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All it took were three words, a loose rock on the way out of the spiral he’d been stuck in for weeks. It wasn’t that bad would be how Tommy would describe the rut that he was stuck in, unlike some of his more self-destructive episodes, this was more like purgatory. The urge to dig a cold blade into warm flesh and feel the muscle fibres give way like a newly opened parcel clung onto his skin, a thin layer of want that he couldn’t seem to shake. Yet the blaring brightness of “Congratulations for hitting the 10 month milestone” on the I Am Sober app would temporarily wash away the desire to carve into his legs. He lay on the fence between thoughts and actions, a mind numbing limbo that left him paralysed, stuck in a never-ending cycle of “will I do it today” and “maybe later”s. It was important that he was clean because being clean meant being sober and being sober meant being a good person. He was not a bad person and he hadn’t been for five months. He had been working towards the end of this hopelessness and all it took were three insignificant words for all of his progress to completely crumble.
It only takes a few days to pass and a couple of unfortunate events for ten months clean and five months sober to be poured down the drain. His timer is reset and he’s back in that damned office. One of blank walls and limping plants, paintings that capture meaningless waves and the lady who’ll never look him in the eyes. Fidgety and sweating, his bare arms stick uncomfortably to the pleather sofa, if Dr Number Four won’t meet his gaze then neither would he. His eyes remain fixated on stark-white converse and he can still make out the stain from when he grazed his knee on a run. He wants to spot out every little imperfection and story that hides behind scuff marks and blotches on his marred shoes, to delve deeper and find every tale behind every stain by himself, yet his trusty therapist ruins his moment by clearing her throat and pulling the trigger on the one question he did not want to answer.
“It's been a while since we’ve met up, Tom. How’s the past couple months been treating you?”
A breath lodges itself in his pharynx and stays there. Truly pathetic that he was back after all the prescriptions, psychiatrists, therapists and all of the other trivial bullshit he put up with to be deemed “cured” by everyone’s expectations. How could he be functioning one day, happy to be alive and then three stupid little words had the ability to turn him into some incapable, immovable unmotivated mass who refused to eat or sleep, content to lay in blood soaked sheets and a room so cluttered you couldn’t even see the floor. The state of the pigsty and the stench of vodka had set off the alarm bells in his parents’ head, it had gotten to the point where he was back on his old regime. All forms of social media temporarily deleted, on a probation period from streaming and taking 3 different types of pills twice a day. Despite all this he’s grateful his parents didn’t send him back to the ward, so he’ll look at Dr Number Four in the eyes and tell her about those three words.
It had started off as a bit. It always does because no matter the situation good old TommyInnit will always be the butt of the joke. The ease of which insults regarding him roll off his friends’ tongues will consistently make him shift in his chair and the fact that the quips happen off stream or behind his back bothers him remarkably more than the former, but he chooses to keep quiet as he prefers not to be labelled a killjoy. So he tells himself that they’re just joking because it's the truth. To him, the truth is pristine but it is far from perfect because on the surface it’s clean and shiny, harmless and funny, yet under a microscope is where all the secrets lie. Objectively, it’s all an elaborate way that’ll constantly draw out laughs, make fun of one and everyone will unite and do the same, it keeps the audience and the others engaged in an entertaining fashion. On the other hand, subjectively, they tear away at each and every insecurity the boy has ever had, once they are finished with one they move onto another, somehow dragging the ones he believed had been done and dealt with from the depths of his mind without fail. Annoying. Loud. Overzealous. Clingy. All the traits he gives himself will always be the ones he hates the most because he resents who he really is, the meek, tired boy who can’t seem to get up most mornings, who’s also oddly fascinated with zoology. So he puts up this bravado smokescreen of irremovable glitter and dizzying lights. His fans, his friends, they have only ever known his mask, to them that is the real Tommy. He is tired of pretend but the fear of rejection is overwhelming like white noise filling every crevasse in his mind, he cannot risk losing the character he’s built up so the play must go on.
Wilbur was more than Tommy’s best friend. He’d always looked up to Wilbur, no matter what the man did Wilbur would always be his go-to for anything. To him that man had hung the stars and the moon and Tommy wholeheartedly believed that no matter who he pretended to be Wilbur would think he was magnificent. Regardless of how in your face he could be or snapping with tasteless playful insults, Tommy was a glass house to Wilbur, completely transparent with no secrets to be hidden except for a couple that lay buried in the dirt long before the house was built. Wilbur was Tommy's brother, he loved Wilbur and Wilbur loved him. Or so he thought.
After a particularly long hefty stream, everyone had been feeling drained, irritability clambered into its battle stations and exhaustion crept in to instigate any incoming fights. Quiet conversations regarding plans of new ideas and stolen content served as cheap ambiance, despite the wavering atmosphere Tommy had decided tonight would be the night. He’d been preparing for weeks, hell months, to proudly announce that he was in recovery for an issue none of them were aware of. He was being weaned off his meds, he had been clean for ten months and sober for five, he still had a long way to go with school and everything else life would throw at him but he finally felt as if he was free of the shackles that kept him confined at the bottom of the well and all that was left was to climb.
The thought of sharing a private intimate victory with those he loved had sent adrenaline through his veins, excitement coursing and bubbling, he hadn’t felt sober giddy in years, it was a sensation he missed so much. Webcam on, eyes gleaming with mirth, he took a deep breath to speak and that’s when he was cut off by a groan. That’s when his heart dropped, hiding in his stomach afraid of being shattered.
“God Tommy, we’re tired as shit and already had to listen to you for the past three hours! Do you ever run out of things to say?” Ouch Wilbur, that hurt. This was important though, important to him, all the progress he’d made himself, all the throwing away of blades and fake IDs, all the self doubt and internal begging to break streak, he’d fought through it all himself. So he’ll stand his ground and state his claim because no matter who he acts like, he will always take pride in his road to recovery. Tommy starts his announcement and everyone is listening, the small talk being saved for later. All the ears on him makes him fidget a bit and hyper aware of the jagged scars that decorate his ribs and thighs but there’s no backing down now. Words dripping with fake confidence, he speaks with uncertain authority “I have an important P-S-A to make, I have offi–”
“We’re fucking exhausted Tommy! Read the room! No one cares about your stupid announcement!”.
Oh.
Oh.
Those three words. No. One. Cares. All of those open mindset workshops washed away, positive thinking was long gone after those three words had entered his ears. The man who had hung up the entire galaxy, the whole universe in fact, had just torn it down with a vicious grin right in front of his eyes. The return of a familiar weight is forceful on his shoulders and he slouches, his nose tingles as tears fill his eyes and all his idiotic trusting brain can think is “Oh.”. Like a switch had been flipped, his brain falls back on instinct, he apologises, he waits until he can lie and tell everyone that his mum is calling for him to empty the dishwasher and say goodnight. It was just supposed to be a stumble, something he could pick himself up from but this fall is near fatal and old habits die hard they say. He knows the person he’ll become after this and he hates him, the lying manipulative drunk who knows he’s killing himself over trivial things yet he can’t bring himself to care.
In therapy, the five steps of grief is a friend he’d gotten extremely familiar with overtime. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Denial is a steep step that takes time to conquer, anger is swift but in his opinion the most dangerous, bargaining was always his downfall that would leave him stuck in depression’s ditch. He had been so close to climbing out and walking into acceptance’s loving embrace yet here he was, back on the path of self destruction. Last time, it was a lot harder to recover on his own so he decided to tell the stranger tasked with fixing him every little detail. About the bottle of alcohol under his bed, his healing thighs and the person who’ll take over when he falls farther. He speaks of those who he loves and how dumb he feels for trusting so blindly. She writes in return, occasionally asking non-invasive prompts and giving gentle smiles. Dr Number Four is different, good different, and for the first time he leaves a therapist’s office content and excited for the next session.
When Tommy gets home, his room is spotless. Dirty laundry had been picked off the ground and lavender scented air fresheners were dotted around on his desk, bloodstained sheets are nowhere to be seen, instead they’re replaced with a soft yellow duvet and grey pillows, his favourite sheets. The makeover had been greatly appreciated, in fact he was ecstatic to not be living in a landfill anymore so the shame hits him twice as hard when the first thing he does is check his secret stash and sigh in relief that everything remains in its place.
He does some cleaning of his own. He throws away his new blades knowing that he’ll end up buying more later in the week, he rearranges his cushions the way he likes them and flops down on his bed. With a bottle of bitter liquid in hand, the guilt burns his throat more than the vodka does. He tries to keep count and estimate the amount of shots he’s taken but eventually he loses the number to the warm fog that starts to seep in.
Addiction had been a well educated topic within his family, with a genetic predisposition that made him the most vulnerable to becoming codependent on some cheap high his parents had practically begged him to steer clear of drugs, cigarettes and alcohol. His entire teenage years he’d follow their instructions to a T, whenever his college friends would somehow obtain alcohol or weed, he’d kindly deny their offer and spend the rest of the night as super nanny. Yet, at age sixteen his heart had been shattered by a nameless girl in college who led him on, making him think she liked him when in reality it had been a bet all along, that had been the breaking point.
From that moment onwards was when the lying started. When the drinking started. When the original spiral started. All because of some pathetic faceless girl who thought popularity was a priority, she was the reason why he was a raging alcoholic. On that night, he lied to his parents about a sleepover at Freddie’s and bought six bottles of Smirnoff Ice. His height and mask allowed him to pass off as a barely legal teen but he made a mental note to ask a friend for a fake ID. That night he sat in a desolate park and drank his sorrows away, finding comfort in flushed cheeks and a directionless mind. The booze had brought impulsiveness, it washed away insecure thoughts and erased his overthinking, making his mind much more tolerable for himself. The drinking slowly became ritualistic. Bingeing once every two weeks turned into once a week, then after a particular spike in fame and stress it swiftly became thrice in the span of four days.
Eventually, when bottled cocktails weren’t enough he moved onto hard spirits, practically training himself to drink without a chaser. On the rarest days, alcohol wouldn't cut it so he feeds off of the dopamine being released when crimson is being spilt from self-inflicted wounds. Most nights, he comes home stumbling and smelling of cheap liquor and whenever his parents even attempt to touch on the issue he plays the blame game. He didn't want to stop so he became increasingly good at guilt tripping. At every chance he gets, he spits venom at the two who loved him unconditionally and he feels no remorse whatsoever. He tells them that it’s because of their stupid genes he’s addicted, that it’s their fault for handing down the tools to becoming a full time alcoholic. Then he whips around and calls them controlling and paranoid as if he were some ticking time bomb rigged to explode, he tells them to open their eyes because he is not an alcoholic. His statements are contradictory but he’s willing to sell any false narratives that get his parents off his back. Every night he comes home intoxicated, he lies about where the drinks are hidden whilst his parents are tearing apart his room for illegal paraphernalia. One night, there’s a fight so loud that the windows in the house shake. He is more pissed and the buzz is fading so he storms out with the aim of permanently blacking out in some random part of Nottingham. The alcohol hadn’t been enough to drown out the static. He needed to be in control. So it's no big surprise when he wakes up groggy with an IV in his arm, thighs wrapped in itchy gauze on an uncomfortable plastic gurney in Nottingham City Hospital.
That had been the turning point, almost dying had affected him more than it should've. Life had changed since the Incident. He went on a two month hiatus to focus on his health, he burnt through three therapists because Number One’s son was a big fan, Number Two asked too many questions for his liking and Three was tolerable but the distaste on his face made Tommy feel judged in supposedly safe space. He sticks with Three for a while, his parents are trying and so should he. The biggest change had been his one month stay at the local psych ward. The bare walls and dehumanising schedule he was put through basically traumatised him. The clear disdain on the nurse's face every nightly check and shower vigilance had made him feel like some disgusting yet fascinating zoo attraction. That hellhole had scared him away from ever trying to kill himself again.
When he’s off probation, he continues online, reconnecting and meeting up with his friends for the first time in Brighton. His parents relax when he’s one month sober and the trust is refreshing. Medication slowly became routine and less of a chore, when he’s been sober for three months and clean for eight they decided to lower his dosage. He started being honest with his parents which led to an immediate change in therapist and a lock on the liquor cabinet. Therapy went from twice every week to once every two weeks. He had control over his life without the use of a razor or a bottle of tequila, at some point he stopped surviving and started living. But at the blink of an eye, he was back at the starting line feeling as if he was never going to finish the race.
Of course it's harder this time around, the burden of shame and guilt for relapsing gets too much on most days, the lying is back and so are the spiteful insults. Everyone had been trying to contact him, three weeks had passed since those three words and the radio silence was all too concerning. Their pleading texts, wrapped with delicate concern, had only irritated him further. They didn’t want to know before so why should he let them know of his struggles now? After scrolling through pitiful messages, all of his friends received a notification announcing that they were blocked.
There’s another incident after. One that declares him a larger fuck up than he already is, one that screams family disappointment, one that makes him run away for the first time. It’s Friday in April and he’s on the way home from Dr Green’s office, she grew on him and it was evident that she understood that respect was a two way street so he decides if she respects him he should be polite and do the same. He takes a detour on his way home, not to a corner store or the nearest Tescos for a bottle of liquor, but instead taking what Dr Green said into account.
Enjoying the little things in life leads him to a park bench that sits on the edge of a pond, Mother Nature takes a day off and the winds only whistled in return. Pink mums amongst white windflowers and the honest chatter of random citizens keeps Tommy distracted. There are a couple of geese wading in the soft currents, the sun nestles itself between two clouds and for a moment the world pauses. One month sober and one month clean had brought a startling degree of clarity. Settling down on the damp bench he gives himself time to reflect. He had never been magnificent, never been this omnipotent being that became his persona, it had become a self-absorbed façade to mask the fact that he was so painful mortal yet he hadn’t realised that so was everyone else. Sat watching the sun descend on a breezy park bench, Tommy came to the stunning realisation that he wasn’t invincible, that no matter how hard he tried he won’t always be on top of the world because he is only an individual and one death would not stop the world from moving forward. So he must move with it. He is insignificant but in the most fulfilling way possible.
When he arrives home it's way past curfew. With eyes red and puffy from silent joyous crying, all he wishes to do is to collapse and sleep. Except his parents have been worried sick for the past few hours, thinking their son was blacked out on the pavement in some far away rural town. He thinks that this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Instead of the fretting and gentle hugs, there’s shouting about an ambulance, alcohol poisoning and of course the question of sobriety. And it hits him all over again, the only thing on his mind is “Oh”. So he’ll do what he does best, make more of a mess.
"God Tom! I thought you were finally being honest with us!"
"I am being honest! I am sober"
"Do not lie to us! We thought you were finally changing, finally trying to get better!"
"Finally changing?! I will always be an alcoholic, sober or not. It is going to be a part of me for the rest of my life! I am not your damned pet project that you can fix and change at the snap of your fucking fingers. I am trying but you don't give me room to breathe!"
"Because we don't trust you Tom and you know why we don’t!"
"Oh fuck off, I'm going out and don't try calling me."
After the shouting match of a lifetime, Tommy finds himself with two goals; to get as far away from Nottingham as possible and to get so drunk that he wouldn’t be waking up in any hospital. Heart pumping and his legs working hard, he just makes it to the train station to catch the last train of the night, whose destination is coincidentally Brighton. Curled up on the scratchy seat, the emotional exhaustion catches up with him and sleep takes over.
Gentle tapping on his shoulder had woke him up. A bright blinding light shone directly into his tired eyes, bleary vision makes out a woman with a sympathetic smile and tone that painfully reminds him of his mother. He decides he most definitely needs to find the nearest pub or anywhere he can get a shitty bottle of booze. Legs moving faster than his mind, he snaps out of his daze to realise that he’s in the local Asda with two bottles of Smirnoff being handed to the cashier whilst she asks for any form of age verification. Shivering hands fumble with the leather wallet as he attempts to give his ID in the least suspicious way possible. It’s not a fake, he’s now legally allowed to purchase alcohol but the unsteady beating of his heart will not cease. His anxiety stems from the fact that this woman has no idea that she is enabling a teenage alcoholic, his stomach drops as he bids her thanks whilst handing down a twenty pound note. Yeah, he could definitely use a drink.
A majority of his night is missing but he “wakes” up in a bar, a pub more specifically with a large pint in hand. Judging how cold his head is he’s lost his cap and his shirt is sopping wet meaning he’s downed one too many drinks. The weight of a singular bottle of vodka disguised as water lays heavy in his coat pocket while the bartender gives him a sad uneasy look, silently asking if he’s alright. His eyes sting, no one had looked at him like that in a while, only pitiful glances that masked disappointment from his parents and nothing from his friends since he cut them off. It may be the alcohol finally taking its toll but his veins are bubbling with unknown rage. He’s just so mad and confused. At his friends. At Wilbur. At his parents. At the world. At himself. In his drunken stupor, he raises his head up from the bar table and drags his palms down his face, leaning further back he suddenly slams his head back down full force into the pub bench. All the eyes of middle aged men and women alike are on him and all he can do is raise his glass and cheer alongside the other attendees.
Handing over a wad of cash to the wary barkeep, he whispers “keep the change and thank you” whilst offering a smile. As soon as he leaves the pub doors, a biting gust of wind pushes back his blond curls as he chuckles. A boy alone on the streets of Brighton once more! He hops and skips and jumps over each crack in the pavement as best as he can with the little balance he has left. The world is asleep but his bones are far from tired. His heart leaps from his chest, his ribs are vibrating with unused energy and he wants to run free. Nothing is weighing him down anymore. Tommy is happy. Tommy is excited. Tommy is flying. Well he believes he is flying when in reality he’s falling and no one is waiting to catch him. He will find himself splat on the sidewalk but for now he’s only concerned with whether it's a left or a right to Wilbur’s flat.
Knees bloody and bruised from falling over, he’s met with an apartment door with an unfamiliar number. If this is Wil’s flat, then he cannot wait to scream at him for being the reason he’s so numb, for being the reason he’s lost every good thing in his life. And if it’s not, he’ll give the unfortunate homeowner an apologetic giggle and a wave goodnight. After all, it's not like he intends to stay the night and wake up in the morning.
Sober Tommy would’ve given himself a minute to rationalise going to his recently estranged pseudo brother’s home whilst absolutely smashed but drunk Tommy couldn’t care less. He wouldn’t be picking up the pieces in the morning, plus if everything went right no one would be picking up the pieces in the morning. Uncapping the “water” bottle, he takes a large swig as he knocks onto the apartment door and the man he is met with is definitely not Wilbur.
At the door is a slightly taller freckled blond man with piercing green eyes glossed over with protective anger and a hint of exhaustion. The man goes on a rant about how he could call the police on him and that real fans would respect people’s privacy and not go house hunting. The American accent stuck out like a sore thumb but that wasn’t the detail that made him wonder, his voice sounded so familiar. Then it hits him. Oh. This is George’s home. He had taken a left when he had meant to take a right. He was at the wrong house. Yet all he can do is fall apart in the man’s sturdy arms and sob, hiccups and snot, the whole spiel had finally let loose as rambles of sorrys left his drunken lips. As he breaks down, toned arms wrap around his lithe build and for a moment the world stops spinning and when Dream mumbles in his ear “Oh Tommy.” It's the first time in months he feels alive.
The street is quiet and all that can be heard is the faint buzzing of street lamps as strong hands coax him inside onto a comfortable sofa. His head is warm in someone’s lap as rough calloused hands sweep his hair away from his eyes. Tommy can hear two other voices questioning who he knows is Dream but he can’t seem to focus, his brain locking onto the gentle reassurances that are whispered into the mix of the conversation. His double vision can barely make it out but with the wide eyed look Sapnap seems to give George whilst holding his “water” bottle is evidence enough that he’s in deep shit. The dark haired brit sprints to grab a glass of water and practically forces it down his throat. Tommy wants to apologise, he wants to scream at them for leaving him alone, he wants to call out for his family, he wants to tell him that they should’ve left him to freeze in the blistering wind of Brighton but the buzz is gone because this type of energy is short lived. His body catches up to his brain and all he can do is shut his eyes and pray that he won’t wake up.
God isn’t real, he decides. All because at twelve fifty seven in the afternoon, Tommy wakes up with a rumbling stomach and watery eyes. It takes a minute to settle in. He remembers fragments of the prior night, the bruise sporting his forehead and grazed knees is evidence enough that meeting the entirety of the Dream Team had not been some miracle nightmare. As much as he’d like to ponder, the scent of fried hash and sunny side up eggs bring him back to reality.
Sat upon the breakfast bar is most definitely Sapnap and George, the unknown face must be Dream then. It hits him again yet the only question he has on his mind is when the hell did Sapnap and Dream get here?
“Just a couple of weeks ago, a bit after you went MIA.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, you cut contact with everyone so respectively everyone freaked out and are consequently searching the whole of England for you, Toms.”
“Oh.”
“And somehow you manage to show up at my doorstep, drunk as a skunk, looking as if someone told you the world was ending.”
“Oh.”
Sapnap, Dream and George had all banded together to look for him. They all came to England, just for him. With that knowledge alone, his heart cracks and falters. Whilst he was out indulging in his own personal suicidal desires, they had been tearing up the local streets in search of their missing friend. Before his eyes can leak anymore tears, a plate is handed to him as the Texan speaks softly.
“Let’s eat first and talk later, judging by what you were drinking last night you must have one hell of a hangover”
The other two exhale out their noses as silent laughter and Tommy doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover.
Standing over the sink, hot water and lemon soap is the only thing that Tommy is currently aware of. After insisting that he wash the dishes as thanks, he can’t help but stare at his murky reflection in the shine of the faucet. The bags under his eyes are enormous and the bruise on his forehead is a muddy yellow-ish green, he wants to point out every other flaw in his face, how one eye is higher than the other or how he can’t smile properly but he has an important conversation to get back to. So he wipes down the last plate and returns to the living room.
Silence had never been something Tommy had been fond of. Ever since he was a baby, he’d babble to fill the empty space. Keeping the room loud had been a way to distract himself from his own mind, from the dangerous thoughts that would permeate when no one was around. The silence in the room is deafening and he’s terrified but he’s reached his limit. So he speaks.
“I was planning on killing myself last night.”
The tension in the room thickens. Sapnap’s once laid back posture turned ridged, in an instant Dream leaned closer and George sucked in a deep breath. His hands are shaking as they reach into his jean pocket to pull out a metallic red chip.
“I was also one month sober because I’m an alcoholic and have been since I was sixteen.”
George chokes on air when Tommy finally admits it, Sapnap sends a wide eyed look at Dream and all the blond man does is stare. The gaze burns a hole into his brain, this memory will never be forgotten, the look is so devoid of any emotion. Just empty eyes meeting hollow, a void to another void and that’s when Dream pulls out his wallet. Unbuttoning the coin pouch, a bronze chip is revealed and Tommy can’t keep the dam shut.
Dream’s hugs are grounding, squeezing a bit tight to remind Tommy that he is here and most importantly he is not alone. George and Sapnap both send sympathetic looks as Dream shares his story of horrible friends, competitive spirit and frat party drinking games. Dream reads Tommy like an open book, his mood begins to sour so as to pull him out of his thoughts Dream nudges the younger’s shoulder to joke “At least it wasn’t drugs!”
Without hesitation, Tommy unravels his entire story. About cautionary tales and masked disappointment, about his sharp tongue and venomous words, about his crippling self doubt and his compulsive need to self-destruct when things get too good. His worst fear is that they will look at him differently, that they would cast him out or look at him with the same hidden shame and regret his parents had yet their faces remain supportive, the two brunettes seem teary eyed and his first mentor gives him the look he’d always given Wilbur.
When he finishes, he can’t help but cry. But not like before where he’s sad that he’s forced to give it up or he’s pissed that he doesn’t have any other healthy outlet. He cries because the weight is finally off his shoulders. He is no longer destined to push a boulder uphill only for it to roll down and crush him. He didn’t have to carry the burden alone because now he’d met someone like himself and two who understand him.
So he cries. Curling in on himself, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand and revelling in the stinging sensation. He can feel and he is alive. The three adults wrap their arms around Tommy to cocoon him in a cacophony of warmth and unconditional love. ‘Oh’, his brain thinks, ‘This happiness is not temporary.’ This is what he's been craving after all this time. This is family, the ones who know and will keep him safe from the world and most importantly, himself. These are the people who will always be genuine with him and who will always love him no matter who he pretends to be.
The sombre atmosphere carries throughout the entire day, they spend their time cuddling on the sofa whilst the youngest phones his parents to apologise and to announce that he’ll be staying with his new sponsor for a little while. With a bit of persuading, they reluctantly agree, telling their boy that he’s loved and welcome home at any time he feels he’s ready.
He doesn’t forget to contact Dr Green, talking to her is like a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t hesitate to wish him the best as well as recommend him to another therapist she knows is reliable down in Brighton. He confesses that she became a second mother to him and all she responds with is “Next time you’re back here in Nottingham, you better take me out for lunch because we’re going to have a lot of catching up to do.”
The Dream Team halt the rest of the Dreamsmp’s investigation into their missing friend. With Tommy’s consent, they are told that he’s safe with them while their location remains undisclosed. They put up a fight, claiming they have a right to see Tommy but the protective anger in the trio’s eyes when shutting them down is so painfully apparent that they back down almost immediately.
They spend the rest of their day lightening up the mood by joking around, Tommy decides to make dinner and now George is begging that he cooks for them every night. Silence is filled with joyous laughter and continuous warmth that settles comfortably in his chests and the only thing on his mind is ‘I could get used to this.’
Six months had passed and living with the Dream Team was eventful to say the least. Constantly bantering and finding things to do, Tommy's busy juggling streaming, teaching George and Sapnap how to cook and exercising with Dream that he barely has time to even think about drinking or dragging a blade against his ribs.
Being on a first name basis with the other two had been a massive change, only in dire situations he would refer to either of them as Nick and Clay. It had been a symbol of how close they had grown in half a year’s time. He’d never been this close to any of the members, not even Wilbur but after they all put everything out on the table for their other flatmates to see it became so difficult to separate them.
Soon enough flatmates wasn’t an appropriate title for those who carried him out of the trenches of his self-destruction. They were brothers, with the way Sapnap would waltz into Tommy’s room and shake the boy awake to beg for pancakes or the way that Dream would happily goad Tommy into running an extra kilometre or the way that George bugged Tommy to unban him from his own kitchen after almost chopping off a finger.
This time around it was so much easier to be honest. To himself and to his brothers, when the truth was too much to reveal the three immediately realised the shift in his demeanour and would spend the day with him. Not to push and prod for answers but to provide much needed comfort, whether that be pillow forts, rewatching Up or watching the stars.
They understood him and he understood them. He knew when George preferred to be left alone or when Sapnap needed space to cool off in tense situations and especially when Dream would need a meeting. They tackled everything together, as friends, as brothers, as family.
So when a certain blond picks up a dark blue chip with a six engraved in the cold reaffirming metal, he can smile with real joy that he’s here, breathing and alive to cherish George’s dimples, Sapnap’s goofy lopsided grin and Dream’s prideful hair ruffle.
It took him time to talk to his estranged friends but they never pushed. It took him time to revisit home but they never forced him. They were gentle but not in a condescending ignorant manner. With them, it was easy to just be him.
So when plushies of highland cows and various species of tarantulas appear on his bed, he doesn’t question it. Even when movie nights are swapped out with The Blue Planet, with Sapnap asking questions every so often, George shushing him and Tommy answering with never before seen fervour, Dream watches not the documentary but their patchwork family. Tommy decides at that moment that he wouldn’t trade this for anything.
At seven months sober, the longest he’s maintained sobriety, he writes heartfelt letters devoted to each of his brothers, expressing each and every ounce of gratitude he contains in his bones. That the self doubt and self loathing had only become a small peep rather than a tumultuous chorus. He is god damn thankful that his friends are the most nurturing people for holding him up at his lowest.
Tommy may not be the best person around but nobody can ever be perfect. Everyone is flawed in their own intimate delicate way because they are human. Sat on the same Nottingham park bench that had led him to Brighton are three brothers, not bound by blood but by shared stories and unconditional love.
Tommy can finally breathe. Tommy has finally been handed a parachute to save him from his fatal fall. He’s ecstatic to land into the embrace of his family. With a warm spring pond in front of him, Tommy can finally appreciate the beauty of sobriety.