'i don't have anywhere else to go.' - a sleepy boys inc story

Bright lights flash across Tommy's monitor, the familiar sounds of Minecraft softly playing through his headphones. This is the first time he's actually been able to be home alone since Ranboo and Dream flew to the UK last week - with Dream staying at George's house and Ranboo at Tubbo's, Wilbur at his office streaming, and Techno and Phil shopping, he relishes in the peace. As much as he loves being with his friends, he needs a break from them every now and then.

The near-silence is interrupted by a buzzing. His phone is ringing, rattling against the hardwood desk. The person calling isn't familiar to him or saved in his phone.

"Hello?"

"Tom."

All the air in Tommy's lungs comes out in one go.

"Tom. We're outside."

No.

"We're taking you home, you shouldn't have run away."

No.

"Your mum's not happy with you. I'm not happy with you."

It can't be his dad. He's safe. This is fake. He's going to wake up any moment now.

"Fucking weak."

Tommy slides a shaking finger over his screen and hangs up.

Nope. No. Not today. Goodbye.

The doorbell rings and a shiver works its way down his spine. Ragged breaths make his ribcage shudder, fingernails dug so deep into his palms skin threatens to break and blood threatens to leak.

Tommy's pupils contract as the rattle of the doorbell sounds again. "Please go away. Please," he whispers hoarsely, urgently.

The doorbell screams from the front of the house. There's silence and Tommy waits a moment before breathing out a shaky breath.

Holy fuck. Holy shit. Please tell me they're gone. Please.

Slowly, he pushes his chair out from under the desk, plastic wheels rolling softly. His heart rate begins to slow to the pace it normally is at and his breath becomes regular.

The sound of shattering glass makes its way upstairs. Tommy curses under his breath as fear spikes into his heart and he runs into the hallway; pulls the trapdoor in the ceiling down; runs up the ladder; hurriedly hauls it behind him.

He's hiding behind a thick wooden support beam when he hears a distant thump come from the bottom level of the house. His father's voice shouting his name, something he's heard so many times before. Too many times. He just never thought he was going to hear it here. He was safe here.

I can't go back to them. I can't.

More muffled talking comes from downstairs, followed by footsteps he immediately recognises as his father's. His breathing is shallow, quiet as he can make it. The footsteps draw closer. He holds his breath, scrunching his eyes shut and digging his fingernails into his palms. His legs tucked up in front of him, he has his hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

Doors squeak open and shut. "Tom, where are you... we know you're here..."

His father's voice is slightly fainter as he calls down the stairs, "Have you found him? Is 'e down there, d'you think?"

"No," the quiet echo of his mother's voice calls back. The familiar footsteps recede as indiscernible, annoyed grumbles are muttered.

As quietly as possible, Tommy slowly breathes out shakily. His vision becomes clearer as oxygen returns to his brain and he begins to breathe easier - until his phone buzzes. And the footsteps through the floor stop. And then they move towards him.

What the fuck was that?

Big P
Just checking how you're doing m8, on
our way home and should be there in
half an hour.
Love you m8.

Fucking Philza Minecraft.

"Tom?"

Fucking dad.

Hot tears track their way down his face as he begs Phil not to say anything more. His hands fumble to turn the switch on his phone to silent. But it falls, almost in slow motion, and as it falls Tommy's heart breaks. Because he knows this was his chance. To be safe. But it falls, and his father hears it.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FuckfuckfuckfuCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFU-

"Huh. So you're up there, are you, brat? You worthless fucking piece of shit. We're your parents. We're the reason you're alive."

He stares in silent horror as the trapdoor in the floor drops down and the ladder slowly and haltingly creaks, falling.

His heart drops. His eyes dart around and spot a beam, next to a cluster of dusty cardboard boxes. He's only just managed to pull the boxes in front of him when the creaking of the ladder stops, and the floor thuds slightly.

"I hear you." Footsteps grow nearer, then become quieter. "I know you're up here."

Peeking through a small gap between the boxes, he sees his father on the other side of the room, looking under pillows and blankets. Wilbur's pillows and blankets, that that bastard has no right to touch.

In a split-second decision, Tommy decides to make a break for the ladder. He has no idea how he's going to get out of the house after that or where he's going to go once he's out, but all he sees is a split-second opening.

He runs, almost tripping over boxes. He runs, and he thinks he's made it, and he jumps. He jumps, and he is grabbed. He is grabbed by the cold, hard hand of his father, and he cries out. He cries out because the pure force of the hand on his forearm hurts so much that he knows his father has probably broken something and he cries out because the glimmer of hope he had, of freedom, is extinguished. And all that's left is the cold, icy blue, piercing eyes of his father.

And his father spits in his face. "You really thought you could get away? Hiding out with your little internet friends? Coward, that's what you are. We didn't raise a coward. What is wrong with you?"

He drags the teen down the ladder, yelling down the stairs, "Found him. Piece of shit thought he could hide in the attic."

Tommy can't find the strength in himself to fight back when his father raises an arm and he sees black.

---

The sun sets just enough for the sun to get in Phil's eyes, gold flooding in. He pulls the sun visor down and glances at his phone, lying idly on the dash. It's fine. Tommy's probably just busy. He doesn't have to reply to things immediately. It doesn't mean he's in trouble. It's fine. He's fine.

---

I can't see anything. Why can't I see anything?

Can we turn the heater up? It's bloody cold.

I can't...see.

Ah. Itchy seats. I hate this car.

Ow. My head - what?

My eyes are so fucking bleary, why are they so bleary.

Wait- This isn't... oh fuck. Oh shit. This is the car. The fucking 'family' car. Not again. Please not again.

Why are my eyes so bleary, I can barely see anything.

That's- That's my old school. We're close to the house. Oh no.

I'm so tired. I just wanna go home. Why is my life so full of fucking plot twists?

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