Chapter Text
Tommy Innet is unremarkable. His death will be, too.
He’s not…sad. Maybe just morose—maybe just so used to the thought, that he’s gotten used to the dragging dread in his heart.
He’s not sad. His death won’t be sad—not really. Maybe just melancholic. Maybe just a passing thought in the minds of his friends when the night is a little too dark, or the music down the street drifts just a little too loud.
But it won’t mean anything. Tommy has friends, sure, but they’re not…
They’re just…better. Better than him. Better than Tommy. Tommy’s surprised he ever managed to sway them, even for a second. He’s younger than them—Phil, the eldest, is aged at twenty-six, and even Wilbur, the youngest, is still twenty-four. Techno sits right in the middle at twenty-five.
Tommy sits far, far behind, at nineteen.
Tommy is deeply, achingly aware of his friends’ kindnesses. Phil had been the one to offer a spare room, with the only catch being a cost of rent far cheaper than what it should have been. But Phil had only shrugged with a slight grin.
Phil is great like that. So is Techno. So is Wilbur.
Tommy…isn’t. He just isn’t. He has nothing to him, he’s substanceless—and he feels it, in the way that the frigid winds in the August nights threaten to blow him away, like he’s made of nothing but sand.
Tommy imagines that death will be like that. He imagines that he’ll close his eyes, and his body will finally break apart and decay right then and there. He imagines that that will be the only way his memory persists—like stubborn sand hidden in the creases of the carpet.
Tommy closes his eyes, letting the wind brush the curls out of his face, pretending like he’s already crumbling without having to do a single thing.
He isn’t. The wind settles, and Tommy finally breathes outward. He hadn’t even realized he was holding it in.
The night air is well familiar with Tommy. He’s been coming out a lot, recently; to walk, or to stare at the stars, or to sit on a nearby park bench and let the cold sweep through him as though he’s a ghost.
Tonight, he had gone to the park bench. He had sat, and stared upward, and thought so hard and so long about his own death, he almost felt sick. He had sat until his fingers turned numb, and his nose was long frozen. He had sat until the clock hit ten o’clock.
Then, he stands. He takes one last breath, and focuses on the way the cold, lonely air stings down his throat.
The walk back to the house takes nine minutes. Tommy takes his time, on the way back. He lets his eyes roam and flicker across every centimeter of land in front of him. He focuses on the spray-painted symbols on old brick buildings, on the weeds withering between cracks of stone, on the tingle of his bare lips against the biting breezes. If these are the last few days Tommy is going to be alive, he wants to remember all of it. He doesn’t want to miss a single damn thing.
Nine minutes after the walk begins, it ends. Tommy fumbles with the keys, shaking fingers slipping them out of his pocket and into the door handle.
Phil is already on the sofa as Tommy steps through the door. He’s watching something on the television, but he shifts to face Tommy as he enters.
“Tommy,” he greets. “How was work?”
“Good,” Tommy lies, because he didn’t go to work. He quit two weeks ago. He hasn’t gone to work in ages. But it’s not like he can tell them this—they’d ask why he quit, what he plans to do next, and Tommy knows he would trip on the words over and over and over again. He knows he would never dare to even let them slip out.
So Tommy pretends. He throws on his jacket and tugs on his shoes, waving goodbye to his friends as he leaves for “work.” And then, instead of going down the street and taking a left at the first stop sign, he walks. He stares at the stars, or sits at a park bench, or pretends that his body is slipping away with the wind.
From the sofa, Phil pats the space next to him. “You want to join me? I’ve just started this new show. It’s…something.”
Tommy would love to join him. Tommy would love to sit next to Phil, to feel the residual warmth from where Phil had sat before. Tommy would love to laugh, to feel happy, to feel normal, for even a single second.
Tommy can’t. He can’t feel anything but bone-deep exhaustion—a wariness and weariness that seeps into his bone marrow and drags itself underneath his skin. “Eh,” Tommy says, shrugging heavy shoulders. “Sounds boring,” Tommy lies, because he wouldn’t want to bother Phil during his last stretch of life. He wants to leave as good as he can be—which can never be good enough, not when it comes to Tommy. He’s not bad, just…average. Unremarkable. Unlovable.
Across from him, Phil frowns. “You’ve got to get off night-shifts, mate,” he says, “you always come home exhausted.”
Tommy shrugs, but he leaves the conversation without a response. It’s not like he can ask for a change of shifts—he doesn’t have any shifts. Tommy doesn’t have a job. Tommy is planning to kill himself.
The thought is morose. The thought is melancholy. But life is too much, and Tommy isn’t enough, and as he falls to sleep, he silently pleads that he won’t wake up.
Tommy has a messy list of things to do before he finally kicks the bucket from underneath himself.
It’s not super defined. It’s wisps of ideas and vague blurs of to-do’s.
Tommy knows he has to write notes. Tommy knows he has to clean his room and put his shit in boxes. Tommy knows that he has to spend a few final moments with his friends.
Time is slipping, now. Tommy blinks, and day turns to night. Tommy blinks, and the week has passed.
Tommy doesn’t bother choosing a date. He knows that the day would slip through his fingers like dripping water, and he wouldn’t even realize. Not until the water had already seeped into his socks, and Tommy realized that his time had already passed.
When Tommy awakes, he is weary, as he always is. When Tommy awakes, he forces himself up, as he never does.
Tommy doesn’t have a date. But he does have a list. And at the end of that list, he will finally slip away as the time does, drip down like the water does, disappear like the huffs of cold air do.
Tommy is not important enough to be remembered—not as anything more than just a someone long-gone.
But Tommy’s friends are important. Tommy wants to remember every single thing he possibly can about them. He wants to remember the knobs of Techno’s knuckles, and the swirl of Wilbur’s hair, and the curve of Phil’s nose. He wants to make sure that when he goes, he doesn’t forget anything about the people most important to him.
Techno is the only one in the kitchen when Tommy finally walks out. He grabs a banana off of the counter, notices Tommy, and then grabs a second one. “Hungry?” He offers, because it’s the morning, and Tommy should be.
“Nah,” Tommy says, because he isn’t.
And Techno shrugs, because he has no reason to overthink it.
Techno is better than Tommy, like that. Techno is certain, strong. Techno is sturdy and dependable.
“I’m workin’ on somethin’,” Techno rumbles. “You plannin’ to join me?”
Tommy nods, and it would be eager, if any swoop of hope in his heart wasn’t immediately pulled under by a swell of dread.
But he likes spending time with Techno. He’d thought the man hadn’t liked him, when they first met—he’s all stoic-faces and monotone-voice—but Techno had allowed Tommy to sit next to him at the computer. Techno’s not a very talkative guy, but Tommy had been too nervous at the time for conversation, anyway. Instead, Techno had connected in the one way he could—writing.
They take on the same position now. Techno sits at his desk and readies his laptop, while Tommy drags a chair next to his.
For a long while, typing is the only sound between the two.
That’s alright. It gives Tommy time to really focus.
He traces the frames of Techno’s low glasses. He watches the tug of Techno’s lip as he gets stuck on a word. He looks down and focuses on the speed of Techno’s typing—click, click, click-ity, click— so fast, like Techno thinks the keyboard might slip out from under him at any second.
Tommy looks back up and frowns.
Dammit. He was typing too fast. The screen is already far past the last scene Tommy had read.
“Go back,” Tommy complains, “I missed it.”
“Missed what?”
“I don’t know. Something about a star? Just go back already.”
Techno snorts quietly. “We’re far past it, Tommy. You can go back and read it later.”
“Later? How later?”
Techno shrugs. His eyes don’t leave the screen. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably…probably a few years from now.”
“Years?” Tommy exclaims, nose wrinkling. “Fuck you, aye? I thought you wanted me to read your shit.”
Techno shrugs. The soft light of day beams into the room and softens along Techno’s shoulders.
“What if I die before then?” Tommy says briskly, because he doesn’t hurt himself, he just plays with fucking fire. This is how he hurts himself—by lighting the flame right in front of himself and seeing how close he can get before he burns up. By stoking the flames just to see if anyone else even notices them.
Techno hums. “A tragedy.”
A tragedy. Tommy wishes.
But Techno doesn’t mean that. This Techno is just joking. This Techno thinks Tommy will be here for years and years. This Techno might be a little sad when Tommy dies, but a tragedy?
Maybe if Tommy was more than he is. Maybe if Tommy was heroic, like one of Techno’s characters. Maybe if Tommy was worth loving, like any of his friends.
Tommy’s almost too focused on the minute tremble of his hands to notice the way Techno sighs. But from the corner of his eyes, he sees the document begin to scroll, and when Tommy looks over, Techno has gone back to what Tommy can remember.
Shame drops like oil into Tommy’s heart.
“It’s okay,” Tommy grumbles, because he shouldn’t be making it harder on Techno, “you don’t have to. Just go back to where you were.”
“I’m already here. You might as well read it, Tommy.”
It’s nice of Techno to do. It makes Tommy feel sick to his stomach.
Tommy forces his eyes to focus on the words in front of him, and he tries not to let the bittersweetness close up his lungs.
Tommy reaches the end of Techno’s document, and he was only successful in one.
Tommy only owns one notebook. It’s not very big. It’s small enough that it can be held in one hand, and the cover has a multitude of painted dogs running, or sleeping, or spinning circles.
He’d liked it enough to buy it, even though he hadn’t really had a use for it. Only a few pages have anything scribbled in them—a bundle in the beginning, from when Tommy had first brought it home.
There’s a messy grocery list, and a page dedicated to tic-tac-toe. There’s another page with a few short haikus—all written in Wilbur’s handwriting. Tommy had shoved the notebook in his hand and refused to take it back until Wilbur had written a few words. There’s a few too-vague reminders that don’t serve their purpose, and some jotted quips that Tommy had thought too funny to not write down.
Mostly, there are doodles.
Tiny drawings of stray cats Tommy had seen on the way home, of an overexaggerated Phil cooking eggs, of the abandoned pizza place down the street. Of, of, of. Tommy used to carry the notebook in his coat pocket. He used to draw all the time.
The drawings peter out, the further into the notebook they get. The longer Tommy had it. The more Tommy felt…
Yeah. Yeah.
It’s a shame that such a cool notebook is being used for this. Tommy feels a little bad. But the pages will be torn out anyway.
Tommy has chosen his best pen for this. It’s filled with a dark blue ink, the kind that runs smoothly onto the page.
Or, it would run smoothly, if Tommy could get his hands to stop trembling.
But fuck, Tommy doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. Nothing feels like what they deserve.
Tommy tries to be better than he is; for once, he tries not to be blunt, all rough edges and jagged ends. He tries to write verses as poetic as Wilbur’s. He tries to monologue like one of Techno’s stories. He tries to speak as gentle as Phil’s own words.
In the end, Tommy can’t be anything but his own, stupid self. Poetry and metaphor all break down into I love you, I love you, I love you.
There’s not much more to say than that. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.
Tommy wishes he could give them a reason why. Tommy wishes he could lay out the words like a satisfying picture, like something that would give reason, like something that would make sense. Like something that would be worth it, to them.
He can’t. Tommy is just…tired. Tommy is just tired, and he’s tired of thinking of this every single day. Tommy is tired being dragged down to the soil.
Tommy tries to put that into words. He tries to curl and flourish them into something meaningful.
The flourish wilts and dies into the one thing Tommy knows. I love you. I love you. I—
“Tommy?”
Tommy flinches so hard his notebook almost goes flying. “Christ, man!” Tommy hisses, fumbling to shove his notebook under his covers. His hands are still trembling, and he presses them into his lap to hide them away. “Fucking knock, next time!”
Still, he looks up to Wilbur in the doorway, and he feels like he’s completely on display. He feels like he might as well have written the words directly onto his forehead. I love you, I love you. He waits for Wilbur to see right fucking through him.
As it is, Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Was that your notebook?”
Tommy’s chest clenches. “Fuck off,” he breathes. It comes out angry, because the only other option for it to come out as is fucking terrified.
Wilbur steps in closer. Oh, fuck. “What, are you doing something embarrassing? Are you writing down all of your secrets?”
Secrets, secrets, secrets.
I want to die. I’m going to die.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Jesus, Wilbur, it’s fine,” Tommy huffs. “Stop being fucking annoying. I was just—drawing. Sketching ‘n shit. You know.” Desperate to get the attention off of himself, Tommy quickly says, “What the fuck did you want?”
Wilbur shrugs like nothing is wrong. “I was just bored. Thought I’d hang out with you, if you weren’t doing anything.”
Right. Tommy nods. He isn’t doing anything. Not anything Wilbur can know about.
With only a slight grunt, Wilbur drops onto Tommy’s bed. As he leans against the wall, he pulls out his phone.
And that’s…it. Wilbur doesn’t say anything more. Just casually stares down at his phone. Tommy can’t see the screen. He can’t tell if Wilbur is scrolling, or playing a game, or maybe doing a crossword.
Wilbur takes a moment to glance up at him. “You can keep drawing, Tommy. Don’t let me hold you up.”
Tommy takes a breath. “Yeah. No, that’s—I was done anyway. Basically. I was basically done.”
Because he was, and he is. There isn’t much more to say.
Wilbur just huffs a sigh. “Alright. If you say so. If you’re done, you can help me with this crossword. I’ve been stuck on it for ages.”
Crossword. Tommy knew it.
Exhaustion still pulls at Tommy’s fingers. It pulls him towards his notebook. It pulls him to keep writing until every thought he’s ever had is spilled, slow and ugly, like ink.
But Wilbur is here. Wilbur is here, and Tommy won’t be, for much longer. And he feels…sad. And lonely. And that he loves his friends like they’re family—he loves his friends more than life itself (not that that means much, in Tommy’s case).
So, tired, and with fingers that shake in the shape of I love you, I love you, Tommy leans against Wilbur’s side.
Tommy can’t imagine doing this for the rest of his life.
This, which really, just means everything. Anything.
There’s nothing wrong in Tommy’s day-to-day. He’d maybe even consider himself lucky. He’s got a decent job. He’s got good friends.
The problem is that life goes on forever. Far longer than Tommy wishes his own would.
The world doesn’t hurt. Tommy isn’t sad, or angry. Everything just…aches. Tommy is aching, like a pain so repetitive and so lasting, it burns and stretches within Tommy’s muscles with every single step. And really, he just can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t want to do it anymore. There isn’t a point. Maybe if Tommy were better—maybe if Tommy had potential, or talents, or the ability to be truly cared about.
As it is, Tommy doesn’t have those things. Which means that his life would forever be a record stuck on repeat—the static songs playing again and again, until they all sound like a droning-nothing.
The static is starting to get to Tommy’s head. He can feel it, in the way his brain stutters over thoughts and fizzles out within his own skull.
Tommy takes a sharp breath. The night air is sharp. His lips tingle as the frigid air moves through his teeth. He imagines the breath traveling up to his mind, trying to tug the haze out from within it.
It doesn’t really work. But it is slightly entertaining to imagine, so Tommy closes his eyes and takes a few more bitter breaths.
“Tommy?”
Then proceeds to choke on one, as Phil’s voice rings out into the empty night.
Tommy practically jumps in his seat, whipping his head towards Phil with wide eyes. Shit. Shit. Phil’s own eyes are wide, less than Tommy’s, but still—because he’s just as surprised to see Tommy as Tommy is to see Phil.
Because Tommy is supposed to be at work. Tommy is supposed to be doing anything but sitting on a bench as the chill of the August night paints his cheeks red and makes his hands shake.
“It is you,” Phil says simply. Only a hint of confusion tints his tone, bleeds in like a watercolor blue. “What are you doing, mate?”
“Wh—what are you doing?” Tommy immediately shoots back. God, he hopes his voice is loud enough to hide the tremble in his tone. God, he hopes he sounds lively enough that it hides the fact he doesn’t want to be lively at all anymore. “Walking by yourself? Geez, Phil, like that’s not sus-picious. What are you, a wrongun’? Going to go do drugs? Are you doing drugs, Phil?”
Phil scoffs, but it’s lighthearted. Soft. If the night air settles over Tommy like a bed of nails, it must be washing over Phil like a calming ocean wave, brushing at the shore. “Techno’s got an essay. I was going to grab him a coffee—thought it’d be nice to visit you at work, too.” Phil raises a slight eyebrow. “They let you off early?”
An out. “Yeah,” Tommy breathes quickly. To add to his casual-ness, he sniffles, looking out towards the night. “Yeah. We just—we weren’t very busy, really, and so they just…” Tommy motions outward with his hand. “And then I got tired on the way back, so I stopped here, and then you were here, and then you asked me what I was doing—”
“Alright, alright,” Phil laughs lightly. “Scooch over, then.”
Oh. “You’re sitting too?” Tommy asks, feeling a bit stupid.
The bench is cold. Tommy doesn’t want Phil to be cold. Tommy doesn’t want Phil to get close and feel that Tommy has been letting himself drift away with the wind.
Phil shrugs and sits with a grunt. “Well, maybe I got tired walking here, too. It’s pretty late, you know.”
Late. It’s pretty late. “Yeah,” Tommy says hoarsely. “I know.”
Phil just hums. He doesn’t look at Tommy; his head tilts back towards the stars instead.
“Beautiful night,” Phil comments softly.
Tommy looks at the shine of the moon in Phil’s eyes. He looks at the way his hair drapes low and curves behind his ear. He looks up, towards the stars, and tries to count every single one. “Yeah.”
Silently, Phil’s eyes slip closed. His chin stays pointed towards the dark sky.
Tommy’s never been religious.
Phil is—sort of.
It wasn’t hard to notice the way Phil gently let his lids close at seemingly random points through the day. During a particularly good meal, or while watching the sun set, or staring out the window at the dripping of rain.
Tommy had asked about it once.
Phil, almost sheepishly, had shrugged. Ah, he had said, wringing his hands together. I’m just—praying, I suppose.
Tommy had blinked in shock. Praying? He had echoed. I didn’t know you believed in like—God, and shit.
Phil had smiled, even though Tommy had probably committed some sort of blasphemy.
It’s—well, I don’t know about complicated, Phil had said. I grew up on it. But, uh—I didn’t like what they taught. What they believed. But it’s hard to believe in nothing , after all that time. So I—it’s not like I’m Catholic, or Christian. More just spiritual, maybe. I don’t really know who I’m praying to. But sometimes, it’s just…comforting. And I like to be grateful to something, out there—even if it’s just for pretty flowers, or decent weather.
Tommy hadn’t really known what to think about it, then.
He looks at Phil, eyes still closed, face still pointed towards the stars, and he’s still not sure he does now.
But still—if only so Phil isn’t the only one. If only so he can maybe understand—Tommy tilts his own head back, eyes slipping shut.
Phil’s God, he starts, and he starts to feel a sick swirling in his stomach as he asks Phil’s deity for something that Phil surely wouldn’t approve of, Please don’t let me wake up tomorrow. Please let me just fall in my sleep. It would hurt Phil the least. Please, please, please. And then, because it must be rude to ask for something without being grateful for something else, And thank you for the stars, and for Phil, and for Techno, and for Wilbur.
Phil begins to shift next to him, and Tommy pops his eyes open before Phil can see them shut. “I should still get Techno that coffee,” Phil says casually, standing from the bench.
Tommy’s heart stutters. “Not from my work? Don’t make me go back when I just got off my shift, Phil, please.”
Phil huffs, and rolls his eyes, but he smiles a little. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll go to that place down the street instead.”
The coffee burns almost as bad as the icy wind in Tommy’s throat had.
Tommy falls to sleep, and wakes up in the morning.
Tommy’s never been an organized person.
His bed is always unmade. Clothes always sprawl out across the floor. Half-empty glasses of water scatter from his desk to his bedside drawer, to his small bookshelf.
Today, Tommy fixes all of it.
It goes slowly. Tiredly. Tommy is exhausted. Tommy tugs his sheets to be straight, even, and it takes everything in him not to fall into them right after.
But Tommy can’t do that. Not yet. Not before he finishes. Even when the sun begins to set into a dark haze, and Tommy is still dragging himself around his room.
Ever slowly, things get done. It becomes easier to step around the floor. The cups are taken to the kitchen and washed. The laundry is piled into an old basket, which is the closest Tommy can get to tossing it all into an old bag. But that would probably raise some questions—all of Tommy’s things, put away and ready to be thrown into the bin—so Tommy does what best he can.
He doesn’t have anything worth keeping—he doesn’t have anything worth giving away. So all of it is crammed into storage bins or folded into the bottom of his dresser.
Tommy gently closes his drawer and takes a moment to wearily step back. To observe it all.
It looks…nice. Like Tommy lived cleaner, neater, better, than he did.
Even if it’s not enough to fool anyone else—because his friends know him, really, which means they know better than that—at the very least, it will be easier. Phil won’t have to sort through piles of nothing. Techno won’t need to throw away all his trash. Wilbur will be able to clear out the room without much difficulty.
Maybe that’ll earn him some points, in the end. Sure, Tommy killed himself, but he was considerate! He had been thoughtful! He had been anything but unremarkable. He had been anything but forgettable.
Because no one speaks ill of the dead. And Tommy isn’t good—he’s not a hero, or a saint, or exemplary—but he has cleaned his room. He’s cleaned his room, and maybe he can at least be remembered for that. Maybe they can at least think on that fondly.
Maybe…maybe they’ll even keep some of it. Not—not everything, Tommy knows better than to think that. He knows better than to imagine them bundling his clothes into their own closets, keeping that part of him with them forever. He knows better than to pretend that they’ll take the drawings from his dog-covered notebook and pin them against the walls.
Remembrance is all Tommy can hope for. Something. Anything, anything to prove that he meant something to anyone, even just a little.
So maybe, maybe, they’ll keep his notebook. Or maybe Wilbur will take Tommy’s bracelet made of thread; maybe Phil will place Tommy’s favorite book on the corner of his desk; maybe Techno will move one of the posters from Tommy’s wall and hang it up above his computer.
Nothing more than that—Tommy wouldn’t dare to think of more than that.
But maybe, Wilbur’s fingers will fidget with the thread, and Phil will place his hand on the book, and Techno will gaze up at the poster above him, and they’ll think, Oh, Tommy. Because Tommy will be…
Knock knock.
Tommy jumps out of his skin as the sound bangs through the room. “Come in,” Tommy breathes quickly, because a numb sort of dread is starting to pool in his stomach, and it’s so distracting that he doesn’t think about the state of his room until the door is already swinging open.
Wilbur’s brows raise as his eyes survey the room. “Wow, Tommy,” he whistles lowly. “You certainly did a lot of work in here, huh?”
Tommy’s face burns. “What do you want, Wilbur?”
His notebook is just lying on top of the bed, his things are put away, and Wilbur is right here—
“We’re going out.” Wilbur leans casually against the doorframe. “Just to the gas station. Techno needed to fill up before university tomorrow, and Phil wanted to grab a snack or two, so…”
“Oh,” Tommy says. “Okay.”
For a moment, Wilbur just stands in the doorway.
Tommy’s notebook is lying on the bed. His things are put away. Wilbur is standing in the doorway.
Are you alright? He imagines Wilbur saying. Or maybe, not a question. You’re not alright . Or maybe, an accusation. A true one. You’re planning to kill yourself. You’re planning to kill yourself, and we all know, and now you’ll never get the chance to try—
Tommy’s heart skips a beat.
Wilbur raises an eyebrow. “Well? Are you coming with?”
A breath.
“Oh, Tommy says again. “Yeah—yeah, I can. I will. I’ll just…”
Tommy stands awkwardly. Wilbur continues to stare.
“I have to get changed.”
Wilbur’s brow furrows, and he rolls his eyes, but he twists and lets himself fall from the doorframe. “Whatever, man. Just come out when you’re ready.”
It’s not true, really. God, Tommy’s too tired to even think about changing. He’s been wearing the same pajamas from last night. But his arms…he’s just so tired. Weak. He doesn’t want to raise his arms above his head, because he doesn’t want to be ashamed when they don’t even get past his shoulders.
But Tommy had needed a reason for Wilbur to leave the room. He had needed Wilbur to go so he could slink to his dresser drawer, fumbling to stick his hand in.
All of the money Tommy owns is in this drawer. He had taken it all out from the bank, when he realized it would just sit once he died. It’s not a lot—not enough to go into a will, or cause an argument—but Tommy has still rolled the cash and wrapped it in a rubber band.
Guiltily, he tugs a fiver out. He shouldn’t. All of this money will go to his friends, once Tommy goes. He feels almost like he’s stealing it from them, even though it’s still his, right now.
But it’s not…a lot of money. And Tommy will only get something small, and put the rest of the money away again.
He starts to tuck the cash into his pockets before cringing.
Right. He had told Wilbur he needed to get changed.
Tommy hardly looks at what he’s putting on as he tugs another shirt over his head. It had been whatever was sitting nearest to the top. His pajama bottoms are swapped out for a pair of sweatpants, the money quickly pocketed.
“Finally,” Wilbur mumbles as Tommy stumbles down the hall. Techno and Phil are there too, already wearing jackets to protect from the night’s chill. Techno’s got his keys in his hand. He flips them boredly around his finger.
“Grab a coat, kid,” Techno rumbles as Tommy nears the door.
Right. Right. Tommy hasn’t worn a jacket for any of his night-escapades—it would defeat the purpose, really, would stop the biting breeze from pinching at his skin—but it’s not like the others know that.
It’s not until Tommy has pulled on some zip-up sweatshirt that the others move outside.
“Trunk-time!” Wilbur calls excitedly, practically running to the bed of Techno’s truck.
Techno continues past him with a dry eyebrow. “You almost fell out last time. I thought you said you’d ‘never do trunk-time again.’”
Wilbur scoffs. “You hit that pothole on purpose. Just actually be a kind, caring driver this time and we’ll be fine. Right, Tommy?”
The August night air is as bitter as ever. Stars freckle across the dark sky. A soft wind threatens to blow Tommy away.
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “It’ll be fine, Techno, stop being a puss-ay about it.”
Phil laughs, already pulling himself into the passenger seat, but Techno just pulls his deadpan gaze from Wilbur to Tommy.
There’s a moment where Tommy thinks Techno might tell them to just sit in the back. Techno’s just staring at him, that dry look still on his face.
Finally, Techno rolls his eyes. “Fine. Don’t get me pulled over. I’ll say you two are strangers tryin’ to hijack my car.”
Loud cheers ring out through the night as Wilbur pulls himself into the trunk-bed. “Trunk-time, trunk-time, trunk-time!” Finally seated, he reaches down and grabs for Tommy’s hand, pulling him up beside him.
“If you fall out, I’m not turnin’ around for you,” Techno calls as he finally goes to sit in the driver’s seat.
Wilbur rolls his eyes, but there’s a genuine smile still pulling his lips upward. It makes his eyes crinkle. They gleam, too, from the light of the house, and the shine of the moon.
Wilbur keeps smiling as the old truck rumbles out from the driveway and onto the road. Techno isn’t driving very fast—just fast enough that the wind brushes Wilbur’s curls and catches on his rolling laugh.
Tommy can’t help it. His chest feels weird, his heart feels tight—he smiles back. Wilbur yells, “Car!” As beaming headlights get closer, and Tommy laughs as Wilbur drops to the bottom of the truck bed. Tommy drops right after him, keeping hidden until the passing car rumbles past.
It’s almost a game. Wilbur and Tommy pop up and fling themselves downward over and over, always with a casting of giggles and crinkled eyes.
The car rumbles. The stars glimmer and shine from above them. Wilbur is glancing at him from where they both lie against the truck bed. His smile makes Tommy’s soul ache.
The two of them stay low as Techno rolls into the gas station. No one out here would care, but still, they wait until Techno smacks the back of the truck twice before they both pop up.
“Alright, get out already,” Techno grumbles.
Wilbur wastes no time leaping out. “Out, then,” he says lightly, lifting up a hand to help Tommy downward.
Downward. Down. Because Wilbur still has a residual smile across his lips, but Tommy suddenly feels as though he’s sinking. His own smile slowly shifts to something lower.
Fuck. Fuck. It’s water slipping through Tommy’s fingertips. It’s a heavy stone caught in a slow-moving quicksand. It’s Tommy, getting dragged lower and lower, until his body gives way and becomes the dirt.
Tommy had been so happy. He had been…
“I’ll stay out here with Techno,” Tommy says.
Wilbur just shrugs. Tommy just watches his back as he walks away, following Phil into the small store.
…happy. Tommy had been happy. For a moment, anyway, but now…
Now the happiness makes shame coil through Tommy’s ribcage. It feels…embarrassing. Tommy had been so happy, fucking around with Wilbur in the back of the truck. He had felt like—well, maybe, for a moment—Wilbur had been happy because he was alongside Tommy.
But Tommy sinks, and he tries to bury the humiliation with himself.
God, he hopes Wilbur doesn’t know that Tommy had thought that. He hopes Techno and Phil hadn’t bothered ever looking through the back window, to see Tommy embarrassing himself. To see him so happy over something as stupid as hiding away in the back of a truck.
Techno’s looking at him now, anyway, a slight eyebrow raised. “Didn’t feel like goin’ in?”
Right. Right. Tommy forces himself to give a sure smile back. “I just knew you’d get so lonely out here, Techno.”
Techno hums. Tommy withers.
Embarrassing. Embarrassing, embarrassing.
Tommy decides not to humiliate himself any longer. He’s silent as he leans against the back of the truck.
Techno, for his part, is silent too. It’s almost habit, the way Tommy lets his eyes study Techno. He watches Techno’s fingers as they tap against the gas pump. Techno gazes up at the rising price total, but Tommy’s eyes stay stuck on his.
The wind is biting. Tommy focuses on the way it stings down his throat. He focuses on the way his fingers freeze as he presses them against the cool metal of Techno’s car.
The pump clicks and Techno dutifully grabs his receipt. “Come on, kid.”
Tommy’s fingers fidget with the fiver in his pocket. He doesn’t want to spend much. As little as possible, even—as little as he can without being questioned.
He ends up grabbing a can of some half-tea, half-lemonade drink. There’s a section on the can that proudly states 99 Cents, which is about the only thing Tommy pays attention to as he grabs it.
Phil and Wilbur have already gone through the line, apparently—Wilbur is already digging into a bag of something, and Phil sips from a plastic bottle.
“That’s it?” Techno asks as Tommy approaches the counter.
With the lump in Tommy’s throat, he can hardly do anything but nod.
Techno frowns slightly, but he reaches out and places the drink next to his own packet of gum. “Just these two.”
Fuck. “Techno, I can pay,” Tommy rushes to say thickly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s cheap, kid,” Techno rumbles, stepping in front of Tommy so he can’t reach the register. “I think I can afford to cover it.”
Fuck. Shit. Tommy watches guiltily as Techno hands over a few stray bills. His own cash weighs heavily in his pocket.
The tightness in his chest stretches even further. If he was sinking before, he’s starting to fall, he thinks—like he’s begun to teeter in the sky, like he’s sunk past the clouds and can see the distant, smudged ground below him.
Techno puts away the change and presses the can into Tommy’s hand.
As the four of them pile into the car, Tommy’s heart starts to flutter in his chest again.
Wilbur laughs as they hit a pothole and the two of them bounce upward. Wilbur grins widely, and the wind pushes his hair and carries his laugh, and Tommy, with unshaking, undeniable clarity, thinks, This is it.
This is it.
And suddenly, Tommy is not falling anymore. There is no overwhelming rush of panic or embarrassment or guilt.
The water has flooded over Tommy’s head. The quicksand has tugged him under. His body has crashed into the ground below.
Because this is it.
This is it.
Suddenly, Tommy is more aware than he’s ever been before. He has to be. The air stings. His fingers freeze. The lingering taste of lemon and tea sits on his tongue. Wilbur’s eyes flash from the streetlights.
This will be the last time Tommy sees those eyes.
Tommy is going to die.
Tommy can’t bring himself to laugh. To smile. It doesn’t feel like his body is sand, scattering away with the wind; it’s as though the sand has sharpened into glass. Tommy is shattering. Tommy is breaking apart.
The truck rumbles as Techno pulls into the drive.
Oh, fuck. Phil and Techno step out of the truck, and Wilbur hops out from the back.
This is the last time Tommy will ever see them. Fuck. Fucking shit.
“Well, I should be going to bed,” Phil groans. “I’ve got work tomorrow. This was a fun expedition, though. What about you boys?”
Wilbur groans dramatically. “I’m exhausted. I’ll probably just go to bed, too.”
Techno shrugs. “I’ve got university in the morning. So. Guess I have no other choice.”
Then the three look towards Tommy.
Fuck.
Tommy can hardly breathe.
This is the last time. Tommy’s final moments with them. Tommy’s last opportunity to do…something.
Tommy opens his mouth and immediately has to close it. I love you threatens to pour out. I love you, I love you, I love you. Thank you, I’m sorry, I love you.
It’s too much. It’s all too much. The words threaten to spill past his teeth. His hands and arms shake. Tommy wants to leap out of the truck and hold each of them. He wants to feel each of their warmth against their own chest, wants to give them one final hug before he says goodbye.
But he can’t. His body is heavy. He’s tired. He tries to move his limbs, and finds he can’t move at all.
“I’m—”
They all blink up at him. Fuck.
“I’m going to stay out here,” Tommy breathes. “Just for a bit.”
Phil pats the back of the truck bed, where Tommy still sits. “Alright, mate. Lock up when you come in, okay?”
I love you. I love you, please, please—
“Yeah,” Tommy says hoarsely. “I’ve got it.”
“Goodnight, Tommy!” Wilbur calls as he begins to walk into the house.
Techno, pausing by the truck bed, nods towards Tommy. “Night.”
Tommy’s finger twitches.
Maybe it’s not too late. Techno is right here, right by him, if he could just reach out—
The three of them step further and further away from the car. They keep walking until they’re all filed into the house.
Tommy is alone.
Slowly, Tommy leans back, lying down against the truck bed once more.
The wind brushes against Tommy’s cheeks and his chapped lips.
The stars shine like thousands of headlights all beaming down.
A sob slips out before Tommy can stop it.
Tommy’s death won’t be sad. It won’t be, it can’t be—Tommy wants to die, he does. And his friends will get over it, they’ll forget about him, they won’t truly care about it.
And Tommy cries and sobs like a baby, because if no one will mourn for him, he’ll have to mourn himself.
Because holy shit, he is sad. He is so, so fucking sad.
Yet again, Tommy can’t be better than he is. He can’t be poetic. There’s nothing more he can say, no words he can spin and twirl. He is just so fucking sad. It’s sad that he’s so fucking useless. It’s sad that he couldn’t be lovable enough to be missed. It’s sad that he’s going to kill himself.
It’s sad that he can’t go out as a tear-stained angel, beautiful and sparkling, the ones from the movies that everyone mourns over.
He’s just Tommy. Tommy, practically wailing up at the awaiting array of stars.
Images, memories, flash with every blink of Tommy’s wet lashes.
Cold wind. Fast fingers at a keyboard. Closed eyelids. A wide, dimpled grin.
Tommy cries until his throat aches. Until the tears stop. Until his vision slowly unblurs, and Tommy can once again see around himself.
He rises slowly. His feet thump against the dirt as he hops down from the truck bed.
Tommy is quiet as he slips into the house. As he clicks the lock behind him. As he carefully steps through the halls, looking under door frames for any signs of light.
Tommy had been out there for…a while. None of the lights are on. Tommy is the only one awake.
For now. For now, for now, Tommy is the only one awake.
But not for much longer.
Just as quietly, Tommy steps into the bathroom.
A long time ago, Techno had undergone some sort of serious surgery. The doctors had prescribed him some serious pain meds for when he came home.
Techno had hardly taken any. Tommy’s still not sure why, but it hardly matters. It means there’s some for Tommy to use.
Tommy steps into his room holding an old pill bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
Before he can forget, he goes back to his dresser, slipping the five dollars from his pocket back into the drawer. It’s hard to fit it in the rubber band, with how his hands are shaking.
The letters are torn out of his notebook and placed on the bed. It’ll be easier for them to find this way.
Except, the concept of being found catches Tommy briefly.
Fuck. He doesn’t want them to see this. He doesn’t want them to look at him once he’s…
Tommy thinks about it before finally deciding to open up his messages with Techno.
Techno’s level-headed. He’s logical. He’s strong, in a way Tommy’s always admired. So Tommy types, don’t come into my room tomorrow morning. And then, seriously, I mean it, the door will be locked just call somebody.
And then, because Tommy is too weak to stop himself, love you.
Tommy’s never been good at swallowing pills. Wilbur’s the kind of guy who can dry-swallow two at once, but Tommy has to take a much more careful approach. A much longer approach. A dreadful one.
Tommy takes each pill one at a time. He has to swallow each one with a sip of water. It’s hard, when an occasional sob still chokes past Tommy’s throat. It’s hard, when Tommy’s mind starts getting blurry, and all he can do is desperately try to hold onto everything he wants to remember in these last few moments.
Another pill.
Tapping fingers on a gas pump.
Another.
A chin pointed towards the sky.
Another.
Eyes gleaming in the streetlights.
Another, another, another.
The frames of low glasses, hair that drapes below ears, a rolling laugh that catches on the wind…
Another. Another, and another, until Tommy can’t remember much of anything at all. Until all of the memories feel far, far away, like the stars in the sky. Until all of the memories wink out, and everything goes dark.