Archive of Our Own ^beta

Prodding.

“You’re sick,” a voice snarks.

“Not sick enough,” another voice replies.

The fat piles up with each pull.

Endless goals that would descend until they were unreachable. Forever unreachable.

A ticking calculator that runs and runs endlessly. 

Totals, carbs, grams, protein and fat.

Always restricting and hungry—always cranky and tired. Eyes that were always swollen and sullen.

Tired.

So fucking tired.

And wearing the mask had long gotten old—long gotten tiring.

There was no stopping now, not with the large twitch audience and the blaring eyes constantly on him.

TommyInnit is tired.

But he can never stop.

He has to be perfect—he is perfect.

1. “I already ate.”

One of the things Tommy hates most about himself is his tendency to excuse his behaviour in such a believable way. He wishes he could be a poor liar—let porcelain lies pass through his teeth that anyone could see through and smash. Tommy wants to be engulfed in a hug and lovingly forced into recovery. He wants people that rock him back and forth even after the fifth relapse as they run soft hands through his curls and assure him that it’s okay.

He also loves his abilities, no matter his frivolous dreams that would never materialise. The truth is, contrary to his hopes: Tommy doesn’t want to get better. Because his hopes are silly, daydreams too perfect to become truth; they’re stupid thoughts created by his whimsical, childlike imagination that hadn’t gotten the fucking memo yet.

Tommy is not human.

So, he always says he eats.

He’s never empty, constantly full of fresh food. His stomach is always at its peak.

Food is worthless—a distraction, a tool, a toy to hurt–

—Tommy is sick of being hurt, as painfully ironic as it sounds.

“Hello— hello! Earth to Thomas Innit,” Wilbur snaps his fingers, pulling Tommy out of his trance. Tommy blinks, breathing as he shrugs Wilbur’s hand off his shoulder with heavy breaths.

“Sorry, Wil– was daydreamin’ or something. What did you– uh– what did you need?” Tommy manages to form coherent sentences in his state: a huge win, he thinks. 

They’re at someone’s house; Tommy doesn’t know who’s—Wilbur drove him—and everything feels– wrong. The scent of liquor fills the room, itching his skin as he begs to be able to break it. People chat, their words louder than Wilbur’s; mindless conversations fill his ears with the disgusting taste of diet coke simmering on his lips, fresh as it drops down his throat and fills the empty well of his stomach. It leaves him empty because the mere illusion of being complete is no longer enough. He’s dizzy (dreadfully so) as people brush past his shoulders; his brain falls on the line of ‘slightly intoxicated.’ The worst in the world: if you’re not fully sober or fully drunk, you may as well be dead.

He wants to tear his skin off as the weird buzz in his veins grows, a tumour infecting all parts of his body and making him want to kill himself.

“Toms, you hungry? We’re ordering pizza.” Wilbur smiles, looking over at Tommy amongst the large gathering of their chattering friends. “We’ll even let you get your disgusting pineapple or vegetable shit.”

Tommy can read Wilbur’s expression behind his casual demeanour; he can read the plead that involuntarily sneaks into the man’s voice and the slight curl to the words in a way that makes him want to puke. It’s clear. Wilbur is screaming: please, eat, let me see you— I will say please in every language just to get you some fucking food. Bitte, میں مانگتا ہوں, por favor, and alsjeblieft.

“Nah, thanks, Wil,” Tommy smiles—ignoring how Wilbur’s smile strains more.

“You sure?” Wilbur presses. They both know the meaning beneath the words: please don’t break my heart .

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he answers with ease. “I’m not hungry, king; I ate a heavy lunch. I’ll eat later; I swear on it.”

Tommy gives a two-fingered salute, even though he knows he won’t be keeping that promise.

Wilbur seems to steady a little, letting out a soft chuckle as he ruffles Tommy’s hair.

It feels weird—how Wilbur’s fingertips linger against his scalp and shake his skin softly, leaving a strange buzz of electricity in his curls. It’s strange how Wilbur looks so fucking fond —so ready to cherish Tommy and give him the world if he just dares to ask.

It’s strange how Tommy feels a curl of resentment build in his heart.

How? How could Wilbur act so casually when he knows Tommy is struggling? The conversation, alone, is enough to prove it.

Did Wilbur truly just not care?

As Wilbur shoots him a fond glance, grinning at him as he tugs him into a tight hug—feelings of doubt fade. They fade until he’s filled with an irk and disgust for himself. It’s tailor-made and hand-crafted to sink Tommy’s stomach into the depths of fucking hell ; it’s not resentment. Fuck him for even trying to blame Wilbur. It was jealousy .

He was jealous of how Wilbur could eat and stay skinny; he was jealous of how Wilbur could eat as much as he wanted, but he’d never gain weight. Tommy had seen the man’s ribs ( they’d been shirtless in each other’s vicinity on hot summer days many times, as the straight homies do ) and fuck– he wishes he could stick out so prominently. He still had a pudge of stomach fat resting beneath his chest, his abs highlighted more by fat than muscle, and his bones buried under layers of glucose.

He wishes he could be skinnier, bone-thin—wants to be so sick he was dead .

Because no matter how skinny he was, it was never enough. Maybe if he got sick enough to die, it would be enough .

Wilbur holds him tighter; only then does Tommy realise he clings onto Wilbur like a dog tugging on its owner’s pants as they leave the front door to go to work.

Fortunately, Wilbur is more generous than those owners; Tommy doesn’t think he could handle a loss of contact anyway, not when he would rather shoot his limbs with a gun. “It’s alright,” Wilbur murmurs. “I’m holding you, Toms. We can go home if you want. Do you need me to take you to the bathroom, Toms? Another room? We don’t have to be here.”

“ Please ,” he murmurs. “I just wanna– I just want to hug, Wil. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay, Tommy,” Wilbur assures. “For you? Anything is okay—I’d kill everyone for you and I wouldn’t hate myself for it. Something as innocent as a hug will never not be okay.”

“Okay,” Tommy whispers as he lets himself settle his chin on Wilbur’s shoulder with a gentle breath of relief, “okay.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur coos. “Just– just relax, alright? I’m not letting anyone get to you.”

If only Wilbur knew that the biggest threat to Tommy was himself.

2. “I’m always full.”

“We should go out for food sometime!” Niki suggests, pairing her voice with a quiet gasp. “I heard they opened a new bakery in Brighton— something like ‘ Mocha Cakes ’? We should go! They serve coffee too, so it’s perfect for Wilbur! What do you think, Tommy? You, me, Wilbur, ah– Ash and Rue. We could get Em to go too, or Tubbp and Ranboo!”

“Oh– uh– yeah, that sounds great, Niki,” Tommy smiles. “Maybe we could go somewhere else though? I’m not a big bakery person.”

“I mean, sure, but—” Niki pauses.

They’re just in their weekly calls, talking about random shit. Tommy had been going on about vlogging, while Niki occasionally butts in with her own story or suggestion. Then, Niki brings up Tommy’s– problem .

“You never eat, Tommy,” Niki observes; Niki is the one Tommy fears the most, hence why he hesitates to interact with her. She’s the only one in their friend group open about her struggles against an eating disorder, and Tommy can say it first-hand: victims can spot other victims. “Is everything alright at home?”

He isn’t an idiot; he can detect the hidden meaning behind that. Niki knows his parents and relatives; she trusts them with her life. She wouldn’t suspect them of anything bad, not as she knew them anyway—they were too nice to her.

No, what she’s asking isn’t about her parents at all. It’s much simpler, albeit much more terrifying. She asks behind her words:

"Are you having food issues?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s good!” Tommy grins, bullshitting his way through, “I just– you know, I’m always full. Have a slow metabolism ‘n shit, and I eat frequently so— I don’t really eat at our meetups. It’s funny, really, we always meet up right after I eat.”

“I see,” Niki purses her lips, clearly disbelieving of Tommy’s bullshit. She softens her voice because she continues, “you know, Toms, if you’re ever having issues, you can always talk to me. I know streaming can be a lot sometimes, yeah? I would hate for you to– ah– develop issues because of something like that. Whether mental or physical; it’ll stay confedential if you ever need help, alright? I– you can trust me, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do, Niki, don’t worry.” Tommy lets himself smile at Niki’s concern, making her exhale an air of relief and press her chin harder against her knee.

“Okay, Tom. That’s good.” Niki whispers, her voice soft as she smiles into the webcam and draws her attention squarely to Tommy. “I– I love you, kid. You’re really important to me. Platonically, obviously.” She quickly adds. “I mean– fuck – I know it’s more you and Wilbur’s thing to keep up the sibling bit but uh– you’re like a brother to me, Toms. Please– promise me— you’ll come to me if you need help. It can be the stupidest shit; I won’t make fun of you. Call me if you need to know how to bake a fucking cupcake, okay?”

“I love you too,” Tommy manages to whisper despite the guilt eating him alive from inside and out. “You mean a lot to me too, Niki. I’ll uh– I’ll stay happy for you, yeah? Keep farmin’ those– uh– those women ‘n primes—gotta be a rich fuck. And um– you’re a sister to me, Niki. I– I promise. I’ll call you; I will. I trust you, Niki, I do— please don’t think that I don’t.”

Niki finally laughs, slumping back in her chair as she curls up; her thighs roll up to her chest as she rests her chin on the soft slit between her knees. She keeps a cloud plushie under her chin to protect herself from the charm bone, and Tommy wishes he could look like her—

He wishes he could have her jawline, how it curves into a soft circle before it has the chance of becoming sharp and jagged like his. He wishes he could have her smile, the way her dimples perk or her eyes brighten. Tommy wants the same kind of almond-shaped eyes, the way they’re big enough to teether the line between cute and pretty but manage to be small enough that she doesn’t look like a fucking fish. He loves how her waist is slim, wishes his stomach could be like hers—wishes he could have her hair or thighs. He wishes he could have the acne-free, mature skin that litters her body like plastic resting on a field of flowers.

Most of all, Tommy wants to be like she is: an ethereal, helpful presence—a sweet and innocent foil to everyone’s chaos. He wants to be viewed like that and be far away from the target of harmful jokes or mean words. It’s– he wishes he were Niki. Surrounded by love, she had so much love to give and receive, whereas no one loved Tommy.

“That’s good, Toms,” words escape her lips, although Tommy stays focused on how she rolls her tongue. Niki spouts out pretty, accented letters—unlike his loud, boisterous screams that make everyone around him desperate to run to the nearest object they can hide behind. “I’m glad. Stay good, okay? I’m– I’m glad you’re doing alright.”

“I will, Niki.”

He wouldn’t, but for her mindfulness, he would agree; he would agree to anything if it would make his friends happier.

3. “You’re so pretty.”

“You’re so pretty,” or any variation of that was something Tommy both heard and said often. He heard it in voice calls when someone thought he was wearing something nice, or when someone decided to be merciful on Twitter. In real life, Tommy would hear fans say it while they smiles at him; or in Twitch chat when he chugged down his 3rd bottle of diet coke.

Tommy said it whenever he wanted to compliment his friends, when he thought they looked nice, to strangers when he liked what they wore or the colour of their hair; or when Tommy was jealous and wanted to murder someone in cold blood.

“You look really pretty today, Ranboo,” Tommy grins through gritted teeth.

“Oh– thank you, Tommy!” Ranboo smiles, a pleased flush crawling to his cheeks at the compliment.

Tommy didn’t hate Ranboo, not at all; the man was one of his best-friends, but Ranboo was fucking insufferable sometimes. Why did he have to be so stupidly perfect, goddammit? The way his body was completely flat, his chest dropping until it dipped into a thigh gap. He was tall and pretty, everything that Tommy wasn’t .

“No, genuinely, man!” Tommy insists, before saying something fucking stupid. “You’re the type of guy I would like– starve myself to look like! You look great!”

There’s silence. There’s no, ‘aw, thank you!’ or ‘maybe you’d lose some unneccessary weight if you did that.’

Instead, Tubbo’s the one to speak— “ sorry ?”

“I said that Ranboo was pretty,” Tommy says obliviously, “and I said I would starve myself to look like him.”

“ Tommy –” Tubbo stumbles over words. “Tommy, you can’t say shit like that.”

“What Tubbo means,” Ranboo chimes in, looking nervous, “is that– um– that’s— offensive. You– Tommy, those are serious symptoms of an eating disorder. Specifically something like Anorexia, Bullmia or Orthodexia. Obviously there are others, but those are the main restrictive—”

“ I know, Ranboo.” Tommy says; it’s obvious—what else did the bitch think he meant? “That’s why I said it.”

Ranboo blinks, “because it’s offensive?”

“It’s not offensive, though.” Tommy protests, gritting his teeth. “It’s a fucking compliment, man.”

“Tommy, that’s– that’s super insensitive. Some people have actual eating disorders, you know?” Tubbo chimes in, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to figure something out.

“What? Like you’ve had an eating disorder to comment with?” Tommy asks, pointedly frowning.

“What– Tommy, that’s fucked up. You can’t say that to people!” Tubbo exclaims.

“ I’m fucked up! I can say whatever the fuck I want!” Tommy argues back, the fire in his voice just as hot as Tubbo’s.

“No, that’s–” Tubbo says, before he pauses. Softer, with more composure, he asks: “Tommy, are you starving yourself?”

“No.” Tommy snarls and walks away.

And that’s the end of that conversation.

4. “I’m only cold because it’s cold.”

“I’m cold,” Tommy mumbles.

Wilbur, Kristin, Phil and Tommy are doing another vlog. It’s late Autumn, not enough to be too chilly, yet Tommy buries his nose in two sweaters and a thick jacket. He’s cold , and that’s not his fault. It’s just– Brighton weather.

“It’s like– sixteen degrees, Tom. We’re in good weather; how are you cold?” Wilbur asks, the man in a thin jacket himself. A stray scarf dangles off his neck, barely tied aside from a loose curl around his neck. A beanie sits on his head, although it’s purely there for fashion’s sake.

“You sure you ever eat, Tommy?” Kristin questions. Her smile is amused, but her eyebrows furrow in concern—it’s not a joke. She wears a thin jacket around his arms; it’s slightly oversized as it stretches to her knees, a warm beanie stretching across her bun. “I know you have blood pressure issues, but– you probably shouldn’t be cold in this weather.”

“Mumza speaking facts,” Wilbur mumbles as he shrugs his scarf off. Softly, he grabs Tommy and tugs him infront of him, giving him better access to his neck. Wilbur ties a warm knot around Tommy’s neck using the fabric. Tommy thinks it’s called a Twice Around; he remembers how Wilbur had developed an obsession with scarf knots a little while ago.

“Won’t you get cold?” Tommy asks as he buries his nose into the scarf and breathes, letting the precipitated heat from his mouth reflect and make him warmer.

Wilbur softens at the concern as he buries Tommy’s curls into his beanie. Wilbur tries to cover all of Tommy’s scalp, kissing his forehead once. Once satisfied with the position, he continues, “no, sunshine. I can tolerate chilly weather, and we wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Tommy flushes at the pet name, ducking his head as Wilbur finally fastens the fabric around the mop of blond curls. He huffs as he pulls away, satisfied with the pretty stretch.

“You can have my jacket too, mate,” Phil offers as he kneels, wrapping his jacket around Tommy’s waist in a secure Clove Hitch. The red coat falls over Tommy’s thighs, dangling in the air. “I know your chest is very protected, but I assume your legs only have one layer. That’s most likely why you feel cold.”

“Fuck it– take my gloves too,” Wilbur mutters, indignantly stretching his gloves over Tommy’s nimble fingers. Wilbur slips one of Tommy’s fingers in, the boy losing the tension in his shoulders at the feeling of his brother’s warm clothing. Wilbur mumbles quiet curses as he tacks on the fabric over Tommy’s palm, adjusting the elastic to fit better on the boy’s smaller hands.

Kristin smiles at them with a fond look.

“God, you two are so soft,” she teases.

Kristin turns to Tommy in a moment, her eyes quickly transitioning from fond to worried as her eyes flick up and down the boy’s figure. She eyes the boy with concern as he buries himself into the warm fabric, shivering despite the warmth the clothing should ideally provide. Yet, Tommy still shivers; he trembles, skin tremoring at the cool breeze that hits him and twirls around his baby hairs. She breathes, managing to collect herself before she asks:

“Tommy?”

“Mm?” Tommy asks, breathing into the scarf as he meets Kristin’s eyes. Wilbur has an arm tightly around his waist, a small smile quirking his lips as he chastely kisses Tommy’s scalp.

“Are you sure you eat enough, Tom? You shouldn’t–” Kristin hesitates, working on her phrasing to ensure it’s not too harsh, “–it’s not normal for you to be so cold. Some people get cold easier, but you don’t eat properly either. Are you sure you’re not cold because of food reasons?”

Tommy blinks, trying to form a response as he stares at Kristin’s warm eyes. They’re not judging, ready to accept the truth no matter how ugly it may end up. She smiles at him like he’s worth the world and deserves help.

He almost breaks on the spot—almost cries and shakes as he finally lets himself break and spill the thoughts that plague his head.

But he doesn’t .

“I’m fine, Kristin.” Tommy smiles; it’s strangely strained, “It’s just fuckin’ cold. Just because you don’t have temperature receptors doesn’t mean I can’t have them.” He huffs, skipping forward as he spins on his toes and walks backwards, looking at the three with enthusiastic steps; he bounces on his feet.

“Doesn’t mean you have to starve yourself,” Wilbur mutters as he ruffles Tommy’s hair.

“I do not .” Tommy squeaks, but it sounds half-hearted even to his ears.

“Sure,” Wilbur murmurs. It fucking frustrates Tommy so fucking much; why can’t the man let it go? And if he couldn’t, did he have to be such a dick about it and make Tommy feel bad?

“Wil, let him go,” Phil chastises; he’s giving Wilbur the ‘ I’m-not-joking’ look. Kristin giggles, smiling at the two as she observes Phil’s dad look.

“Thank you,” Tommy mutters, curling into himself as his shoulders hunch; he breathes in relief.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” Wilbur admits. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, you should— ugh, fuck me – I’ll be more sensitive about it in the future.”

Tommy grins, bouncing on his feet as his demeanour shifts from uncomfortable to amused. He giggles, spinning again as he begins to run forward. He smiles, “apology accepted and shit. Now, come on! The arcade doesn’t just wait !”

“Alright, alright, wait up!” Wilbur shrieks as he follows behind, chasing after Tommy with quick feet.

Kristin and Phil watch the scene fondly—pushing down flickers of concern that bubble up at how Tommy has to pause every few seconds to take a breath because he’s getting tired.

That’s just the chill getting to Tommy—nothing else.

5. “___”

Tommy’s been quiet.

He’s fatigued—he hasn’t eaten for 43.24 hours now—so he just nods along with the dialogue and words.

Niki and Wilbur discuss a book, and Phil exchanges occasional quips with Kristin, while Tubbo multitasks while bickering with Ranboo. Tommy’s quiet—it’s strange for him, but he feels too tired to mutter out half-hearted responses or jokes. He rests his head on the sofa’s armrest, occasionally mumbling whatever comes to mind; he doesn’t want to seem too suspicious. Of course, his friends have picked up on it and have the brain cells to be quieter.

Tommy draws himself into circles as he traces scenarios in his head—songs playing themselves on a loop as he tries to match a coherent story along with the beat. He feels his hands trace to his cheeks as he begins to scratch himself, feeling himself rip off a layer of skin as it makes small white dragging lines. Things hurt .

“Tommy?” Someone murmurs; there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Toms? Tommy? Are you there, sweetheart?”

“Huh—” Tommy breathes, startling himself from whatever half-assed daydream he was having. Niki kneels in front of him, her hands cupping his cheeks with worried blue eyes. Her hair is tied in a bun, stray pink strands falling over her face; her finger gently brushes across Tommy’s jaw. The touch is soft and tender, paternal and caring in so many ways; Tommy feels loved, even despite how empty his heart is. “Oh– oh, Jesus Christ. You scared me. Sorry.”

“You’ve been quiet, Toms,” Niki murmurs as she brushes a curl out of his face, eyes tender as her eyebrows furrow softly in concern. “Infact— you’ve been very quiet as of late. I didn’t– I didn’t want to address this with you, but– Tommy, I’m worried . We’re all worried about you. Are you– have you been struggling with eating? I’ve– fuck that, we’ve noticed some disruptive patterns, Toms; are you–”

And that— that pushes Tommy to his breaking point.

They were his friends, not his fucking parents .

“Oh my fucking hell!” Tommy screams, pushing Niki’s tender touch away. Suddenly, he feels the weight of all eyes on him—so he turns to address the eavesdropping audience. Everyone has varying degrees of concern drawn on their face, and anxiety boils into anger. “Fuck all of you, Jesus Christ! How many times do I have to say ‘no’ for you to fuck off and take the hint? I don’t have a fucking eating disorder! I don’t have a fucking eating disorder! I am fine! My eating is fine!” He shrieks; his throat aches from how loud he screams, the shouting leading to impromptu tears. Everything fucking hurts; he wants to break into sobs. Everything is too fucking loud; everyone is looking at him; everything is so fucking overwhelming, he wants to kill himself—

Despite his screaming, he hates himself; he wants to crawl into the depths of hell and hide there where none of them can see him. He feels so fucking awful as he looks at the tears building in Niki’s eyes, Wilbur’s underlying concern, or Ranboo’s understanding looks. He wants to cry and scream apologies until his throat is sore and he can’t speak, and then he wants to write them until his wrist breaks.

There’s something so wrong with him; he wants to apologise. He also wants to shout and scream. He wants to throw sharp bottles of beer at their fucking faces until they die of blood loss and laugh at the prospect of their deaths; he wants them to feel what Tommy feels because of this confrontation—at this fucking intervention.

“ Tommy –” Ranboo starts, and it’s so full of concern and pity that he wants to cry. “Tommy, I’m sorry , we’re just—”

“Fuck you! Fuck you too! What the fuck is wrong with you?! How long have you been discussing this shit behind my back? I hope you fucking die; what is wrong with you?!” Tommy screams. He wishes he could shut up because he doesn’t mean it. It wasn’t Tommy’s fault; please believe him. He doesn’t fucking mean it. He swears he didn’t fucking want to say it or think it. 

Disgusting tears fall down his face, mixing with the blood falling down his cheeks from scratch marks and flowing to his mouth. The savoury liquid drips on his tongue, the taste of tears adding a salty mixture that makes him want to cry. It reeks of rotting corpses and spreads a general scent that makes him want to puke because it comes from him . It comes from him because he’s a fucking nuisance.

Tommy stands up and wordlessly leaves the room, struggling to unlock the door to the room he has in the hotel they stay within. Once the door has been swung open, he shoves it closed and locks it properly before he falls to the floor, breaking into cries.

His chest heaves from how hard his breathing is, letting out sobs that shake his shoulders until he’s left in a coughing fit that only worsens the more his hyperventilation intensifies. He can barely cry when he tries not to cough out blood. He wants to sob—but he can’t without dying.

It hurts so fucking bad; his eyes sting from his tears. The walls suffocate him; it feels like no space will ever be big enough, although everything is too big. He wants to be in an area that’s everything at once, but he’s not in that space. It translates into severe physical pain; Tommy feels like he’s fucking dying . Infact, he wants to die; it all hurts so bad . It feels like someone’s pulling apart all his limbs as loud music blasts in his ears; he feels everything touch him. Tommy feels everything that touches his skin and makes his skin: each conflicting texture, each pudge of fat, each tremble of his veins, and everything that pinches his skin. Everything is so fucking potent!

He wants to crawl out of his body, rip out his ears and burn himself until all his nerves disappear; Tommy doesn’t want to feel shit . He wants to feel nothing ; he wants to die ! It hurts so fucking bad— someone please fucking kill him! His skin feels wrong, his head feels wrong, everything is wrong, and he doesn’t even know why!

It hurts.

+1. “I’m sick.”

“Toms?” Wilbur asks. He knocks on Tommy’s door softly, making sure it’s not too loud; he feels like shit for what happened earlier since Niki had dropped it on him impromptu, not that it was her fault. “Tommy, can I come in?”

“ Go ‘way, ” Tommy murmurs from behind the door, quiet shuffling heard.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says slowly. “I– I share a room with you, Toms.”

There’s some soft breathing before a soft click, and Tommy shuffles out of the way. He allows Wilbur to enter, the boy a little ball on the floor; he keeps his face buried into his knees.

“Oh, Toms,” Wilbur murmurs as he kneels next to Tommy and grasps the boy into his lap. Tommy buries his nose into Wilbur’s neck, breathing slowly and shaky as Wilbur runs a hand through his curls. “I’m not mad at you, Tommy; no one’s mad at you. We’re concerned, but we’re not angry. No one’s angry.”

“O–okay.” Tommy murmurs shakily, pressing closer. “Wil– Wilbur, I think I’m sick. ” Tommy breaks out, voice shaky and pleading with a whimper to make it even more heartbreaking. Wilbur’s soul shatters at the sound— the words —they make him want to sob.

“Yeah?” Wilbur encourages, “do you want to tell me more? Or do you just want to stop for now? You can breathe, Tommy, I’m not going to judge you.”

“I– okay, so, um, I have severe depression; you know that, I take meds for it.” Tommy whispers like it’s some sort of terrible secret. The mere suggestion makes Wilbur want to sob. “And y’know— I, uh– I self-harm. A lot.” Tommy stumbles his way through an explanation, still sniffling in between words. His voice isn’t normal per se, it’s high-pitched and squeaky like he would end up crying if he tried to sound normal. “And— not eating was just an extension of that, I guess. I– I just started starving myself because it felt good. But then I started to notice how— how pretty everyone else looks and how ugly I do. I mean— Niki has pretty eyes and you’re skinny —how can I compete with that? So– esssentially– I just rolled with it. I um– it felt– it feels good. Plus, Eating Disorder Twitter.”

Wilbur feels sick, but he powers through it for Tommy’s sake.

“Oh, Toms ,” Wilbur murmurs as he presses his lips against Tommy’s curls, twisting his finger around the boy’s curls. “You’re hurting so bad, aren’t you? You– baby, ” he hums sympathetically. “You don’t deserve any of that, Tommy. Do you understand what I’m saying? You don’t deserve to go through anything like that. I love you, Tommy. I love you . I can’t– we’ll get you through it, okay? You’re– I’m never leaving you alone again.”

Tommy huffs out a breath. He presses closer and snuggles his feet in between Wilbur’s legs to absorb the body heat that radiates off him, a breath escaping his lips at the words as he curls as close as he possibly can.

Tommy’s tiny: no matter how many rants the boy goes about explaining how he’s a big man, or how he is the only real man in the world. Simply put, the boy is small when he chooses to be quiet and curl up like an infant; Tommy may as well be a toddler, how he sees it.

Thrusting him into the harshities of the world as an unprepared child wasn’t fair .

“Sh,” Wilbur ends up whispering. “You can cry, or you can stay quiet. You can scream or shriek, whatever you want. Do whatever you want, Tommy, I’m not going to judge you. It’s such an unfair situation, darling, you shouldn’t have been thrusted into the world of an adult when you were only—”

“—10.” Tommy mutters.

“Hm?” Wilbur questions, twirling one of Tommy’s curls around his finger.

“I was 10 when I self-harmed for the first time.”

Wilbur breathes, his voice silent and heartbeat still as he presses a single kiss to Tommy’s scalp.

“Can I see, darling?” Wilbur asks, gently drawing circles into the boy’s back.

“Mhm. ‘s on my arms.” Tommy answers, letting his arm drop to Wilbur’s lap.

Wilbur gently raises Tommy’s sleeves, holding in both puke and tears at what he uncovers.

The cuts are deep —enough for both severe nerve damage and stitches. It almost looks surreal, deep scars drawing bubbles in the boy’s skin and simmering fresh colour that makes Wilbur tear up; he wants to cry.

Scars are drawn all over his skin, from his shoulder to his forearm. They range from cuts that could be passed as cat scratches—some deep and some healing—while others go so deep that they cause a visible dent in his skin. Some are so horrific that the blood bubbles into large, open wounds with a visible yellow gauge peaking through crimson liquid—while the healed ones look like large bruises. They look nasty, he can’t even imagine how painful they must’ve been.

“Oh– oh, Tommy ,” Wilbur breathes as he moves to set a soft kiss on the deeper ones. Tommy flinches at the first kiss but relaxes his shoulders as Wilbur trails a variety of kisses from the deep, fresh ones to the light, healing ones.

The darkest one looks like fresh flesh that had been thrown into a butcher’s office, piercing prominent parts of Tommy’s skin. It honestly looks like someone had just taken a bite out of the boy’s arm. They looked fresh, considering they were still bright red and bubbling. They were as wide as cigarette lighters, looking like a fresh bruise if not for the simmering blood that rose to the surface. At least 6 centimetres deep, they looked more like bubbles than blood. It was ethereal in a way, fantastical in the sense that Wilbur couldn’t imagine performing the act on someone, especially yourself. The red bubbles covered yellow ones, things that looked like beans in how they blistered and rose. Flesh arose from the sides, causing everything to mix in a disfigured and dysfunctional way.

“You’ve been doing this to hurt yourself?” Wilbur asks, his voice soft in ways he didn’t even know it could be—a concerned whisper involuntarily escaping from his mouth. “—along with avoiding meals?”

“You can just self-harm and starving yourself,” Tommy mumbles bluntly as he sniffles. “I’ve gotten used enough to the terms, Wil.”

“No– that’s— no. This is something fragile, Toms; I understand that hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but Tommy–” Wilbur inhales deeply, “Tommy, this is severe enough for psychiatric help.”

“No!” Tommy shrieks, pushing himself back as he looks at Wilbur with wide-eyed terror. The poor boy is so scared that he manages to push himself into a wall, earning a bump on his head. “No hospitals! No– no mental wards! I don’t want a mental hospital! No! No!”

“Okay, okay–” Wilbur soothes softly, “no hospitals, Tommy. No hospitals. I’m not going to force you there, darling, no mental wards. You’re an adult, love; no hospitals unless you want them, okay? Relax. You’re okay, sunshine, no hospitals.”

Tommy eyes Wilbur distrustfully, but eventually his shoulders slump from exhaustion. He lets Wilbur pull him back into a hug, his head resting on Wilbur’s shoulder as he breathes softly.

“Look at me, love,” Wilbur instructs as he cups Tommy’s cheeks. “Tell me: what do you want?”

“I wanna– I wanna get better,” Tommy admits quietly, drawing his eyes to the floor. “I don’t want to spiral after I get better.”

“No, no, up here,” Wilbur murmurs. “At me. See? Look into my eyes.”

Tommy breathes, looking up at Wilbur with slow blinks. Wilbur coos.

“Good boy,” Wilbur murmurs. “I just need you to listen, okay? You can object if you want. What I want you to do is sit with me for 20 minutes every day and name good things about yourself. I want you to take small, frequent meals—just a little snack will suffice—and I want you to tell me if you feel like, or if you do, hurt yourself. Is that fair, Tommy? You can say ‘no’, it’s just what I think will work best for you.”

“I dunno how much I can eat… I– I’m sorry.” he whispers, trying to draw his gaze away before Wilbur draws it back up with a snap of his finger.

“ Up here ,” Wilbur reminds. “And that’s– that’s okay, Tommy. We’re training your body to handle food again, okay? Are you okay with that, sweetheart?”

Tommy’s voice is quiet as he asks, “w– will it help me get better?”

“It will,” Wilbur murmurs softly. “I promise it will.”

“Okay,” Tommy breathes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay with it. I don’t– I don’t want to be sick anymore.”

“That’s the first step, Tommy,” Wilbur assures. “You’re doing well. You’ll heal; you can heal .”

“I can heal.” Tommy repeats with a shaky breath. “ I can heal .”