↳❝ [wilbur soot & friends' very happy oneshots] ¡!❞

🌨️ safety 🌨️

words; 2,376
TWs; none
a/n; everyday i become more of a tommyinnit kinnie lmao. little wholesome, little sad, just wanted to write some tommy angst <3

Sitting at the bed that was practically doomed, the poor distraught boy was breaking down. Given a place to stay by the gracious god that was his father, Tommy took advantage of his time, usually spending it by doing miscellaneous stuff, including crying. This was one of those times, where he just sat down and cried into his favorite sweater, the one that always smelled like a mix of apple pie and butterscotch, blue and hand sown, soft and comfortable. It just seemed to wipe away all his tears, taking them away. It was like a crying towel, practically. He only held it close, his sobs muffled but even Philza could hear it though the cracks of the wooden floorboards. Phil had given Tommy the top floor being the semi-attic. Tommy always complained but he appreciated it. Being discrete, and being able to have a whole space to himself. A bed that wasn't in the ground, not exposed to the freezing cold outside, a bedside table, and Tommy never minded the old relics, paintings or other miscellaneous things in the attic, as long as they remained covered by the dirty white sheets that hadn't been moved in years. It was never invaded, hell, even Phil waited for permission to finally come in and would acknowledge Tommy if he said no, which was a luxury Tommy hadn't experienced in a long time.
Ever since the ear deafening sirens went off, Tommy only ever seemed to hide. Sure, he wanted to confront the green bastard, fight until his heart broke out, but he could only cry. The memories rushing in that could never quite go away. The guilt he still had to live with, never being able to wash the scars off of himself, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how much soap and water he used. Explosions always ringed in his head and ears, causing troubles with his hearing. He never felt more alone. Tears just kept coming, always replacing old, drying tears, and it caused worry to the man just the floor below, hearing the sobs through the floorboards. It'd been happening for a while, the poor boy had been crying like this for hours at the least. While this was normal, Phil still hadn't seemed to learn what the best course of action was to do. He never knew if Tommy wanted him to shut up and leave, or come in and try to comfort him. Phil's indecisiveness lead to no interaction between the two for longer than Phil liked to admit. Phil sighed, shaking his head. Something had to be done about it. It'd only been a couple of days since the sirens went off, and Tommy never seemed to leave, not to eat, not to visit anyone, not to say hi, nothing. Reasonably so, he was terrified, and Phil couldn't blame him.
Tommy was drowning himself in the apple pie and butterscotch scent of his favourite sweater, before he was caught off guard by a soft, sudden knock on the door. What the hell did Phil want with him? At a time like this? Tommy was quiet as he was trying to decipher his answer, yet he was mainly trying to clear his throat so it wouldn't sound like he was just crying just a few seconds ago. Accidentally sniffling in particles of dust in the air, staring to the gentle light in the corner, falling on some sheets over some sort of object, Tommy sat thinking, until Phil just seemed to answered for him, "Is it okay if I leave this here? I won't look inside or anything mate, just a drop off." He used the tone he usually used whenever he was being gentle or soft, comforting. It seemed to lessen the tensity on Tommy's nerves as his curiosity was peaked. What could it be? Using his reluctant trust in Phil, Tommy used the voice that hadn't been used in days. "Okay, but fuck off after!" He yelled, voice raspy. A pause, before he watched the warm lantern light seep in from the floor below him as the trapdoor opened from across the room, making a terrible squeaking sound. Tommy flinched at it, even though he expected it. He knew Phil could've most likely heard his cries, but tried to silence his sniffles nonetheless. From the trapdoor in the ground reached a hand that set down a plate on the ground beside it. The trapdoor seemed to almost close, like it was trying to be upheld but the man below was furthering away from it. A pause, then, the hand came back up and set down a glass, then a small straw wrapped in plastic beside it, then napkins with utensils on them, "Take care, mate." Phil said in his soft tone before shutting the trapdoor, and only after Tommy heard the footsteps fade away did he go check what the surprise even was. Tommy slipped on his tear stained blue sweater, standing up, struggling a bit at first, dizzy. Tommy was hit by the scent of baked pie. It was apparent it was steaming hot and just made. Eyes still watered, Tommy picked up the hot plate by the edges, looking at the pie in it as it only seemed to make his crying worse. He reached back down, grabbing the glass, which he immediately recognized as orange juice. He took them both, going over to his bed and setting them both on the wooden table beside his bed. He went back for the utensils and napkins, then sat on his bed, digging into the food the first chance he got. The taste was strong, apparent taste of bread and smashed bits of apples, washed down with the following taste of orange juice. All Tommy could hear was the sound of the glass gently clinking against the table, utensils hitting the ceramic plate as he pulled pieces of the pie to eat, knife cutting into bread. The silence, aside from the brief sounds of Tommy moving things around, felt deafening— silence was never a sound he quite liked. Tommy was one to always chase chaos, him mainly being the one making the loud noises. It began to worry even the people that hardly even talked to him- his silence was apparent. Even Wilbur seemed to inquire about it, the man who never really cared about Tommy's feelings or anything like that, much less since his revival.