Chapter Text
“Is that all you got?!”
Now this, this is the life. The wind blowing through his hair, muscles pleasantly sore and working up a sweat underneath his black joggers and red hoodie. The mask makes it unfortunately more difficult to breathe, especially during high-stakes chases like this, but it’s worth it for the work-life balance. Can’t have any heroes recognizing his off-duty face, now.
His name is Loophole, he’s a vigilante with the power to traverse through solid objects. It’s not the same as phasing, like the revered hero Phantom, but it comes in use when attempting to escape the clutches of heroes and villains alike. Speaking of which…
Loophole comes to a halt on the top of a random building- it helps that most structures in the city have similar heights, makes for easy jumps and smooth landings- and hears the telltale heavy thump of the Blade landing on the ledge several feet behind him. With him follows Phantom, whose footsteps are quieter but his labored breathing is most definitely not. Lastly, the Angel of Death flutters to the ground, large ebony wings pushing the air around to make for a graceful descent. To the ignorant passerby, Loophole seems to be surrounded, at the end of his run, with the only conclusion being his capture and subsequent arrest.
“Give up, Loophole! There’s nowhere to run,” the declarative voice of the Angel announces, drawing his sword from its sheath on his hip. Even after flying above for about half an hour, he stands and speaks with such conviction, a beacon of strength and justice. His crow mask gives the appearance of a plague doctor, with a bucket hat instead of a wide-brimmed one, but his eyes are unmistakable, a pure blue told in folklore to be the last image seen before one’s untimely death. The Angel may wear a mask but not to hide his identity, since his pitch-black feathery wings are a dead giveaway regardless. No, he wears it for the intimidation factor, one that has little effect on Loophole.
The vigilante does a seamless check over his shoulder to ensure the other two heroes haven’t gotten any closer, before facing the Angel with a taunting stance, “That’s what you think, old man!” He shouts, the unbridled glee making itself known as his words project across the open night. “We’ve spun this dance before! And we’ll do it again!” He spins around with flair, acknowledging Blade and Phantom, who stand side by side as a team. Phantom alone isn’t one for intimate battle but paired with Blade, the duo is inherently deadly. To anyone who isn’t Loophole, of course.
The Blade stands with an odd air of elegance and bloodthirst, his beloved Ax of Peace hanging casually in his grip, shimmering a deep indigo. Another hero with no need for a mask yet wears one all the same, but his tell is the long braided bright pink hair that he parades with pride. It’s often adorned with gold clasps and other jewels intertwined in the strands, paired with the golden crown atop his head. Below it rests the skull of a boar with sharp tusks curling up and away over his cheekbones, his blood-red eyes peeking through the holes. His power is that he is incapable of mortal death. Wounds heal at a rapid pace, physical injuries refuse to impede him in a fight, immunity to poisons and drugs and venoms; he is quite the killing machine. Loophole wouldn’t hesitate to say he admires the man, if he weren’t at the sharp end of his ax.
Phantom, on the other hand, is clever and quick-witted, light on his feet and practically unpredictable when faced with a scuffle. His ability to phase out of existence makes him nearly impossible to be injured, however, it also means he can’t harm anyone else or manipulate any objects unless he first makes himself solid. But he has no limit on how long he can stay invisible. He is the only hero of the trio to forgo a mask altogether.
“How long will you keep this up, brat?! You know what you’re doing is illegal! Just give it up!” Phantom shouts, taking a small step towards him but Loophole sees no threat in him.
“And how long will you keep being ugly?” Loophole taunts, laughing as Phantom’s stern expression turns affronted.
“Are we really fighting a grade schooler right now?” Blade mutters to his teammate, still in a casual pose, but Loophole isn’t fooled to think that ax holds no danger.
The night winds roar but Loophole still heard the remark. “Hey, fuck you!” He curses. He continues on a tirade as he walks backward towards the edge, never taking his eyes off the duo, trusting himself to hear the movements of Angel if the man dares to get any closer. “I am not a child! But even if I were a child- which I’m not!- that would make you look even more in-com-pe-tent! To fail so many times to arrest a mere kid! Of course, that doesn’t matter because I am very much a Big Man!”
Loophole’s boots meet the slightly raised border of the rooftop’s perimeter, as he poses to jump to the next building, effectively continuing the chase although he plans to actually lose them this time. He waits for Phantom’s rebuttal. “I don’t know, you sound pretty childish to me! Can’t be older than 16,” the ghostly man accuses.
“I’ll bet 14,” Blade adds, shifting his footing so he’s pointed toward where Loophole moved, yet makes no effort to come closer.
Curious as to why the Angel is so quiet, Loophole checks over to the left again but the winged man hasn’t moved either. He only watches with his eyes piercing through the dark. “Well, would love to say that I enjoyed our little chat, but that would be a lie! See ya,” Loophole finally shifts his boots into place, activating the boost in his heels to launch him to the next rooftop once he jumps. He balances on his soles, tilting his center of gravity forward so the jump will launch in the right direction, then readies his body with bent knees, taking one more step before the leap of faith.
Then, time seems to slow to a crawl, every millisecond playing out in front of him like a slow-motion film. The Angel beats his wings as he sprints toward him, the added leverage allowing him to cross several feet in the blink of an eye. The other two heroes run as well but not nearly as quick. The moment Loophole’s boots leave the ground, the gunpowder capsules under the heels erupt in a controlled blast, which usually would send him flying to the next landing, but by sheer will does Angel appear by his side at the same time. His arm extends with a small open metal cuff gripped in his palm, aiming not for Loophole’s wrist but to the spot where his ankle will be once the blast propels him up. Angel’s hand closes around the thin space between his boot and his calf with terrifying accuracy, and subsequently locks the cuff on him.
The heaviness in his blood betrays the nature of the cuff, a power suppressor, so he’s unable to use his ability to move through walls or floors like they were thin air. Angel’s hold on his foot stops the full momentum of his jump, he doesn’t hold for long as the burst of fire burns him, but the damage is done. Loophole careens over the gap between the buildings but he won’t make it, he peers down the several-story drop, never once praying to a higher power but knowing that this may very well be the day he greets Lady Death. After 15 years of avoiding her grasp, pity him that her Angel be the one to enforce the meeting.
Perhaps if he could still use his power, he would propel off the nearest surface and sail through the opposite wall, still injured by the fall but with significantly less distance, without reaching terminal velocity it would be easy to shake off the strain. But alas, he’s been rendered powerless and must watch every vertical window stream by him, counting down the steps to his demise as he falls faster and faster. Or maybe time resumes. Or maybe time stopped altogether.
He lands. Sure. He lands. It was inevitable.
But he doesn’t move.
—-
“Shh, shh, shut the fuck up! I think he’s waking up.”
The boy opens his eyes slowly, wincing at the pain of his neck from napping in such an odd position before he can take in the other occupants of the room. He makes a mental note to stop passing out on the couch, or at least to lay down first if he does. Because at this rate, his cervical vertebrae will be messed up beyond repair before he even hits twenty.
When his mind catches up, he observes the room, counting three before him. Three teens, probably older than him, one on the couch next to him and two in other armchairs. None of the furniture looks to be in any decent shape, more likely picked up at the dump rather than storebought. The one beside him has blond hair, dark jeans, and a dark purple hoodie. The second has ridiculously long limbs, folded awkwardly as he sits in the chair, black and white hair that splits down the middle, along with two-toned skin that does the same and heterochromatic eyes in red and green that watch him. The last is much shorter, brunet, hazel-eyed, has two stubby horns peeking out from his skull and burn marks across half his face.
Suddenly, the realization hits him that he has no idea where the fuck he is or who these people are. Was he kidnapped? Is he being held captive right now? He didn’t have any restraints on him, that’s a rookie mistake, but he still needs to get out as soon as possible. He quickly darts his head around for a door and spies one at the end of a hall, readying himself to launch from his seat and escape that way.
The short one must sense the tense emotions because he calls out, “Tommy?” And at the same moment, the boy enacts his plan, vaulting the couch, crossing the distance and wrenching open the door, slamming it behind him and locking it.
But, oh fuck, this isn’t an exit, he just cornered himself in a bedroom! He backs away from the door as footsteps run toward it. “Tommy, please! Open up!” The voice of the short one calls again.
“What do you want from me?!” The boy (Tommy?) screams back, knees hitting the side of the bed and he falls backward, now frozen solid sitting on the edge of the mattress. He grips his hair, just now noticing that his right arm is in a brace. Did his captors do that? What the fuck?
“Just calm down, Toms. We can explain,” another voice breaks through.
It’s followed by a much deeper voice that says, “I’ll get the key,” as footsteps recede.
“Tommy, we’re your friends,” the short one continues. “It’s me, Tubbo. And Purpled and Ranboo. I know you’re confused but please trust me. We would never hurt you.”
“H-how do I know you’re not lying?” Tommy questions, but it comes off as pleading, his clouded mind starting to fizzle out the panic and replace it with just plain confusion. He’s got his gaze dead set on the door, waiting for the dreaded moment when the knob will turn and he’ll be forced to face whatever danger he’s been brought into.
“Feel behind your right ear,” the other voice instructs, which Tommy finds to be a strange request but does what he’s asked. “Do you feel that line of scarring? Where there’s no hair covering it?”
He does in fact feel the scar, it’s long and jagged, starting from right behind his ear and running down to the base of his skull. And just like the guy said, it acts a bald ravine to the long fluffy hair on the rest of his head. “Wh-what- why are you-,” he stutters.
It’s then that the deep-voiced guy returns with the key and the door slides open. No one apprehends him though, only the short one (Tubbo, was that his name?) inches closer, hands raised as a sign of meaning no harm. “You were in an accident, it did a lot of damage to your head,” he explains, eyes clear and genuine, “You’ve gotten better but your memory’s been fucked up. And that’s okay.” Tubbo takes a calming breath, one that Tommy can’t help but mimic, then continues, “Your name is Tommy Innit, you live here in Logstedshire with your three roommates. Me, Tubbo,” he points to himself, “Ranboo,” he points to the tall guy standing awkwardly in the doorway, “and Purpled,” he points out the last guy with the purple hoodie, slouching beside Ranboo with a determined yet sympathetic stare.
Tommy lets the information roll over in his mind, the fog beginning to dissipate as pieces of his past arrange themselves in some semblance of order. Right. He’s Tommy. He’s been living with these guys for as long as he can remember (which may not be saying much but he knows it’s a long time). He doesn’t have any blood relatives, these friends are the closest to family he’s ever had. “O-okay,” he breathes out a sigh, letting his tired eyes close for a moment before standing to tower over Tubbo. “I think I’m good now.”
“Want a hug, big man?” Tubbo asks him with open arms, which is something special because Tubbo isn’t a very touchy person. Tommy, on the other hand, absolutely thrives off physical comfort so he nods and accepts, wrapping his arms around the shorter boy’s shoulders. They embrace tightly for a moment before Tommy breaks away, if not to save face than to save Tubbo any prolonged discomfort.
The only clear void in his memory now is where the accident came from, what could’ve caused such irreparable damage to his most important organ. But that doesn’t seem as pressing. The why and how matter little to the fact that he is alive here today, surrounded by people who care and will help him through whatever else slips his mind.
—-
It isn’t exactly easy to live with only half a mind about everything. Tommy has some distinct inclination toward his surroundings and the people he interacts with on a daily basis, but for the most part, he relies on muscle memory and context clues.
For instance, he can walk from his apartment building to the cafe where he works practically with his eyes closed, but he had no idea of his schedule or who his boss is. Thankfully Tubbo showed him an app on his phone to remind him of the former, and the building’s name supplied the latter.
Niki’s Bakery. A quaint cafe and storefront between two towering business buildings, with a warm atmosphere and decorated with all sorts of baby pinks and chocolate browns. And the smell, oh the smell. Walking through the door instantly surrounds one with the aroma of fresh bread and pastries, sugary sweets and coffee grounds. Even with his near-constant confusion, he can’t help but smile the moment he enters the bakery.
He’s already in a black shirt with pink gilded lettering spelling out the name of the shop and black slacks, so he believes he’s ready for his shift when Niki greets him at the register. However, she reminds him to grab an apron from the back, to wash his hands and tie back his hair (which, for some reason, he recalls being short-cut, but now the blond strands hang low and drift against his shoulder blades). He does so, though he’s uncertain if his employer is clued into his situation or not. Either way, she seems nice and trustworthy, he’s confident she’ll listen if he has any lingering confusion.
An hour later sees him stocking the shelves in front of the register, loading pre-wrapped goods and small bags of ground coffee in neat rows. It’s a mindless task, his only directive is to make sure the labels face outwards and that they aren’t placed too far from their respective price markers. He finds it easy to wander through his thoughts thanks to the steady instrumental music that plays through the speakers along the ceiling. It’s an odd time of day, maybe a half hour before dinner rush, so not too many people cause the bell above the door to ring and knock him from his focus. Still, he feels the need to be aware of any person that could be situated behind him, a discomforting instinct of coming danger keeping his neck swiveling around every time he hears it. It’s not good for his back, both the jagged movement and the fact that he’s hunched over to stock the shelves, but it’s more likely a residual injury from his accident. Something tells him the frequent jolts of pain down his spinal column are something chronic now.
The shop is empty for a brief period as Tommy returns from the back with a new crate of goods, ready to place them on the racks that line the sidewalls, when the bell chimes once more to signal a new customer. Per his routine, he shifts his gaze to check on the newcomer, sizing up whatever threat they could impose (not of his own volition, it’s just how his mind operates). At first, he perceives no threat, the person being a tall lanky guy with brunet floppy hair and a soft-looking sweater, thin-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. There’s… something familiar, maybe, but it’s not enough to think twice on, so Tommy turns back to stocking.
Only to be interrupted once again by the man’s approach as he says, “Excuse me, is Niki around?”
Tommy turns to face the man head-on, very much wary of having his back open in close proximity to the stranger. He darts his eyes toward the register, where Niki is absent, then the door to the back room, as if willing her to walk through right then. “Uhh, y-yeah, she’s in the back,” he answers, pulling his eyes back to the man. There’s a warm feeling in his gaze but Tommy doesn’t feel any more secure by it, if anything it reeks of misdirection. “I’m sure she’ll be out in a moment.”
He figures the man will wait up by the register but Tommy doesn’t dare move or continue his chore, too afraid to take his eyes off of him while his attention is still pointedly on himself. The man cocks his head, a small smirk accompanying his stare as he observes Tommy’s posture and expression. “What’s your name, kid? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, are you new?” He asks, innocently.
“Not a kid,” Tommy mutters on instinct, eliciting a humoring tilt of the man’s brow, it even shocks Tommy slightly. “Uh, I’m Tommy. Innit. Tommy Innit.” The name is one of the facts that his mind holds to, yet it still sounds unsure when he says it aloud. He looks bashfully to the side as a short sign of weakness but quickly makes eye contact again.
“Huh,” the man replies, giving the reaction some thought. “Well, considering your tone, I imagine you already know who I am.”
“Hah, arrogant much?” Tommy shows a cheeky grin. “I’ll have you know, I have no clue as to who you are, Sweater Guy.”
The look of surprise on the man’s face is almost enough to make him burst out laughing, the backlash of his cockiness painting his cheeks with an embarrassing blush. This guy must think he’s hot shit to be recognizable by any random person he runs into. Maybe having shit memory isn’t so bad, if he can play with the ego of people like him.
He can’t even conjure a reply before the door to the back opens once more, Niki emerging with a tray of fresh cookies. She smiles brightly when she sees the man. “Oh, Wilbur! It’s good to see you!”
So Wilbur’s his name, huh? What a boring name, how could he expect some nobody like Tommy to know that?
This ‘Wilbur’ shakes off the shock at once, heading for the register with his hands out as if he’s made some spectacular entrance. “Hello, Niki! I’m sorry it’s been far too long since I’ve visited. Dad’s been working us near to death!” He greets her in return, giving her a quick hug over the counter after she sets aside the tray.
“What, you don’t want to spend any time with your mother?” Niki says in a joking tone, though Tommy doesn’t really get it. He decides his well-being is no longer threatened, so he turns back to stocking. She continues with a laugh, “To think the great hero Phantom would be so lost to fame to forget his own mother.”
At the mention of the hero’s name, something jolts in Tommy’s head, like a flash of light from a camera, filling his vision with white and halting all of his thoughts. Though just as quick as it happens it disappears, and Tommy is left standing in an unknown location, a crate full of various boxes of tea bags, one of which is in his hand, the other hand hindered by a black wrist brace- what was he doing, again?
The interior is obviously that of a cafe or maybe a tea shop. He’s wearing a name tag (Tommy?) and an apron with the name Niki’s Bakery stitched onto the pocket (that must be where he is if the smell is anything to go by). He can’t recall much else, like how he got there or why he’s there in the first place. Well, he’s got the box in his hand, a half-filled display before him, so he’s probably stocking the shelves? There are two people talking in the background, further into the bakery. Neither voice is recognizable, but the pitches are different, so he assumes the higher pitch is Niki. And she owns the bakery, where he is working at. Probably. Why does everything have to be so confusing?
“Tommy, are you okay?” The woman- Niki calls to him, breaking him from his spiral. He looks at her, seeing both people staring at him, the man confused and Niki concerned.
Tommy feels his palms sweat. He places the box back into the crate and shakily wipes his hands on his apron. “C-can I take a break? Please?” He asks.
“Of course,” Niki replies, and Tommy quickly walks to the door at the rear of the shop and closes it behind him. It’s not as brightly lit in here, and it feels easier to breathe, despite being noticeably warmer. There are a few ovens lining the wall, along with racks of ingredients and a desk with a computer, a file cabinet, a sink and a small locker. There’s also a staircase leading up to a second floor. He sits on the bottom stair, and just then something vibrates in his pocket.
He pulls out a phone (his phone?) and sees the name ‘Tubbo’ calling him. Without thinking, he answers and puts the phone against his ear. “Hello?”
“Hey Toms, Ranboo told me to remind you to bring home some of those cinnamon muffins if Niki has any left over. He’s not sure if you wrote it down or not.” The voice emits from the small speaker, sounding tinny from poor reception.
“Uh, I- I can, I think- um, who is this?” Tommy stutters, feeling frazzled by how quickly the boy on the other end spoke.
“Oh shit, again?” He asks, sounding surprised. Then he speaks again, but softer, as if turning away from the phone to talk to someone else in the room, “Ran, it happened again! Make sure you go pick him up before you go out tonight!” His voice returns to normal, “Listen, Tommy. There’s a lot to explain but it’d be easier in person. If you go to Niki and tell her that you need help with the oven settings, she’ll know what’s going on and she’ll help you through it. Okay? I’m sorry this is happening but you’re okay, you’re in a safe place and Ran will be by at the end of your shift to make sure you get home safe.”
“Uh,” Tommy‘s head spins as he takes in everything said to him, trying to isolate the instruction so he doesn’t forget. “O-okay. I’ll do that. Th-thank you.”
“No problem, big man. Love you, I’ll see you when you get home,” the call ends shortly after, and Tommy is left with a strange silence around him. He can’t decide if it’s calming or foreboding, but he guesses that it doesn’t matter either way.
Tommy stands and tries to forcibly calm his nerves before slipping his head out from behind the door. “Hey, Niki?” He asks, with a minor amount of hesitance.
She pauses whatever task she was doing and looks at him with a polite smile, “Yes, Tommy?”
“C-can you, uh, help me with the- the oven settings?” He stumbles trying to recall what the boy on the phone told him. But she seems to get the message, eyes widening slightly at the request before she smiles again.
“Of course, I can. Give me a minute to ring up this customer and I’ll meet you back there, okay?” Her voice is endlessly kind and patient, assuring Tommy with tone alone that he isn’t burdening her with his request. He nods and closes the door once again, opting to sit on the floor near the stairs this time. While he waits he can feel tiny bits of memory returning to him, slowly, like drops of water falling from a leaky faucet. His name is Tommy Innit, he’s an orphan living with his best friends. He’s turned eighteen some time ago, and he has memory issues because of some accident regarding his head. He doesn’t notice his hand sneaking upwards until he feels the pads of his fingers tracing a scar on the back of his skull.
A sigh escapes his mouth upon feeling the physical evidence of the conclusion he already reached. “Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters, getting a certain vindictive feeling towards whatever god thought it would be funny to fuck up his head. He just wants to live his life dammit, and he hates this vulnerability of having to rely on other people to fill in the blanks. He can’t clearly remember but there was once a time in his youth when he was on top of the world, unstoppable, untouchable, feared and loved all the same. Now he’s just some baker’s assistant with a shitty memory.
When Niki finally comes to speak with him, he’s basically all caught up and no longer feeling as stressed or disoriented. Still, she reintroduces herself and tells him how they know each other, how long he’s worked part-time for her. “It used to be the hang-out spot for all the rascals in the district,” she explains, regarding the bakery with a fond smile, “As much as I enjoyed watching you all grow up, I can’t help but miss the days when everyone was young and hopeful.” Tommy watches the moment of nostalgia pass through her eyes, allowing the silence to sit between them out of respect. She focuses again, smiling brighter than before as she reaches a hand to ruffle through his hair. “I’m just grateful Tubbo convinced you to work here,” she says, “I would always be so worried…”
Tommy ducks away from her hand, not because he wants to but because he needs to save face. “Worried? For me? I’m a big man, Niki. I can take care of myself,” he refutes, puffing out his chest and raising his chin to prove it. He has to look down soon after though if he wants their eyes to meet. It’s almost comical how short Niki is compared to him, he’d bet she’s even shorter than Tubbo.
Dinner rush is soon, so while Niki wants to give him a break and let him leave early, she does in fact need his help managing the customers and the orders. He tries to argue that he knows what he’s doing but she goes over the workings of the register anyway, letting him shadow the first few times someone comes in. Soon enough a line forms, so he takes over inputting the orders and managing the payments, grabbing pastries from the display when necessary while Niki works on fulfilling the various drinks that are requested. They harmonize well together, Tommy is thankful that his movements are rehearsed so he doesn’t worry about forgetting what to do. It’s almost like a dance, the way they spin around each other, passing labels and bags and cups. Despite the mundanity of the job, he’s actually having fun, and the smile he shows to the customers is something genuine. It probably helps that there isn’t much room to say anything more than “what can I get you?” and “have a nice day!”
By the end of the hour, both are thoroughly exhausted, with aching feet and drained social batteries, yet Niki still manages to send a smile his way each time their eyes meet. He busies himself with wiping down counters, cleaning and disinfecting the space around the register before taking the rag to the small tables placed around the cafe. It’s only when he approaches the final table that he realizes that the man from earlier was still there, even when the rest of the bakery was empty. The man is eyeing him curiously, sipping at a nearly empty latte and lax in his chair. Tommy pauses a few feet from the table, confused as to why he hadn’t left. Sure, closing isn’t for another half hour or so, but does he really have nowhere better to be?
Tommy doesn’t know if he should say anything, but his mouth beats him to it, blurting out, “The fuck you lookin’ at?” He almost apologizes in the same breath but the man looks more amused than offended. (Wilbur, he said his name was Wilbur. Did he? He doesn’t recall the man saying that, but he knows that’s his name. Why is he still here again?) “We close at 9, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Wilbur says with a smug grin, keeping eye contact as he sips at the last bit of his drink.
Tommy doesn’t know how to continue the conversation so he just skips over the last table completely, replacing his spray and rag with a broom from the back. He loses himself in the repetition of sweeping, although his awareness of Wilbur watching him never leaves. It’s a little unnerving but there’s no apparent reason to distrust the man. At 9 pm on the dot, the bell above the door rings once more, and when Tommy glances up to tell them they are closed for the night, the words dissipate as he recognizes it’s only Ranboo. He smiles because, well, it’s one of his best mates, but immediately frowns upon remembering what Tubbo first called him about. “Ah, shit. Sorry Boo, I forgot to ask Niki about the muffins,” he apologizes, gathering all the dust he’s accumulated into a pile to sweep into the dustpan.
Ranboo doesn’t look perturbed in the least and he says, “It’s cool, I know you’ve got a lot going on. It’s not that important.” As Ranboo lingers in the front while waiting for Tommy to clock out, they notice Wilbur sitting at a far table, watching him. Ranboo glances away quickly, well aware of who that man is and knowing they want nothing to do with those heroes, not now or ever. They feel a bout of irritation thinking about Wilbur interacting with Tommy at all, but of course, they push it down. Maybe he can channel that anger when he goes out on patrol tonight.
Tommy emerges from the back, free of his apron but his hair is still tied in a loose bun. He’s in a good mood, all smiles and practically jogging over to his roommate despite the tiredness that plagues him. “All ready to go?” Ranboo asks.
“Yes, though I doubt I need an escort just to get to my own fucking’ flat,” Tommy mutters, only half-annoyed.
Ranboo takes it in stride, nodding a few times before prompting, “Mhm, sure, what’s our apartment number, again?”
A glare sits on Tommy’s face as he very obviously fails to come up with an answer. “Fuck you,” he ultimately states.
Ranboo laughs before patting Tommy on the shoulder and lightly pushing him toward the door. All while Wilbur watches with a curious gaze.