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

A warm, encompassing massage of water drums down on Wilbur's back. He sighs. Turning the knob, the water shudders off with a squeak. He misses Tommy.

The fucking police, with their fucking paperwork. They'd basically said, "Hey, sorry, we can't even try to look for your friend who's missing and probably kidnapped before we finish all this paperwork because that's more important than saving this kid's life." Most of the paperwork was because Tommy's a minor, and neither Phil, Wilbur, Techno nor Dream are his guardians. He's technically with his parents, so we have to work that out with our lawyers before we can actually do anything, he remembers the high-pitched, nasal, thick Geordie accent of the lady over the phone saying. In retrospect, it's fair, they can't do anything if the law prevents them, they are the police. At the time, he'd almost punched another clock. He probably would've, if there had been one in punching proximity. He'd thanked her for her (useless) help through gritted teeth then gone upstairs to have a shower, at Phil's suggestion.

He grabs a towel and wraps it around himself momentarily before raising it to his head and drying his hair, fluffing it up as much as possible. When he looks up from under his damp hair, he sees a pained man. He sighs. He really misses Tommy.

---

He doesn't know how long he's been in the dark. The pain goes away when he's asleep, so he sleeps a lot now. Time melds into itself. At first, he cried. He had cried a lot. He had sobbed, begging, screaming to be let out.

He didn't know what he expected. They'd soundproofed the basement years ago, and had stopped coming when he called even earlier than that.

He hopes his friends will help him.

---

Once getting to Tommy's parents' house, the group had decided to split up. Techno and Dream were trusted to deal with the boy's parents while Wilbur and Phil's task was to actually find him.

Phil warily turns the cold metal knob, finding the door's path blocked by... he doesn't know what exactly. Shuffling the door open, even though it's dim, he can still make out the empty bottles of alcohol that litter the floor, and dark red stains - Phil can't tell if it's blood or red wine, or both - are so frequent it's almost impossible to tell what the original colour of the carpet is.

He flicks the light switch to no avail. He steps forward and hears a crunch of glass beneath his shoes - different glass, thinner. Light bulb glass. Phil wonders how long ago the glass shattered - days, weeks, months - for some reason, neither of Tommy's parents seem very much like the vacuuming type.

---

They- there was this... basement.

Who's betting he's there?

Wilbur feels around blindly for a light switch until he hears a click, and after a delay, the small lightbulb flickers on, dimly illuminating the silver metal door to the stairs leading down to the basement in a yellow glow. He attempts to turn the lock and finds it not budging. His eyes dart around and spot a glimmer of silver on a shelf nearby. The ring of keys jangles, followed by a methodical, mechanical thumping coming from inside the door.

The yellow light dies out right near the end of the staircase, where Wilbur can see another light switch.

Ominous, Wilbur thought.

He called into the darkness as he cautiously walked down the rickety wooden steps. "Tommy? Are you down here? Toms, it's Will."

When he got to the bottom of the staircase, he flicked the second light switch on. The first thing he noticed was the mess. Smashed glass bottles and splatters of blood littered the floor, and the smell of sweat was almost palpable in the air.

There's so much blood.

Too much.

He called his friend, so much more concerned than he was before. The name hovered, stagnant in the cold air, unanswered. "Are you okay? Tommy?"

Then when he walked over to inspect the mound of clothes, Wilbur could swear time stopped. The room breathed in, his heart stopped, the water dripping from the pipe in the corner of the room stopped. Just for a second. But it stopped. And then it started again. It started again and Phil screamed, a detached, gut-wrenching scream that Wilbur thought could never come from his father echoing through the basement. He fell to his knees, ears buzzing and hands tugging on his hair. Everything was far too hot and far too cold and everything was wrong because Tommy was gone and he was pulling at everything just to make it stop - hair, clothes, gripping onto anything he could reach.

"What?" Tubbo's voice had caught and the words had come out in a whisper, barely audible, and a sharp intake of breath had sounded as the hazel eyes looking up at him had flicked to the ground. Ranboo's hand had tightened around Tubbo's shoulder, his face barely changing except for the slightly bloodshot eyes filling with tears, a single drop of water falling from his left eye. Wilbur hadn't even been sure if his brain computed what had happened.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, trying to slow the hyperventilating. His brain works too much. No. It's fine. He's fine. You're not going to have to go through that. He's not going to have to go through that.

He slowly makes his way down the staircase and into the basement. He flicks the light switch on and the dirty basement is dimly illuminated by flickering globes. It is filthy. Smashed glass bottles and splatters of blood litter the floor, and the smell of sweat is almost palpable in the air. Tommy's fine. He's fine. Just because you were right about the state of the place doesn't mean you're right about Tommy. It's... it's fine.

His heart is in his throat and his heartbeat is loud in his ears when he takes a shuddering breath and calls, "Tom?"

His mind screams at him when he hears the silence. Then sends a shiver down his spine when there's a weak cry from the corner and a pile of clothing shifts. He slowly walks forward and notices another movement, and heavy breathing. "Please... please not agai- again."

"Tom. It's me. Will. Are you okay?" When he walks closer, Tommy cowers.

"Dad, I'm sorry... please." Tommy's voice, muffled and broken, carries through the empty basement hauntingly.

He doesn't recognise me. Should I get Phil?

He decides that's the best thing to do and his father comes running, kneeling down to help their friend. But when Phil puts his hand on Tommy's arm, he yelps, cowering, and scrambles away, causing Phil to hesitate. "Do you think we should get Techno and Dream?"

---

When the Americans had responded to Wilbur and Phil's calls, Tommy had tugged on pink hair, eyes shut tight.

Techno paused. "Can you- my glasses are falling- can you push them up for me? My hands are just a bit occupied-"

Adjusting Techno's glasses, Wilbur had thought, Was it my accent? Is it because I called him 'Tom?' He hesitated while Techno, rubbing circles on the boy's back, carried him up the staircase and up to freedom. Was it me? Did I do something to trigger him?

Phil squeezes his son's hands, looking into his eyes. "Are you okay? You're deathly pale." He presses the back of his palm to Wilbur's forehead.

"I- He-" Words fail the musician, eyes looking blankly past his father.

"Yeah. I know."

"Can we get out of here?" The sentence that previously seemed to die the second it got to his throat spills out; huskily croaking, and Phil nods silently. Solemnly, he pulls his son towards the staircase, neither of them saying a word.

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