In the Shadows We Fight (for justice and ourselves)

Why are you crying over something you did?

Mental abuse, mentions/implied physical abuse, there is a mention of rape but it's discrete and there's a chance you'll miss it

There was a different between knowing the limits of the body, and following the warning lights that flashed through the nerves when someone exceeded that limit. Tommy walked that fine line for most of his life. It came with a territory as a sidekick who hero was a teacher in the school of trial by fire. Tommy couldn't blame Clay, no matter how much he wanted to. It was Tommy's fault in the end. He shouldn't have interfered with Minotaur's business, even if it concerned HoneyBee. Tommy knew he should have walked away. All he managed to do was save HoneyBee from one hit, piss Clay off, and force HoneyBee to watch as Clay dragged Tommy away by the string that wrapped tightly around his neck. It wasn't a terrible decision all around. It was a choice that got Tommy hurt badly, and he couldn't even blame the man who hurt him because it wasn't Clay's fault this happened.

Still, Tommy couldn't spend another night in that apartment. For as long as he could remember, Clay gave Tommy the freedom to go out during the hours between midnight and three am. During the day, he would train with Drista and Clay. Sometimes he would study to improve his technical skills. The only times Tommy didn't go out was when he was on a stakeout mission or there was a special ops job. For the past few days, however, Tommy was stuck in bed, recovering from what Clay did. He had annoyed his friends, Wilbur, and even Sam on occasion on his communicator while the bed held him prisoner. It seemed like every night that Tommy ended up falling asleep while on call with Wilbur, and he frequently played this mobile game with Ranboo and Tubbo, the two of them screeching in his headphones. Tommy sometimes was even able to have a brief conversation with Drista that was more awkward than tense. It was an improvement from their usual arguments.

Tommy shouldn't have been out of bed yet, but he couldn't stay in that room one more time. The string around his neck felt tighter than normal even though it technically didn't exist. Clay's strings were metaphysical representations of his mind or object control. It wasn't actually there, but Tommy felt like air wasn't entering his lungs at all. Tommy almost choked in his room. He stumbled down the stairs, and by the time he stepped into the cold night air, black spots danced across his vision. Tommy fell down on the sidewalk by the small bushes that grew outside the brick home. Tommy pressed his hands against his knees as he sucked in breath after breath. His vision cleared, but he didn't feel any less woozy. Tommy sat down on the cement fencing around the bushes. Tommy pressed a hand against his heart to make sure it was beating. When he felt a familiar thump, Tommy let his hand drop in his lap.

Tommy looked around. It wasn't the best decision because it made his anxiety flare. He was still at that apartment. Tommy wanted to run as far away as he could for the sole reason that his entire body wanted to walk right back inside. Tommy usually felt conflicted when he tried to decipher his emotions when it came to the apartment (and Clay). It wasn't common for his panic to consume him in the darkness of his bedroom, but it wasn't rare enough that Tommy didn't know what to do. It was a matter of leaving it all behind to find that slice of escapism that was waiting for him in the city. Tommy would have gone walking to the cafe, but the moment he had his weight on his feet, his knees buckled. Tommy hit the ground. It hurt a lot worse than it should have. His ribs screamed at him, his lungs short-circuited, and his brain took a sledgehammer to his skull. Tommy closed his eyes, letting the worst of the pain subside. Unfortunately, his anxiety didn't go away. It got worse. Visions of Clay holding those neon strings between his fingers flashed behind Tommy's eyes until he force his communicator to call someone.

"Hello?" Someone said tiredly. Tommy blinked as he tried to read the name of the contact he pressed. For some reason, splotches of colors started to meld together until Tommy wasn't sure who he called. He ruled out Sam because the blob looked bigger than that, but his other friends had names with similar sizes. Tommy decided that he would worry about whose sleep schedule he fucked up later. The person was talking the entire time Tommy was trying to decipher the name, and he realized then that he hadn't been listening. "Toms? Are you okay? What happened? Why are you calling this late? Did something happen?"