Chapter Text
It hadn’t snowed in Nevada all winter. The road outside Tommy's bedroom window was wet, not with snowy sludge or ice melting and dripping off the roof, but instead with the remains of the thunderstorm from the night before.
March was usually warmer, just about spring, but Tommy could remember snow in March pretty well. He could remember snow in general. It was never too heavy, but it laced the ground and framed the streets and dusted the roofs.
This place, this town he now called home, had stayed warm all throughout the season, though Tommy had to forgive the weather of his new home. It hadn’t felt like winter in the first place, so he figured it was fair that the world played along with him.
It had been a weird three months. Or two months. He never knew where to start counting. But from just a few days before Christmas to the first of March, he’d been home, and it might have been the most awkward two-three months of Tommy’s life.
His parents were kind and his home was a safe roof over his head. There wasn't much more he could really ask for. In terms of improvement, Tommy had basically gone from scraping by for crumbs of food to having five course meals at the snap of his fingers.
His bed was warm. His skin was healed of bruises. His stomach didn't hurt. It was a softer life than he'd ever known. But an awkward one.
Settling after everything, getting to know the people he should've been living with a long time ago, watching the grief for him pour out at random moments—Tommy found no joy in it, not a fucking bit. He was a downright genius, a protége of his time, and it was insulting how much of life has been kept from him. Embarassing, even, and Tommy could barely stand for it.
He hated how his parents looked at him, somewhere between the two year old they knew and a complete stranger. He hated not getting how social media worked, or not knowing how to drive a car, or never having been to a laser tag place.
In the form of a crackling voice coming through an old pair of headphones, Tommy was reminded that, at the very least, he wasn’t braving the shit storm of life alone.
“Well, summer should be nice, then?”
Tommy rolled his eyes at Tubbo’s comment. Summer would be hot and, according to Tubbo’s google searches, there was a huge lake less than an hour from where Tommy lived that he’d been good to visit—but that didn’t matter right now. Right now, it was gross out.
“Look at this shit.” Tommy said, pointing his phone at the window. “It's all soggy and sopping. Downright sluck.”
“I don't think that's a word.” Ranboo said.
“It's a word if I say it. I mean, it's fucking fifty-nine degrees out! Do they want me to sweat to death?”
Tommy didn't know who 'they' in this case was, but he knew someone had to be blamed for this abysmal weather. He shifted around on his bed, crossing his legs as he switched his camera around to face him. The stupid phone never listened to his commands and he was shocked to see it actually worked for once.
“Most of the snow's gone here, too.” Tubbo mumbled, chewing on something.
Tommy glanced down at Tubbo's little camera. The sight of him munching on corn chips and clearly tapping away at his computer made Tommy force a glare.
“Pay attention to my room tour, assholes.”
“I am,” Ranboo replied, quickly flicking on his camera. Tommy barely caught a glimpse of his face, sitting on his bedroom floor and waving to the phone.
Maybe he didn't think Tommy saw the switch in his other hand.
Tommy rolled his eyes and stepped off his bed. He had already gone through most of the room—there wasn't much in it. Tommy had a desk, with a computer he struggled to use, textbooks he was supposed to be studying, and a couple notebooks for his free use. Aside from that, a dresser with minimal clothes in it, and the bed itself, his room was pretty much empty. The blank walls and bland style left much to be desired.
“That's kinda it.” Tommy explained, his voice light. “I'm a modest person, y'know, don't like flaunting my wealth.”
Tubbo hummed. “Of course, obviously. Have you gone shopping yet?”
“A bit, yeah. The malls here are so fucking crowded all the time, though, I gotta swim through a whole damn stampede just to get to a clothing store. Reno sucks, man.”
It did. It really, really did, and Tommy would argue that to anyone who dared claim otherwise. It was damp and crowded and filthy. The air was thicker than he'd expected and something always smelled vaguely of cigarettes no matter where in the city he went.
Maybe he hadn't been around much, but Phil and Kristin hadn't taken him out that often. Shopping, dinner, a trip to show him the town and parks—it hadn't been all too exciting. Though the trails they had mentioned had actually sounded alright.
Tommy continued his little rant about the city aloud, noticing as his friends grew a little quieter.
“Yeah, I don't know. Maybe I should ask Techno to take me to Vegas or something. Actually get to see some cool sights.”
“How is Techno?” Ranboo asked, mumbling over his words.
“I dunno. He's alright. 'E and Wilbur have been coming and going.”
“Hmm,”
Tommy furrowed his brow, looking down at his phone. Tubbo was still focused on something else and Ranboo's camera was still off.
“'Hmm,' what?”
“Don't think he meant anything by it, boss man.” Tubbo replied. ”Just, like, y'know. Hmm.”
“You guys are weird.” Tommy fell onto his bed once more, the bed creaking under him as he lifted his arm up, his phone above his head. “My family's cool, yeah. If that's what you wanna know.”
“Cool cool or cool cool?”
Tommy rolled his eyes, hoping it distracted from his growing fond smile. He'd be found dead before he would admit that he liked knowing his friends were concerned about his new situation. They had reason to be, not because they had to protect him though—Tommy was the best man in the world, who wouldn’t want to serve him and make sure everything was up to code?
“They're cool cool.”
“Cool.”
They were cool. Techno was automatically boosted about fifty levels in Tommy's mental hierarchy of people, but no one else fell too far behind. Kristin was chill, Phil was caring, and Wilbur was fun. They didn't make Tommy's life any harder, and that was worth a lot.
Though they did have a few curiosities, a few unasked questions that bore answers. Tommy was working on it.
“Stop saying cool.” Ranboo mumbled once more.
Tommy rolled onto his stomach, letting out a sigh and looking around once more.
“Oh, there's this weird thing.” Tommy said, pointing his phone to his bedside table where there was a small device, a monitor of sorts stuck to a wristband with a headphone jack.
“What's that?” Ranboo asked.
Tommy sat up and picked the wristband up in his free hand. “It’s for sleeping. It watches my heart rate or something and if it gets too high, then it, like, sets off an alarm in my headphones and wakes me.”
“Oh, neat. What's it for?”
“Dunno.” Tommy lied. “Making sure I'm healthy or something.”
It was actually to wake him up in the event of a nightmare, but Tommy didn't feel up to that chat. He would be fine going the rest of his life believing that Ranboo and Tubbo knew nothing about the reality of his previous residence, though he knew it would be a lie. From what he did know, his name and Melba's were going to be forever intertwined.
“That's really my whole room.”
“What's on your calendar?” Tubbo asked incredulously.
Tommy hadn't even noticed it was in frame as he glanced up at the wall, his phone held awkwardly in his hand.
“Does that say great tits?”
Tommy laughed sharply. “Hell yeah it does, big man!”
The call fell silent for a moment. Tommy looked back at his phone to see Ranboo's face nearly stuck up against the screen as he got a closer look.
“Oh, like the birds.” Ranboo chuckled. “That's cute.”
“It's not fucking cute, I got a big ass calendar that says great tits on it—”
“—Isn't that the joke? Like, calendars have hot women in them but instead it's just full of tit birds?”
“Fuck you, man.”
“You're on the wrong month.” Tubbo chimed in.
“You both suck ass, why am I talking to you?” Tommy grumbled as he stepped out of bed and reached out, grabbing the corner of the page.
He flipped away from February's Great Tits to March's Willow Tits.
There was a large red star drawn over March 15th. That was the first thing Tommy noticed on this new page, having expected it to be much like the other months he’d already brushed past. That was to say, blank, with perhaps a marking or two over a holiday.
Tommy hadn’t put it there. Of course he hadn’t, he had no clue what March 15th was or what it meant or why his parents or brothers would mark it on his calendar. It was drawn, like, with a pen. Or a marker.
Weird.
A heavy door opened and shut somewhere in the house and Tommy shot up at the noise.
“I'm gonna go, guys. I think my brothers are here.”
“Okay.” Tubbo replied. “Tell us when you get your class list.”
“Yeah, I hope you get something we have!” Ranboo added before the three said a quick goodbye and Tommy hung up.
He was going to end the call either way, but he was glad he'd gotten out without having to address that last bit. He wasn't completely ready to confess that he would be taking classes… a little below his age group.
Hopefully the summer program would be enough to put him at least at high school level by September.
There were a lot of bad aspects to Tommy's life but that had to be one of the worst ones. If he had to sit in a class with a bunch of twelve year olds, legitimate children, and admit his intelligence level was the same as theirs, he'd kill himself. One quick stab to the chest on the steps of whatever institution decided to wrong him so.
Disregarding the utter slight that stupid testing procedure could lay upon him, Tommy tossed his phone and headphones onto the bed and rushed out of his room.
Down the hall and in the living room, resting on the couch and digging through a school bag was Wilbur, his hair tucked under a dark red beanie.
“Wilbur!” Tommy cheered.
Wilbur looked up and smiled as his brother ran over. “Ey, Tommy. How are you doing?”
“Worse now that you're here. Where's Mum and Techno?” Tommy asked, crashing into the cushion beside Wilbur.
“They went back out, had to get a few things before dinner.”
From the kitchen, Phil sighed. Tommy and Wilbur both looked over, watching their father set down a cutting knife on a chopping board and rest his face in his hands. After a few moments, he dragged his hands down, tired eyes turning to meet theirs.
“Are they going to be back by dinner?” He asked.
“I think it's just two things.”
“Are they going to be back by dinner?”
Wilbur paused. “Techno hates being late to stuff too much to get stuck shopping.”
Phil sighed and went back to cutting up some potatoes. Though dinner didn't seem close to done yet, it already smelled good in the house. The many scents of fresh spices and herbs filled the air.
“Do we have any chips, dad?” Tommy asked, looking up at the closed cupboards.
“Nope,”
Tommy forced a huff and rested back into the couch, glancing at Wilbur.
“You wanna watch something?” Wilbur asked.
Tommy shook his head, a lie rolling off his tongue just as easily as he rolled off the couch. “Nah, I gotta go do some school prep work.”
Well, it wasn’t all a lie. He did have prep work to do if he wanted to test high up on his stupid entrance exam. But he wasn’t doing that right now.
Tommy had been gifted a bit of luck that the day he’d planned to run a little test was the same day that his family decided to have their monthly dinner. He could find out quite a few things with this fortunate timing.
It wasn’t that Tommy didn’t trust his family. It was just that he didn’t entirely trust his family.
The truth was, they seemed like nice people. He didn’t doubt that they were. But even nice people had limits and Tommy had a feeling he hadn’t quite gotten to them yet. Having kept his head down and his mouth shut as his brain had taken a few weeks to settle, a few awkward and downright embarrassing moments of emotions coming to mind, Tommy hadn’t pushed any buttons. He hadn’t seen where the barriers of boundaries laid.
And that was something worth testing. Once a boundary was set, a fresh wall erected, he could finally begin to find out just how well he’d fit in this family-made box of expectations and rules.
Maybe that was a stupid way of thinking about it. Tommy had rolled his eyes at himself quite a few times when he’d thought about it, judging it like he hadn’t been the one to spend six nights considering it.
But if he got his family upset about something, he could find out just how long it would take for a slap.
Maybe not, of course, maybe they’d keep their hands to themselves. Phil and Kristin really didn’t seem like the hitting type. But every bad action had an equal consequence, and it was worth finding out what equated to what. Like a spy doing recon in the least subtle way.
Tommy had decided against doing something that couldn’t be fixed in three minutes, tops. It was less about the damage and more about the disrespect. Something simple.
And god, was he a fucking genius.
Tommy slipped into his room and waited by the door, listening to the sound of the TV and the clinking of a metal spoon on the side of a pot.
Phil had a guitar; Tommy had noticed it on his second week in the house. It didn’t look like anything special, just kind of a guitar, but Phil never touched it. After a while of eyeing the thing, it started to make sense. It was older and definitely something that could snap like a twig if someone beat against it for more than a second.
A delicate object he obviously kept away so no one would touch, and it simply rested in a stand in the corner of Phil and Kristin’s bedroom.
Really, it was like he was asking for it to get stolen.
The TV was still on and Phil was still cooking. Tommy pulled out his phone and slid down in the doorway, switching on some game Ranboo and Tubbo had bullied him into getting. Though it sucked, it really did, Tommy slipped into it and passed the time.
Eventually, the sound of some game show flicked off and the couch creaked as Wilbur stood.
“S’alright if I go get some crisps from the store?”
“Sure,” Phil replied. “Dinner’s not gonna be another hour, and probably two until it’s served.”
Like clockwork.
With a little bit of luck, Tommy only had to wait a few minutes before he finally heard the door to the bathroom click shut and he was on his feet. With Phil preoccupied and Wilbur gone, he slipped into the master bedroom undetected and grabbed the guitar. Tommy looked over it in his hands, tempted to give it a strum even if that would ruin his plan, and he hurried through the house to the sliding back door. He walked out onto the deck and breathed in the warm air. The sun was still high and shining down on him.
The guitar couldn't be hidden or else Phil would never see it, but it had to seem like it had been accidentally left outside after someone had decided to mess with it. The deck stretched across the entire back of the house, and the side that had a table and a pergola was the one away from the door, meaning it couldn't be seen from inside if he left it there. Unfortunate, since that was the clearest spot to prove his guilt.
Tommy decided on placing it against the railing.
He smiled to himself at the sight. A perfect crime.
Tommy turned on his heel and marched back into the house. He wiped his socks on the mat, looking up just in time to spot Phil at the counter.
“Phil!” He exclaimed, blood rushing to his cheeks at the realization that his sudden shock was more than enough to convict him.
Phil looked his way with a bit of a puzzled face. “Hey, mate.”
Tommy's eyes shot between his father and the hall as he tried to think of an explanation for what he was doing. When none came, he said the first thing that came to mind. “What—what—what are you cooking? For dinner?”
“Slow roast pork chops and potatoes and green beans. Could you stir the pot, actually?”
Tommy nodded quickly and hurried over to the stove, grabbing a long spoon from atop a can and beginning to push the boiling beans around.
When Phil didn't ask anything and went back to humming as he walked over to the TV remote, Tommy let out a small sigh. For now, it seemed he hadn't been caught.
He felt a bit of pride at that, his heart bounding at the idea of pulling this off. All Phil had to do was not look too far outside and Tommy would have set the stage—a nice family dinner broken up by the spotting of a certain instrument in the wrong place. Would Phil punish him in front of his brothers or leave the haranguing for when no one would hear?
Maybe it was a weird thing to be excited for.
Tommy didn't know why he wanted to get yelled at. The idea of learning the ropes of this place was good, but now that he was standing beside Phil, watching him toss out potato skins, the thought of being screamed at for doing something ultimately harmless—
Tommy set the spoon down across the can. It rattled for a second.
“D'you need me for anything more?”
“It's a pretty easy meal.” Phil glanced up with a smile, patting Tommy's shoulder. “I can manage.”
“Alright, just don't break your spine, old man.” Tommy chuckled.
“Oh, don't you start.”
Tommy laughed once more as he took a step away, heading back to his room, or at least planning to.
Something tugged on him slightly and he stopped, turning back to see Phil's hand still resting on his shoulder.
“Dad?”
Phil blinked, his eyes focusing as his hand fell. “Sorry, just… thinking.”
Tommy nodded and Phil turned more towards him, stepping close. He raised a hand to Tommy's face, brushing a tuft of hair away from his eyes.
Phil smiled at him for a moment before he sighed and let his eyes fall. “It's good to see you laugh, mate.”
“Good to laugh.” Tommy quipped awkwardly. Phil chuckled—a tight sound in his throat under it.
Tommy excused himself as fast as he could and headed back to his room. He didn't like watching his parents get sad about him, much less cry as they were prone to. He'd rather clumsily escape than watch Phil get all stuffed up about how many years he hadn't had Tommy cooking by his side.
The worst days were not when Tommy woke up with a phantom bruise on his ribs, but instead the days he had to see Phil and Kristin get all sad. It was awkward as all hell watching them get teary eyed as they remembered just how long fourteen years was. And it only got worse when Tommy made a joke about it, so he'd started keeping his lips shut when they got like that.
Tommy marched over to his desk and grabbed his school journal. The second part of his plan was simple; he needed some kind of alibi. It didn't have to be good, but he needed something he could point at and say he'd been busy with as a way to draw suspicion about the guitar away from himself. Tommy was going to come clean, but only after a few minutes of denying it. After all, what was a good lie and a good reason to get yelled at without the denial?
Tossing the journal down on his bed and grabbing a pencil, Tommy got to work, writing down what he was sure were incorrect answers to math questions he'd seen time and time again but never understood. Really, he was surprised that no teacher had ever asked him if he was in the wrong class. Maybe he'd just become known as a kid who passed every grade with a fifty-one.
Slowly, as the questions grew longer, his eyes drifted down the page and he slumped more and more into his bed. Somewhere along the way he'd pulled his comforter over him. It was warm, and with the smell of a home cooked meal and the boring, downright mind numbing paper in front of him, Tommy decided to close his eyes for just a second.
Tommy blinked himself awake to the sound of a knock at his bedroom door.
“Tommy?” Techno knocked again, his voice low and loud.
Tommy mumbled something that he was sure sounded vaguely like words.
“Dinner.”
“M'kay.”
Tiredly, Tommy rolled onto his side, his cheek sticking to his pillow. It was wet.
Tommy suddenly sat up with a grimace, bringing one hand up to wipe the drool off his face. His unjust punishment for taking an impromptu nap.
With a groan, he stood and headed out into the hall, the sky previously gleaming through the windows now dark and the orange lights of the kitchen shining down on him. The rain puttering outside was a gentle sound to surround the quiet chatter of his family.
Tommy was glad they'd arranged these dinners; the meals themselves made it worth his while, and having his brothers come by was an added bonus. He liked the few hours they hung around once a month. Getting to mess around and play some stupid games and watch a movie with them—it was fun.
Tommy waved to the table with a yawn, marching over and taking his place next to Techno with Blitz resting on his feet, Phil and Kristin just across from them. Wilbur was on the end, per usual, looking out at the deck.
The deck. The guitar.
Tommy's hand froze over his fork.
The rain.
The warmth of the house was gone, memories of what Tommy had set up rushing back as his family continued on talking, passing around bowls and making their plates.
No one knew. Or maybe they'd noticed earlier and brought it in before?
Tommy daringly let his eyes drift up, past Techno and out the door.
Sure enough, against the railing was a drenched, old guitar. He could hear it, the way the water slithered down the strings, how it tore into the wood, how it bent the neck and weakened it, over and over until—
“Tommy?”
Tommy snapped his eyes to Phil, who was holding out a bowl.
“Oh, yeah?”
“You want some potatoes?”
Tommy nodded. His expression hadn't changed since he'd noticed the guitar but he felt it. His heart beating faster. His breaths growing quiet. A bead of sweat slipping down his neck.
Tommy began to make his plate. He replied to the few simple questions he was asked, how he was feeling, how things were going with school work. He talked to his family, but if anyone wanted to know what he said, he wasn't sure he could remember ever a second later.
It was autopilot. Tommy was barely there anymore, he'd hidden himself in someone who wasn't panicking.
Once—not if—once they saw the destroyed guitar, he was a dead man.
And Wilbur was staring right out the door every time he looked ahead.