Chapter Text
Creating a breeze as he ran was something Tommy preferred over naturally occurring wind. His hair flying in the gushes of his own making, with his legs pushing against the field court lines and arms heaving that Exy racquet through it all.
For a sport with the roughness of lacrosse and the violence of ice hockey, it was the only calming source Tommy had.
“Adam, shoot wide!” Eryn, his neighbouring striker, yelled at him.
Tommy faltered for a moment over the fake name he currently used. His pause cost a moment for his opposing backliner to try to clip his stick to scoop the ball out of his netting. With gritted teeth, Tommy twisted around enemy defence, his foot on his seventh step with the ball, and passed it to Eryn. As Eryn caught it, he faked to the left and scored the winning goal.
The buzzer lit up red, sounding on the fielded court of Arizona High School. His team crowded around the pair of strikers, gloved hands pushing Tommy into a group hug. Freddie, the strongest player amongst them all and defensive dealer, cheered the loudest.
“Nice, Adam, Eryn!” he exclaimed, checking sticks with them both, a smile evident under his visor. “Good passing with that, we would’ve lost it and gone to overtime.”
Tommy nodded. He was going to pass it anyway.
The striker who took the winning shot normally got the attention and Tommy couldn’t afford that. Not with a college recruiter watching from the somewhat empty stands. He couldn’t take a chance of being recognised for potential because then he’d need to make up a reason to say no.
With the life Tommy lived, under fake names and identities, being noticed was the last thing on his agenda. But he couldn’t deny that part of him that only wanted to run on court—not from CPS or the masked figure that hadn’t let him sleep a peaceful night since he was seven years old.
He wanted to be free with aching legs as he sprinted from the half-court lines to score on his tenth step to first-line. A change from dying his hair all colours except blond, to no more eye contacts to hide the blue beneath it. An end to fake names deriving from an origin he’d rather let die.
Tommy didn’t want to reset again. Not if it meant letting Exy go. But he couldn’t do that with Adam.
Adam Carlson, seventeen years old. Moved to Millport Arizona because of his father’s new job; mother worked night shifts at a clinic a town over. None of it was true, but forged records didn’t expose his lies. No one would bat an eye at them and no one for months had.
“So, Adam, have you finished up your applications to send off for Fall?” Eryn asked in the locker room after the game.
He stopped taking off his arm guards. The back padding, a colour he’d rather do without, laid in his hands. A shade too reminding of the team contract he ran from ten years ago, the people he escaped and one person he abandoned.
Even in a fake life where he could’ve moulded it to any detail, Tommy still wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t safe or even happy. And he never would be. But the shaking of his hands as he gripped at the Exy gear told him that wasn’t possible.
“Adam?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. The fake name dug into his crisis even more. It pricked at the green contacts inside his eyes too.
He knew that if he stayed, if Adam stayed here, then he’d graduate to a college he wouldn’t turn up to. Because another name would take his place in a distant country, maybe a Joe, Max or Jeremy. Any name further than his own.
But that dash of adrenaline on the court, the pass that made them win, he couldn’t give that up. If he did, he'd be nothing. The shared whoops in their victory, breathless and grinning. He needed to go back to it, maybe not at a high school level though. Something greater that would make him stop running altogether.
“I might apply for the Greater SMP university,” Tommy said, basking in his team’s outcries and bursts of, ‘but that’s Dream’s team and there’s no way you’ll get into that’.
It amused him—in a sick and twisted way. The thought of joining a university that housed Dream. Him.
Number one striker, captain to Greater SMP Cardinals, son of Exy and proclaimed king. The man who was the entire reason why Tommy ran in the first place.
“See you tomorrow,” Tommy said as he left the locker room, his duffle bag across his shoulder. It was a lie though because he wouldn’t.
By the time he had walked out of camera view on the street, he shoved all records with Adam Carlson scribbled upon them into the bin and left it burning. The fumes sparked him as he got ready for another life to hopefully not ruin this time.
Tommy Isaac, graduated from Tucson High School, eighteen years old; parents not in the picture.
“At least I won’t have to be ginger anymore,” he muttered to himself as he smeared brown hair dye on his head. The brown eye contacts sat next to him on the sink in the shelter bathroom.
He stuck with the name closest to him—not his legal one or any nicknames from his departed father. It was the name his mother gave him. Tommy, or Tom when she was too short of breath from bleeding out in the back of a stolen car. The same name she last uttered now belonged back to him.
With a new identity and appearance, Tommy made his first action worthwhile. He tossed a brick straight into the Exy building on the L’Manberg University campus.
A blond man came out. Sleeves rolled up and a face full of anger. “You’re paying for that.”
The finger-pointing in his direction would have scared him if he didn’t know the man behind it. Tommy bared a grin at the L’Manberg Foxes coach, Phil Craft. The one in charge of a team infamous in the NCAA for their dead-last rankings with players from broken homes.
“You won’t find a viable name attached to me and if you do, it’s dead.”
Phil’s anger bristled. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“No, it’s my explanation for your sudden debt to a window company.”
There was a short silence. Tommy didn’t know if university coaches worked differently. If that raised pointing finger would clench into a fist flying towards him. To give him bruises he’d welcome home on his skin. But Phil stood still, hand falling to his side.
“Do you do this to all college campuses?”
“Just yours.”
Phil sighed. “What do you want?”
It was a long shot for Tommy to hitchhike here with nothing but a single duffle bag. He needed to be accepted here, by Phil, for it all to work. He needed this team so he didn't have to run anymore. Or to at least give him a good home to be caught in.
“A place on your team,” he said at last, confidence thinning.
“We don’t need any—”
“You’re down a striker and four games into Fall Season,” Tommy interrupted. “Sure, you can play with two but with three there’s no need for your offensive dealer to sub-in and have your goalie take defence.”
Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you even play?”
“I can learn to be better.”
“You can learn?” Phil repeated, exasperated. “Look, why don’t you leave before I get security on your ass?”
Tommy clenched his jaw. His duffle bag fell to the ground.
“Watch me play and then decide if you want to sign me.”
“Kid—”
“I’m not a kid,” he snapped. Phil gave him a look. “I’m eighteen.”
Seventeen.
“Where are your parents?”
“Would I be here if I had any?” Tommy let it hang in the air, silence filling in any gaps Phil needed. “I chose you for a reason.”
It was those words that grabbed Phil’s attention. Of course that interested the coach notorious for giving chances to those who weren’t even allowed one. He housed a team of bordering criminals, those who grew up too quickly, and rejects with walls upon walls surrounding scarred skin. Phil was the only one in the Exy scene who’d have patience for people like them. People like Tommy.
“How much shit are you in?”
Tommy bit his inner cheek. He debated giving another shred of honesty. Something he kept as compressed and hidden as the bulletproof vest he used to sleep with at night.
“A lot,” he admitted, eyes cast to the ground. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”
He looked up. Phil gazed at him but differently. A new light, not judging and hostile, but assessing. Then, he nodded.
“One trial. You show me you know how to use a racquet, how to score and move. Then that second chance is yours to keep.”
Tommy wasn’t used to keeping things. After a while, he just let it slip from between his fingers rather than chase the attachment. But this Tommy, who had a name attached to a forged ID rather than have it lost in the memory of his mother’s voice, would fight for it.
With an exchange of names, Phil posted the code to the electric lock on the court gates. He beckoned Tommy to follow. Phil took him into the Exy building, skimming past the lounge room and offices, only for there to be a man sitting on one of the sofas.
He was younger than Phil but his side-burns gave him the run for his money. He wore a baseball hat despite the Exy jersey across his chest.
“Who’s the kid?” he muffled out, chewing on his food.
“I’m not a fucking kid,” Tommy bit out.
The man rose his eyebrows. “Alright, who’s the potential Fox?”
“Schlatt, get the hot dog out your mouth when you talk.”
The man—Schlatt—sat up, face scrunched up in disgust. “Coach, this is why my people won the war against you, this is a corn dog.”
“Out.”
Schlatt swallowed down his food. He screwed up the wrapper. “Aim for Phil’s left shin, the old man is getting dainty.”
Phil whacked Schlatt around the head as he left the lounge. Tommy blinked as Phil muttered very incriminating things under his breath.
“Jay Schlatt, number sixteen, goalie,” Tommy relayed, recognising the number as the man walked away.
His words caused Phil to sigh harder. “Just, just come with me.”
They walked from the lounge and office area into the men’s locker room. Phil chucked spare equipment at him from the closet and waited in the foyer. L’Manberg Foxes, despite their university adorning red, white and blue, had orange and white uniforms. Fitting for their team name. Tommy quickly put on light body padding, pulling the blank jersey over it and grabbed gloves and helmet before meeting back with Phil.
An Exy racquet flew at him and Tommy reached out to catch it. It had orange leather wrapping along the pole. The stick length somewhat matched what should balance out his height and the netting was shallow—just deep enough to scoop up the ball. A striker’s racquet. The player with priority to score and leading offence.
“We’ll go through a series of two-person drills. Starting with different types of tosses, then stick movement, and after, we go into scoring.”
It was similar to the warmups Tommy did back in Arizona, only the quick stick tosses went faster. Phil threw back the ball at a speed faster than Tommy could keep up with. He didn’t drop it at any point, but he failed to hide stumbles whenever the ball heaved into his netting at a speed he didn’t expect. His grip tightened on his racquet each time. Somehow, it got worse when he had to score on Phil. No matter where he aimed, if he faked to the left or right, Phil knew where it would go and deflected each shot. It wasn’t until Tommy purposely hit Phil’s knee that the shots were easier to win.
“You know this isn’t fair, right?” Tommy groaned, his shoulder aching from how heavy his racquet was.
“Should I remind you of the brick-shaped hole in my office window?”
He shrugged and pelted a throw, scoring in the top-right corner with Phil distracted.
Eventually, that feeling of Exy finally showed up, replacing his anxiety with ease. The saving breathlessness. The harbouring control he needed over himself. With Exy, Tommy had control over something real—nothing fake or forged. The tearing at his muscles was real to the world. A rarity he never shared with anything.
When Phil flung the ball for Tommy to run and catch, the court-lines he passed didn’t care for his name. The court never cared who stepped on it, it let anything and everything on its grass. No matter their parents, past, or mistakes. Tommy was allowed here. To play and be something that mattered.
It was why he loved it.
As Tommy dashed to score on Phil again, footsteps squashed against the field. Tommy lifted up his visor, sharing a confused look with Phil. It wasn’t until the approaching figure came closer that everything soothing Tommy dropped dead.
Wilbur Soot.
Former national champion, ex-member of the Greater SMP Cardinals. Second to Dream himself, evident in the number tattoo inked on his left cheekbone. The man who signed with the Foxes in March as a striker after he broke his dominant hand back in December.
His face wasn’t inked and as tired when Tommy last saw him ten years ago. Someone who knew Tommy back when Tommy never existed, but Theseus did in his place. When he was nothing but a naïve seven-year-old who clung to pretend brothers and family. A boy almost conditioned into sporting contracts that would’ve sold his entire life to something he didn’t understand. A fate Wilbur practically lived up until the accident.
As Wilbur opened his mouth, Tommy braced himself. He waited for the accusations, the shouts and anger. For it all to be in the open and for him to need to run again. Yells of betrayal, that Tommy abandoned him, that he had the potential for Court and now was a nobody—both in namesake and value.
Yet, that inked face held no recognition. Neutrality overcame Wilbur’s face.
Wilbur didn’t remember him. Not with the brown hair, darker eyes and aged appearance.
“You’re sloppy,” Wilbur said at last. No rekindling of past memories he didn’t recall with the perceived stranger in front of him. Instead, it was criticism for his playing. He went on and on about how badly Tommy passed, how his technique was untrained and had no thought into it, his footwork was lazy, attitude faulty up until the end.
Tommy gulped, fear quite not stomached yet. This was who he ran here for. The same man he ran from by association to begin with.
“Anything else to add?” Tommy fumed, expecting more ridicule from someone he once had those brown eyes bleed golden for him. No icy frost like now, none of this judgement to such a cold extent.
The neutrality in Wilbur’s face folded into something else. “Welcome to the team.”
“Wilbur—”
“Phil, he’s what we need,” Wilbur persisted, his smile stretching out that ‘2’ tattoo on his cheekbone. “He’ll be a sub-in for now as we build up practices, get him on the same level as Puffy, and maybe one day to mine.”
There was arrogance in his words, but it was a bleeding pride. One red enough to back up his claim.
“You ever played on a team before?”
“Yes,” Tommy said shortly. Wilbur rose his eyebrows for him to elaborate but Tommy did not.
“Well, he’ll sure fit in,” Wilbur scoffed.
“Where’s Techno?” Phil asked.
“I had to send him off earlier. If he watched you play in goal any longer, he’d transfer somewhere else.”
“I haven’t played in goal in years, Wilbur, of course I’d be kinda shit.”
“It’s those knees, Coach!” Wilbur exclaimed laughing as he picked up a spare racquet off the floor. Tommy stilled at such laughter. It wasn’t the same as when they were kids, before all this. Before broken bones. This wasn't the Wilbur he knew.
“Let’s see the newbie play against a former national champion.” Wilbur almost stuttered over his words, hesitating to place former over the title. Tommy glanced down at Wilbur’s right hand, the white scars blaring against the court lights.
Wilbur picked up the spare racquet on the outer court. He scooped up the ball with his stick, a smirk appearing under his helmet visor as he twisted the racquet in his left hand.
"Run."
Tommy didn't hesitate to do so. His shoes dug into the grass and raced. Strides faster than he could keep up with his breathing, all just to catch the ball hurling forward in his heading direction. As it slotted in his netting, that move—a run and chase—brought out all Tommy sought in Exy. All in a single command. From Wilbur.
He took his ten steps and stared, breathless at a player too far away for him to score on. Especially not with the current precision and aim he had. Tommy hit the ball against the plexiglass to rebound it, catching it without another glance. Then dashed forward another ten steps, heaving the ball towards the goal with all the hope he could muster.
He glared as it flew at torso height through the air. Yet, Wilbur casually deflected it aside as if the ball was thrown for him to catch.
Tommy sighed, swallowing down any little pride he dared to have. He readied himself to be ridiculed again by the first person in his life to show him that he meant something other than the potential talent others saw in him.
Yet, a smile crept on Wilbur's lips.
"What?" Tommy asked, scowling.
"You're fast," Wilbur said with a breathy laugh.
"And? Puffy's fast too, maybe even faster than me." He had seen the recordings of their matches, how the striker standing at five foot two sped past her opposing backliner defence, beating their height with agility.
"But Puffy wouldn't have rebound and caught it like that. She's confident in her aim in passing, but not hitting off walls and predicting where it'd fly back."
"I still missed," Tommy replied, not getting why Wilbur smiled so wide at this. Years ago, he smiled at the fun parts of little league Exy matches. When Tommy would tumble over his own legs and complain until his proclaimed big brother hauled him up and bumped their helmets together. There would be none of that here though. Not anymore.
This Wilbur, a former champion with what should have been a career-ending injury, didn't smile at such bad plays and misses.
Wilbur scoffed, still adorning his smile. "You're scoring against me, of course you missed. But you tried and as long as you give me that, we can work on it."
Tommy stayed silent. He fought the shivers that wrecked his body uncomfortable because he missed this softness from Wilbur. From anyone, really. But this was Wilbur. Regardless of his age, new tattoos and injuries.
“You play like this is the last time you’ll hold a racquet,” Wilbur said. “Like you have everything to lose.”
“Who said I had anything to begin with?” Tommy muttered.
Wilbur frowned. “You have a team now."
He scooped up the balls left on the field and emptied them into the bucket. Tommy felt his body relax at the confirmation of no more drills or tests. It was over for now. He had made it, succeeded with Phil, and was back with Wilbur. The one who could undo all his reasons for running.
“You’ll meet the rest of them after you get everything legally sorted with Phil," Wilbur explained. “Our next game is in two weeks, be lucky we just played one yesterday.”
“Kinoko Royals vs L’Manberg Foxes, nine to four.”
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Great, you did your homework on this shitfest of a team. Let’s just hope you won’t be the reason we give ourselves an early grave.”
Tommy had fled from his grave before he even knew it existed. Now, it was up to him whether he'd lie and share it.
“You done with your gossip now?” Phil called from further down the court. “We got paperwork to do!”
After he had finished with the paperwork, from getting affirmation that he could be a student at L’Manberg University, then a scholarship with the Exy programme, and the living arraignments in the Fox Tower dorms, Tommy left Phil's office.
He headed down the same corridor he walked down earlier. Yet, he heard voices, stopping him from turning around the corner into the main lounge.
“What in the fuck are you thinking, Wilbur?” a male voice hissed. “Is this just you dragging us down even more before you eventually leave us for him again?”
“Wilbur won’t go back there," another male voice said, deeper and American.
“You don’t sound so sure about that.”
“And how sure do I sound in the promise that this fist will be—”
“Alright, Techno, alright, cool it with the dramatics over a stick game." That voice belonged to Schlatt. "We needed another striker anyway, so what if it’s the kindergartener? He’ll just be a bench warmer up until Mr Champion here breaks his other hand.”
Commotion struck again, more voices piling on top of each other.
“Enough! Enough about Dream—yes, Quackity, you’re not subtle in your bait references—and enough about Wilbur, this is about our new teammate who’s listening to all of this so shut it with this and greet him.”
Tommy froze.
“You can come round the corner,” the same girl said.
He peaked around and walked towards them all. The girl who called for him was the shortest of them all but stood the straightest.
“Well, this is awkward.” One of the unfamiliar men said. He was short with a scar carved down his right eye. Niki whacked his arm. The other man had dyed pink hair and practically towered over everyone in the room, matching brute force with Schlatt.
“If the kid can’t survive a little shit talking and awkward silence, then it's best he joins that team with butterflies in its name," Schlatt said, continuing as if Tommy wasn't here.
“Breckenridge Bugs,” the pink-haired one corrected.
“Case and point.”
"I'm just saying, it's a shit choice—"
“Can you stop talking as if I’m not even in the room?” Tommy snapped.
“That’s the spitfire I met earlier, have fun touring him around,” Schlatt said as he mockingly saluted everyone with his leave. Quackity gave Wilbur another hounding look before following Schlatt out.
“You probably know our entire team, don’t you?” Wilbur asked.
“Only by your jersey numbers.”
“Well, everyone this is Tommy, starting striker. The one that left was Schlatt, one of our goalkeepers. Quackity, defensive dealer, following him. Techno’s the other goalie. Niki, our captain and offensive dealer."
Tommy nodded, noting names to faces.
“Niki can tour you around,” Wilbur said as he rubbed at his right wrist. “I need to speak to Phil, Techno you coming?”
Techno paused for a moment. “I need a chat with him before the tour,” he stated, gaining rolled eyes from Wilbur but a nod from Niki.
Everyone left the lounge, giving the room to Tommy and Techno. Now that Tommy knew Techno's name, more details flooded in. Loose articles he had read, the headlines on magazines, interviews vaguely mentioning the new Fox duo. Their estranged brotherhood on court replaced the criticism targeting Wilbur's apparent fleeing from Greater SMP Cardinals, leaving his real brother Dream behind all because of a skiing accident.
Techno stepped forward. Tommy took one back.
"On court, Wilbur thought I stopped watching when he went down to the field with you and Phil. But I stayed up there," Techno said, gaze dripping with distrust. "I saw you, your face when Wilbur walked towards you. A deer in headlights. But it wasn't an idolisation thing, was it? Not bug-eyed because Wilbur Soot is your idol, the Cardinal champion that fell from grace and regained it the moment he learnt Exy with his non-dominant hand."
Another step.
"You were scared when he spoke. Scared of the words he'd say." Techno's lips thinned to a hard line. "Why?"
“Why?” Tommy echoed, hoping his voice didn't waver. “It’s none of your business.”
Techno's eyes narrowed. "You show up two games before we go against the Greater SMP Cardinals, just as we need Wilbur at his strongest and most confident with his rematch against Dream. You show up filling in the new empty space of a striker." He tilted his head. "You show up and you know Wilbur."
Tommy kept quiet.
“Why?” Techno repeated.
“I’m here to play Exy.”
“A cop-out answer.”
Tommy gritted his teeth. “I’m here to play Exy with Wilbur.”
“I just said I don’t believe this is a fanboy situation—”
“I’m here to protect him just like you are so he doesn’t go back," he blurted out, jaw clenched to a harsh point. His words caught Techno's attention. “Back to Dream, back to the Cardinals, back to his number two placement rather than the reigning first he can achieve here.” He took an uneven breath. “Wilbur stays here, he wins the Championships, he beats Dream. That’s what I want.”
Silence settled in the room. Flaring with unease and a battle for honesty neither of them would fully give.
“I know why I stick my neck out for him, but why do you?”
It was that question that picked at the walls Tommy had spent years on the run trying to keep up.
He had already seen Techno’s reasonings in their short interactions. The articles with words upon words to describe Techno being the new second to Wilbur, the new brother. Words printed before the Greater SMP got rid of them all. And it was true in Tommy’s eyes—Techno loving Wilbur, being his brother in everything that mattered except blood. He was his family.
Tommy once had that with Wilbur. Love in the laughter on court, affection in their helmet bumps and care during naïve youth.
Yet that brotherhood Tommy lived and breathed, even bled to keep alive, died the moment he ran away. So it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same because with Techno, it was requited.
Wilbur looked at Techno and saw a brother. Recognised family in their nods of confirmation whenever a hand shook too much.
But Wilbur peered at Tommy and only saw a necessary player to win the Spring Championships.
“He doesn’t even know you,” Techno continued, adding salt to the festering wound.
Tommy clenched his hands into a fist, hiding them in folded arms. He needed to stay grounded at the hurtful reminders hurling straight for him.
“And I’m okay with that.”
He wasn’t.
He wanted the only normalcy his childhood had back. He wanted the Wilbur Soot who nicknamed him Theo because Theseus was a stupid name. He wanted his brother back.
Techno scoffed, “Well, a parasocial protector is better than a Greater SMP mole, so you can stay for now. But if you even try to sabotage this team and give Wilbur a reason to go back to them, I won’t be the only one you’d need to dodge hits from.” Techno let the threat distil before stepping back. “Come on, tour time.”
With his legs shaking, Techno pushed him by the shoulders back to where Niki was waiting for him. Quackity had left, his placement replaced by two other new people. Their jersey numbers were in view so Tommy recognised the players. Jack Manifold, backliner and their weakest defence, and Puffy, their final-year striker.
"Hope Techno wasn't too intimidating, he's nicer in the mornings," Niki said with a meek smile. "The tour will just be to the Fox Tower today since it's late. Someone will show you around campus tomorrow if you want."
Tommy shrugged and followed them, wanting this all to be over.
They all passed the other sports players on route to the Fox Tower and Jack kept giving comments throughout. Blurting out things and places for Tommy to avoid, like the alleyways around the art blocks and differing sports courts. Puffy offered to help with his classes as they entered the athlete's accommodation building.
“I’m sure you’re tired after dealing with all that paperwork," Niki said, striking up another conversation.
“You could say that.”
“I’ll get some spare sheets you can borrow until you go shopping for all the stuff you need." Puffy left with Jack, moving to the floor above.
Niki faced him in their silence.
“I won’t give you some captain’s speech you probably expect, stuff about teamwork and friendship," she said as they walked down the corridor. "We’re Foxes, you know what that means. And if Phil let you sign, then I don’t have to expand on that.”
From the tone of her words, Tommy picked up on it quickly. It was a reminder that even her, someone visibly bright, colourful with dyed hair and warm clothes to match her smile, was here for the same reason he was. There were the same hardened walls behind that. Tommy didn't know the specifics of how fucked up this team was—but with the scar leading down one of the member’s eyes, the abrasive attitudes, learned response of distrust and a broken wrist, there were some clues. And Tommy would fit right in.
“Just don’t push anyone and they won’t push you back,” Niki added. Then her lips pursed, thinking. “Maybe Jack will push, and Schlatt, definitely Schlatt, so go off on them if you want. No physical fights though. The people you’re rooming with are probably the easiest to deal with on the team. Ranboo and Tubbo, close to your age, both backliners.”
Puffy came back carrying the sheets she needed, Jack no longer present. As Niki opened up the room Tommy would now spend the next four years in, it came down on him. That he had made it. But it didn't bring him ease or comfort. Nothing nice. Because he was here to stop it all. To stop running and for that to happen, he'd need to confront the reason he first did. And conveniently enough, he would in two games time. Facing Dream on court.
"It's easy to choose if you're here to go Pro," Puffy said as they sat on the end of his bed with her laptop. "Just pick classes that seem easiest, it's what I did."
Niki huffed out a laugh. "You still go to me for chemistry notes and I'm a year below you."
"I didn't how much maths would be in something all about studying chemicals, okay."
He hastily picked English and three other classes with nothing to do with maths, gaining an approving nod from Puffy.
“Tomorrow's practice starts around six in the morning. We meet at the gym, but I’ll meet you in the lounge to take you there.”
When the two eventually left, Tommy collapsed onto his bed. There was no need to unpack anything—his duffle bag was only for his survival, not enjoyment or sentiment. And he still needed to buy another phone since his last one burnt up in flames back in Arizona. Now, in South Carolina, he needed to seem normal. Put together as much as a Fox was.
A couple of hours into his stillness under the covers, the dorm room door opened.
“Do we just let him sleep?” a voice said, British like his own.
“Maybe,” another said, American.
“Or do we wake him up to introduce ourselves?”
“Maybe.” A silence. “Perhaps.”
The other one scoffed. “You’re useless.” Then, “How do I break the news that he’s sleeping on my spare pillow?”
“You don’t.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, that’s your problem. Night Tubbo!”
“Fuck you.”
As shuffling filled the room of both his new roommates getting ready to sleep, Tommy clenched his eyes shut. A part of him hoped he'd wake up in the Arizona high school locker rooms he slept in, that this was all a fever dream and a path he didn't have the courage to take. But he knew he'd wake up drooling on apparently Tubbo's spare pillow and a full team he'd need to practice with.
He counted down a month until he'd meet Dream again. And hoped the dyed hair and eye contacts would fool him too. If not, Tommy didn't think he could survive around round of running again.