de-aged eight years
don't go on the field trip tommy! you'll die
tommy
i'm this close to taking it back and wallowing in my own self-hatred
fuck off
ranboob
maybe don't do that
tommy
call
we are going to talk about this immediately
His screen soon lit up with the request to answer a call, which Tommy accepted. Three 'hello's all overlapped as each tried to greet the others first.
"Okay, so, we need a fucking battle plan," Tommy said, with his zero-bullshit tone. "Because, uh, my meat suit hasn't been happy with me much recently, today included."
"Alright, whatcha need?" Tubbo asked lazily.
"I'll have to use ye ole chair," Tommy admitted. He honestly hated calling wheelchairs by name because it both felt dramatic and like he was acknowledging his disabilities more than he'd like to. "Hurts to even stand much, shittily enough. Believe me, I even tried it, like, two whole times."
"Got it," Ranboo said with a scratching of a pen in the background as he seemingly took note. "And you're sure you feel okay to go? We can always reschedule."
"You'll do no such thing," Tommy shot. "Would we, uh, be able to, potentially, say-"
"Say the words, boss man," Tubbo cut in.
"I just wanna know if you'll help me wade out," Tommy spat. "I dunno. Or you can just do whatever you want without worrying about me, that's okay, too, and I get it if that's-"
"Sure."
"Oh, alright," Tommy breathed. "That's all, really. When are we going?"
"Two hours from now, we can start driving. I'll pick you up," Ranboo said.
"Your trunk is-"
"Plenty big, Tommy." He could practically hear the soft smile on Ranboo's voice. "More than enough space for everything and the sit-down four-wheel scooter of doom."
Tommy laughed despite himself. "Okay, see you then."
He hung up after his friends said goodbye, and set to preparing himself for what may very well be one of his most exhausting outings yet.
-
Tommy unclasped his seatbelt and threw open the car door, taking in the smell of the sea and tentatively resting his feet on the asphalt of the parking lot. He smiled to himself without really thinking much about it, content in anticipation and fingers threading nervously through the slight folds on his shirt while he waited. Ranboo eventually brought out the little-bitch-mobile with Tubbo clinging to his side, nearly hidden behind piles of beach towels and insulated bags and an entire fucking beach umbrella. Tommy took fast, harried steps and tried to make his sit slightly more graceful than your typical fall, wincing as electric shocks of pain made themselves present in just about every joint in his legs.
"Wow, we're, uh, starting strong with that one, ay?" Tommy said, blowing out a sharp breath. Tubbo drops towels onto his lap with a huff.
"If you start doing that whole feeling guilty about whatever thing, I'm going to throw you in the ocean," he said, nudging one of the wheels with his foot and starting the group's path down to the shore.
"I'll throw you in the ocean," Tommy snipped back. The feeling of the sand getting in the wheels of the chair made him itch slightly, just imagining what a pain it may be to clean out.
"You can't even walk, dipshit," Tubbo retorted. "Tell me how you plan to pick up all seventy kilos of my raw power when you can hardly hold yourself up."
"Stubbornness and a lack of a self-preservation instinct," Tommy bit out with startling speed.
"I'm going to dump you in the sand if you two don't stop," Ranboo threatened mildly, jerking the handles forward to jostle Tommy, who clung tightly on with a grimace.
"You'd really drop a poor disabled boy onto the ground?" Tommy said, shaking his head. "What a bitch you are."
Ranboo dumped Tommy out onto a beach towel but a few moments later, looking as smug as he ever does, which isn't very much.
"Hey, watch it, Boob Boy," Tommy groaned. "I'm precious cargo."
"I'm sure," Ranboo drawled, settling on the ground beside the blond. "I'll give you fragile, but precious is a stretch. You're a menace who I should be tossing out to sea."
"And now littering? You really are a wrongun," Tommy continued, ignoring his friend's teasing.
Tommy touched the sand softly with one hand, being overly cautious not to strain anything, his fingers loose but ready to stiffen if forced to move for a hole or something similar. The coarse grit was a nice distraction. It was something different for once, since Tommy spent so much time these days hurting and unable to think about much else as he was forced to function in a world not built for him. It wasn't the most comfortable texture, but if he could deal with anything, it was a bit of discomfort. And besides, he thought, letting a handful sift through his fingers, he hadn't been able to touch sand in years.
"Did you call yourself trash?" Ranboo piped up from the beach towel next to him.
Tommy shrugged slightly, cursing the nauseating sliding of his collarbones beneath his skin. The sun was nice and warm. He felt like he hadn't touched its light in too long, even though he went outside just recently to go to some place or another. He just hadn't let himself soak it in, remembering why he liked to do things other than sit inside and try to forget the world around him. The smell of the ocean spray was nice, too, even if it burned his nose a bit with the salt, because it was different and clean in a way half-assed air freshener for his depressingly unkempt room could never be. He may be sunburnt soon, pale skin and that, but Tommy didn't particularly care, even if it would be a bitch to deal with. He gave a soft, contented sigh.
"I haven't been outside for a while," Tommy said softly, delicately, like the words might die on his tongue if they were so much as barely provoked. "Not properly, not really. It's nice."
Tubbo huffed. "Of course it's nice. It's the beach, dumbass."
Tommy gave a light-hearted glare. "I might throttle you."
"Go ahead."
"I mean it," Tommy said, deadpan. "This is the first time in however long that I've done any kind of activity outside of my house and socialized significantly, and now I talk about my emotions, and you're going to be rude? That's a bitch move."
"You're a bitch move," Tubbo retorted, drawing lines in the sand.
"Mm, whatever. Sitting in the sand is kinda boring," Tommy complained, staring pointedly at the ocean and flicking his head in its direction. "We should, like, go in the big wet over there."
"The 'big wet'?" Ranboo echoed.
"You heard me." Tommy settled his arms behind him for leverage. "Let's get going. I don't want to be picking sand out of my asscrack for the next week."
"You're sitting on a towel," Ranboo said dryly.
"And you're ugly, what else is new?" Tommy bit, carefully pushing himself to unsteady feet and immediately being latched onto by his friends and unceremoniously thrown in the bitch mobile.
The wheels crunched over sand as the trio made their way down the slight decline of the beach shore, dodging stones and driftwood along the path and nearly silent if not for the background noise of laughing, shouting, and seabirds. Tommy's knuckles were white from his grip on the chair, a nervous twitch settling in his smaller movements as they neared the water.
"And you're sure you're alright with this?" he asked tentatively.
"We should be asking you that," Tubbo replied. "But, really, we're fine!"
Tommy nodded to himself in response, grabbing the leaned over shoulders of his friends on either side as they crouched and he mentally willed himself to get up. It really wasn't a big deal, he told himself, since he'd already gotten out of his house, out of the car, and off of the sand today, but it still scared him nonetheless. He shot to standing before he could continue overthinking, and nearly immediately was swept off of his feet in a fit of dizziness that blotted out his vision, swaying while his heart jackhammered against his ribs so hard that he could feel it. He was sure that his tight grip couldn't be comfortable to Ranboo or Tubbo, but they seemed to be grinning and bearing it(, or if they weren't, Tommy couldn't really tell anyways). A wash of heat more than even the beach sun was producing spread across his face, neck, and arms as he regained balance and vision.
He stared over the crystalline water, the sun reflecting beautifully, and almost could forget the stabbing up his knees and the pulls in his hips and ankles as he gazed. He supposed the support under each shoulder helped, too, releasing some of the pressure that his own body weight brought to his fragile body. He let himself forget about all of that for a few moments while he watched the waves splash and he took a few heavy, strained steps forward with his weight spread across two additional supports. He let out an audible, breathy laugh, while still recovering from his heart's funny little game of making standing up feel like a sprint with heavy breathing.
"I's pretty," Tommy mumbled, feeling almost drunk with his fresh, liquid, almost unexplainable douse of joy.
"Yeah, it is," Tubbo agreed from next to him.
They took a couple more steps until the cold ocean water tided over their toes, and Tommy squeaked in surprise, laughing at the feeling of the water surging down and back and rinsing across his feet every time. The sand was wet, too, less grainy and smoother to touch, and the blond couldn't get enough of it.
Tommy eventually had to start backpedaling, bringing it to his friends' attention to help him back down. He puffed, still halfway laughing and giddy with raw excitement, even after he sank down into the despised wheelchair in the sand.
"You happy, Tommy?" Ranboo asked quietly, smiling.
Tommy grinned through still-heavy breaths. "Yeah-yeah, yeah, I am."
"And Tommy moves!" Tubbo bellowed, mocking sports announcers. "He walks! He can!"