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Tommy was eager and excited to move to Brighton; get his own place. He’s shy a few months till he’s 18, and already a millionaire, with a bright future and no end in sight. It’s amazing, and almost any 18 year old would eagerly leap at the privilege Tommy has.
So why is he so nervous now that he’s watching the workers pack his boxes into the moving truck?
Logically, he knows it’s ridiculous to get to worried and trembly over a few boxes being moved. But Tommy is worried, so he keeps a watchful eye on all the movers as they pick up boxes and bags and place them in the back of the U-Haul.
Every so often he’ll yelp a, “Be careful!” at them when they pick up a box labeled; Fragile! It only gains him annoyed or amused glances, but he can’t help it. They need to be careful, some of that stuff are delicate subscriber awards from YouTube, or parts of his computer setup.
His mother is being a dear, and occasionally offers water bottles—“Wata bo’le!” Ranboo’s voice rings in his head, making him quirk his lip—to the workers. She’s even tried to bribe Tommy inside with biscuits a few times.
Really, he is excited to see his friends—brothers, at this point—and to move in with them! But Tommy has never been away from his parents more than 2 days on sleepovers. And even then, Freddie and Eryn lived pretty close to his house.
He’d talked with Ranboo about on stream a few days ago, how he was nervous. While Ranboo offered advice, they obviously couldn’t delve very deep into the issue with 50k+ people watching. He hadn’t talked about his nerves to his friends—or parents, for that matter—since.
Now he was practically on the brink of moving, and he was more anxious than ever.
“Tom, dear?” Mum asks, “Come inside, hun, you’re worrying yourself into a puddle.” She said gently, taking his arm and helping him to his feet. He curls into her slightly, his frame almost towering over her.
“Thanks, Mum.” Tommy mutters as he’s handed a small glass of water, and sat on the couch. For somereason, sitting on this couch that they’ve had for years and thinking about he’s never gonna sit here again—
So, he’s a little dramatic, whatever.
—makes him burst into gross, snotty tears.
“Oh, darling.” His mum tuts, a sympathetic smile on her lips. She takes his water cup, and sets it on the coffee table. Then she sits next to him, pulling his head to her chest and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “You’re alright, dear.” She coos at him, pressing kisses to his blond curls—he gets them from her, she’d once told him.
They sit in quiet for a few minutes, the only noises are Tommy’s light crying and sniffles. Tears make a wet spot on his mum’s blouse, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She just keeps combing her painted finger nails in his hair, every so often scritching against his scalp comfortingly.
He rubs his eyes, irritated and red. They’re slightly puffy, and it hurts just a bit when he blinks. “Oh dear, you’re alright. It’s all okay. What’s the matter, hun?” She asks softly after he quiets down.
Shrugging just a little, Tommy cuddles deeper into her. He feels distinctly like a child, young and crying because he scraped his knee. “Just… nerves, I guess.” He murmurs quietly, sniffling.
Mum wipes a tear that escapes his puffy eyes, kissing his forehead firmly. Tom vaguely worries that her lipstick might smudge against his forehead. “You are a strong, strong boy, Tom.” She begins, her tone almost stern as he reassures him.
“You are strong, and I believe—no, I know, you can do this. I probably wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of you leaving if I didn’t think you could do it.” She says, laughing lightly at the end. He feels warm, cheeks ablaze as he listens to the praise.
Her laugh makes his eyes wet again, though—her laugh, joyful and deep. Almost every laugh she has is hearty, almost fullbody. It’s one of Tom’s favorite things about his mum, and he giggles a little with her.
“Thanks, Mum.” He says wetly. His mum scoffs a little, “Of course. You think I’m gonna let my boy cry his eyes on the couch alone?” She asks, hand going to brush through his hair again.
Instantly, he melts against her, relaxing deeply into the touch. Crying always tuckers him out, and adding that with the stress of the last week and a half, Tommy was exhausted.
“Wanna go eat something, hun?” Mum asks, “Before you pass out?” She jokes quietly. He huffs a small laugh, and nods. “Turkey sandmich.” He slurs tiredly. She laughs, louder than before.
“Right. Well, you gotta move off me before I can, dear.” She says, laughter in her voice.
Tom whines, but lets his mum move him so he's laying on the couch instead of her. He pouts up at her, but she just calls for the dogs.
“Walter! Betty!” She calls down the hall, and after a second, eight paws with dog claws come bustling down into the living room. They tap, tap, tap loudly.
Tommy smushes his cheek into the armrest, and lets both of the dogs jump on the couch, crowding it. He gets stabbed with three different dog paws in the stomach before Walter and Betty settle, long bodies and limbs entangled with each other’s and his own legs.
“You guys suck.” He says, scrunching his nose and looking down at the two dogs. Neither seem to care, and Walter even lays his long head down on Tommy’s thigh with a small thud.
Right then, his mum comes back into the living room with a small plate—one of grandma’s fancy china plates. It has a turkey sandwich, with it’s crusts cut off, just like he liked when he was 7.
“I’m not a little kid, mum. You didn’t have to cut the crusts.” He laughs lightly, sitting up and taking the plate from her soft hands.
His mum rolls her eyes, a smile on her lips. “Today is one of the last days you’re gonna be able to act like a kid, Tom. Enjoy the dang crusts being cut off.” She laughs, unable to stop herself.
“Thank you, mum. Really. I appreciate it.” He says, taking a bite out of the sandwich. Delicious, despite just being turkey and swiss cheese smushed between bread.
She waves a hand, “No problem, dear.” She says.