'i don't have anywhere else to go.' - a sleepy boys inc story

vingt-quatre

Tommy sits defeatedly on the edge of the bath, white porcelain steady beneath him. The tap runs, filling the sink with warm water for Tubbo to soak a cloth in. Taking the bottom of Tommy's chin, Tubbo wipes his face, washing away a dark, muddy maroon mix of dirt, grime and blood. The brunet keeps softly wiping his friend's face until Tommy takes a deep breath and says, "He said he wouldn't do it again."

Tubbo pauses. "Hm?"

Tommy's voice is almost a whisper. "My d- my... father. He said, the first time he hit me, it wouldn't happen again and that he was sorry."

The other boy is silent, listening calmly. "I wonder when he stopped being sorry. If he was at all."

Does he feel bad now? Tubbo thinks. Is he even slightly remorseful about what he's done to this kid? His own son?

"I guess it was when my mum started to help me; told him it was fine." Tommy hums. "Maybe when they locked me in the basement for the first time. I was 12."

The older boy's face distorts, wincing. He doesn't want to imagine it. He doesn't know how people can do something like that to their own child, their own flesh and blood, and not feel awful. Surely the guilt would eat them up inside?

It's like Tommy has read his mind. "The guilt goes away with the sobriety. They couldn't stop drinking, not just because of the addiction - I mean, of course the addiction is a big part of it, but it's not just that - it's also because the guilt would ruin them, I think."

Tubbo wonders if he wants him to say anything, then waits a moment and decides to stay quiet. He squeezes the cloth over the sink, dips it into the lukewarm water, and goes back to softly cleaning his friend's face, washing off any removable trace of his parents' house. Basement. The silence continues until hours later, when Tommy comes out of the bathroom clad in a graphic grey t-shirt and black sweatpants and Tubbo asks him if he wants to watch South Park with him. Tommy smiles timidly and nods.

---

"It's late." Techno walks slowly into the kitchen and Wilbur sighs, setting his glass of water on the laminate countertop.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Neither."

This is familiar. They'd said and done almost the exact same things the last time a member of their family was hospitalised. Kristin had left a voicemail in Phil's inbox, and he had fallen back into that familiar rut of depression. He had been doing so much better. But the brief hiatus he had taken from streaming had opened the door to seclusion, the one thing Phil had known was the worst thing for him.

---

Phil wakes up, disoriented and groggy. He opens his eyes and sees, through albeit bleary vision, a white ceiling. The bright midday sun shines in through the thin venetian blinds, lighting up the room and paining his eyes.

"Wh-" He tries to sit up but- Ow. Fucking ow.

"Phil!"

He hears a smooth English accent call for him and, after a beat, another male voice, strongly American and monotonous, says his name as well.

"What happened?" He tries to speak but it comes out in a croak and his throat feels awful.

"You've been asleep for three days. You fainted- don't you remember?" As Wilbur speaks, concern is in the faces gazing at him. "Phil? D'you remember the- Techno found you in your room, you must've passed out or something."

Shit. Why don't I remember it? That's not something you forget easily.

"You don't remember?"