#tommyinnit fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jallieae · 2 years

Text

sbi actor au - drabble

for @/BariAstralis on twt || 3.4k

Tommy blinks at him, mind instantly spinning.

“On… what?” he edges, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Who?”

OR, where Tommy is the new errand boy on set and SBI are the big shot actors --- not that Tommy knows that.

“Tommy,” Jack calls, breaking Tommy out of his haze of concentration. “Director wants you. He’s talking to props.”

Tommy lifts himself up, stretching as he abandons the set piece behind him.

“Got it,” he says, already breathless. It’s his first day, not even noon, and the ever-changing list of tasks he’s been given feels like a whirlwind. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack nods, and then he’s off, barking orders into his headset even before he’s turned around. Tommy watches him disappear through a doorway leading to costuming and heads the opposite direction, searching for flashes of green or a disheveled head of blonde hair.

He pokes his head into three doorways before he finds him, talking to one of the prop managers. They’ve barely started prepping for shooting, but Dream looks stressed. He fidgets anxiously with a thick, well-worn booklet that Tommy can distantly recognize as his script.

Tommy, still trying to maneuver both the enormous studio and the rules of interacting with the crew, is hesitant to interrupt. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, as Dream catches him in the doorway and his olive eyes glint with recognition.

“Tommy,” Dream starts, voice commanding all of Tommy’s attention by pure title alone. “I need you on Wilbur duty.”

Tommy blinks at him, mind instantly spinning. What the fuck is Wilbur duty? Is he supposed to know that? His film classes, which enabled him to get this position, hadn’t said anything about it.

“On… what?” he edges, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“Wilbur,” Dream continues distractedly, as the props manager waits to steal his attention back. “Wilbur Soot.” At Tommy’s blank look, Dream’s expression shifts into incredulity. “The lead protagonist, Tommy.” Before Tommy can even flush with crawling humiliation, Dream shakes his head. “Look— we need him on set in twenty. Just figure it out.”

“Okay,” Tommy replies, heart skipping a beat. “I can—”

And Dream’s turned away again, as if Tommy had never been there in the first place.

Sighing, Tommy picks himself up and spins around. He vaguely is able to recall how to get outside, where the actors’ trailers are set up. It takes about five minutes of tripping through hallways and weaving past busy-looking people with clipboards and earpieces, before Tommy realizes he has no clue where he’s going.

Fuck. How long did Dream say? Twenty minutes? It’s already been at least five. Double fuck. Tommy needs to go.

Desperation turning his thoughts into a scrambled, jagged mess, Tommy ducks through the closest doorway to give himself a chance to get reoriented—

Only to slam into someone’s chest.

They collide hard enough to send Tommy falling back onto his ass — or he would have fallen, had fingertips not seized his sleeve at the last second, jerking him upright.

“Sorry,” he mutters instantly, stepping back. “Didn’t see you, man.”

The guy he collided into blinks, only just regaining his own balance. He’s wearing a long, brown jacket, a tattered red beanie, and fingerless gloves that Tommy instantly charts to be edgier than he mentally wants to deal with. He looks nice enough, despite the harsh undereye bags weighing down his gleaming brown eyes, even offering Tommy a kind smile. But still.

Wait. Tommy squints, and that’s when he sees it, just barely visible around the guy’s mouth: stage makeup, foundation or powder or some shit, slightly creasing. He’s done enough practice camerawork to know how to recognize it. His brain fills in the pieces by itself.

Is this guy an extra? Maybe?

He’s costumed like one, and the makeup is a dead giveaway. The undereye bags suddenly look just barely painted on — a bit too dark and patchy to the normal eye to seem natural, but brushed on in a way that would look great behind a lens.

Not that it matters. There’s probably tons of extras roaming the set. Tommy doesn’t care about them, he cares about—

He is about to turn away when it hits him. If this is an extra, he probably knows where the Wilbur Soot guy is. Hell, he at least probably knows what the man looks like.

If he asks for help, Tommy might actually have a chance of getting Soot to the shot in twenty minutes.

“Hey!” he blurts, startling the man, who’d been about to drop the smile, presumably to leave. “Can you help me? I’m looking for someone.”

He gestures awkwardly to the badge hanging around his neck, on a bright blue lanyard.

“Sure,” the guy answers smoothly. “Who are you looking for?”

“Wilbur Soot,” Tommy answers instantly, relief flooding him. Yes. He can do this. He didn’t just mess up his job on day one. “Dream needs him on set in twenty. Or, like twelve now.”

The guy blinks at him. Then blinks some more. His lips have parted, face utterly slack with disbelief. Tommy frowns.

“What?” When the guy says nothing, just stares Tommy down incredulously, Tommy’s cheeks heat. He’s aware that he doesn’t look prepared, but what is he supposed to do? He has to go. “Do you know where he is or not, bitch?”

Tommy can’t pull back the word before it’s off his tongue, and he winces internally as the guy’s eyes widen to the size of saucers.

The guy gapes, and keeps blinking — that’s his favorite hobby, apparently. Then,

“Are you fucking with me?” he asks, and Tommy scowls.

“Why would I be fucking with you?”

“Why—” He sighs, a disbelieving laugh rushing past his lips. Then, his expression schools into one that’s much more calm, cool amusement settling over his face. “Wilbur Soot? Does that name not ring a bell?”

Tommy flushes further. “Look— I know he’s some big shot actor. I’m going to learn everyone’s names, I promise.” When the guy grins, eyes gleaming, Tommy writhes beneath what he thinks might be patronization being directed at him. “It’s my first day, man. You don’t have to be a dick. I can ask someone—”

“No!” he says quickly, grabbing Tommy’s arm. Tommy startles, blinking up at him. The guy smiles bashfully and lets go. “No, I can help you. I actually happen to know where he is.”

That makes Tommy pause, hope blooming between his ribs. “You do?”

Oh, this is great. This is better than great.

“Mhm,” the trenchoat guy informs him, nodding. “I can take you to him, if you want?”

“Please,” Tommy breathes, relief shuddering through him. “I don’t want to lose my job. That would not be pog. Like, at all.”

Trenchcoat raises an eyebrow. “Pog?”

Tommy flushes again and pretends he didn’t. “Forget it. So do you—”

“Oh, yeah,” Trenchcoat answers, shoving his hands leisurely into his coat pockets. “I do. Follow me.”

Tommy does, taking in the first full breath since he clocked in that morning. The compounding pressure of being in such a chaotic environment feels lessened. Tommy sighs.

“What’s your name again?” Tommy asks, as he’s led back down the hallway he came from.

More crew turn the corner, heading straight at them, but the Trenchcoat guy just slides an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulls him close when he threatens to collide with one of them. As soon as they’re clear, he lets him go, and gratitude surges through him.

The guy flashes his eyes towards Tommy, even as his face remains facing the front. “Uh… Will.”

“Will?”

“Like William,” Will informs him, and Tommy hums a noncommittal agreement.

Sure. Will like William.

They continue navigating corners, so fast that Tommy’s head begins to spin all over again. He finds himself clinging to Will’s jacket, because the guy — extra or not — seems to know where he’s going. Where Tommy had tripped through the hallways, Wilbur navigates them all lithely and easily.

Well, until they stumble directly into another person.

For the second time today, Tommy gets shoved backwards. And for the second time, Will catches him.

“Techno,” Will says, before Tommy can even regain his footing. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hullo,” the newcomer greets tonelessly.

Tommy skims him over. His hair is long, and pink, but the rest of him is dressed like he’s stepped out of another era, with a billowing white poet’s shirt tucked into black slacks. Tommy is also pretty sure he’s wearing red contacts. Unless his eyes just look like that, which is possible. Huh.

“Don’t mind me, Tech,” Will greets, a strange, sharp smile twisting his lips. “I’m just helping this intern out.”

Tommy’s face twists into a deep scowl. “Intern?”

Will looks down at him. “Aren’t you an intern, uh” his eyes flick down to Tommy’s badge, “Tommy?”

“I’m a set assistant,” Tommy insists vehemently. “Not a fuckin’ intern.”

The Techno-guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like an errand boy?”

Yes.

“No,” Tommy iterates, a flush blooming over his cheeks like a pink rose unfurling.

“Is that much better?” the pink-haired dude mumbles under his breath, but he’s bigger than Tommy, and much scarier than Will, so Tommy lets him get away with it.

“I’m studying film,” Tommy tells him shortly. “Cinematography. I want to shoot movies. I’m here to learn how a production runs.”

He doesn’t say that he’d applied for two months to even land a spot in a movie so big. He doesn’t get the feeling that Will or Techno would care too much. They’re here too, after all.

“You’re in a good spot for that,” Will offers, and Tommy nods.

“Exactly,” he agrees. “Experience is experience. I’m learning a lot.”

But then it gets quiet. Like, awkwardly quiet. Tommy clears his throat.

“Anyway—”

“Anyway,” Will cuts in, wrapping his arm back around Tommy’s shoulders. “Techno, I’m helping Tommy here find Wilbur.” Looking at Techno, his eyes glint like he’s telling a secret without moving his lips. “Wilbur Soot. Apparently he needs to be ready to shoot in twelve minutes.”

“Probably ten,” Tommy mumbles.

“Does he?” Techno remarks dryly, scraping his eyes over the two of them.

His gaze hovers on Will. Tommy looks over at him, to see what Techno’s looking at, but he doesn’t find anything.

“Yes,” Will emphasizes, tugging them ahead. “Are you going to join us, then?”

“...Sure,” Techno remarks. “I’m pretty sure I’m morally obligated to stop you from bullyin' children.”

“Oy!” Tommy and Will say in unison, gazes snapping towards each other instantly.

“I’m not bullying anyone,” Will insists, at the time that Tommy all but shrieks, “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Right,” Techno says to both of them. “Whatever. Just—” He waves a vague hand forward. “Lead the way.”

And Will does, dragging Tommy forward as if he’s known him for years. Tommy can’t even complain, mind split between the silent countdown ringing through his skull and the fact that he really, really should’ve done his research on the film cast before he’d taken the job. He’d, well, admittedly, he’d been a bit distracted by the fact that that one certain actor was in it to do much more than skim the cast list when he’d landed the job. But apparently, that was not enough.

It’s fine. He’ll learn the rest over the next few months.

“So, do you know this Wilbur Soot guy, or do you just know where he is?” Tommy finds himself asking to break the silence, as he’s led back towards the center of the building.

“That’s a good question,” Techno drawls, glancing at Will. “Do you know this Wilbur Soot guy?”

Will glares at Techno, then looks back at Tommy with a soft, hesitant expression. “Uh, I know the guy.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at the tone of his voice, grinning instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘S he a dick or something? I’m sure all the big shots are.”

Techno chokes on laughter, and Will swallows what might be sourness before Tommy can really get a glimpse of it on his face. “He’s a great guy.”

“Nah, you don’t gotta lie,” Techno chimes in, clapping Will on the back, and Tommy’s eyes — shining with new amusement — swing to him. He looks at Tommy seriously, red-contact eyes glinting. “He’s made three temps quit because of his coffee order—”

Will’s hand flies out before Techno’s finished, socking him hard in the shoulder. Techno doesn’t even budge, only grins. Will scowls, and it’s pronounced by his undereye makeup.

“That’s not true, Tommy, don’t listen to him.”

“You guys are annoying,” Tommy complains, relishing in the twin looks of disbelief it draws.

Will’s disbelief melts quickly, into something like endearment. He reaches out a fingerless-gloved hand and ruffles Tommy’s hair.

“See this kid, Techno?” Will asks, as Tommy shoves his hand away good-naturedly. “I like him.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy deadpans.

His grin widens. Tommy sighs, looking away.

That’s when he notices they’ve circled to the main shoot. Tommy’s set piece that he abandoned twenty minutes ago has been properly constructed, and the studio lights are on, shining brightly and glinting off the array of metal cameras decorating the area.

And there, among the chaos: Dream, flipping through his script with a frazzled fervor, like it carries the secret to immortality.

“Shit,” Tommy hisses under his breath, realizing that it’s probably been twenty minutes, and he’s only gone in a circle — not a Wilbur Soot to be found.

Of course, as luck has it, Dream’s eyes scan the room, and then land sharply on him.

He sees Tommy and straightens, walking forward quickly. Tommy swallows, feet dragging. He would stop completely if Techno wasn’t behind him, nudging him forward with a gentle hand on his back.

“Tommy,” Dream calls, and Tommy wishes he could melt into the floor.

A million excuses bubble up on his tongue, none of them particularly good either.

“Sorry, Dream, I was just—”

But Dream’s face splits into an easy smile. “You found him! That’s good.”

Tommy’s mouth snaps closed. He squints, wondering what the hell Dream is talking about.

“What?”

“And Technoblade,” Dream remarks, maybe even like he’s impressed, though Tommy’s not sure he’s comprehending. “That’s good.” He turns his head to call over his shoulder, to someone that Tommy doesn’t quite see, “Everyone’s here! Start prepping cameras to shoot in ten!”

Then, when he looks back at Tommy, some of the harsher stress lines are gone from his face. He claps Tommy on the shoulder, smiling.

“Good job, kid. Get these two to costuming for me, will you? Jack can give you another task when you’re done.”

He nods, once, decisive like a director should be, before he’s gone.

Tommy blinks.

Then, the realization crashes over him, strong enough to rattle his bones. Turning slowly, dull anger sparking in his eyes, Tommy looks at “Will.”

Will, not as in William, but as in Wilbur Soot.

Wilbur Soot, who is grinning sheepishly at Tommy. His dark eyes are the color of bashful guilt.

Wilbur Soot — who Tommy had shit-talked right to his bloody face.

Tommy burns. “You—”

“Wilbur Soot, at your service,” Wilbur grins, extending a hand that Tommy lets hang between them.

“—rat bastard,” Tommy finishes in a hiss, acutely aware that his cheeks and ears are on fire.

The floor could drop out from under him, sending him plummeting to some circle of hell, and Tommy thinks he’d be grateful. Surely Hell is cooler than the heat gnawing at his face.

“For the record, I was not a part of this,” Techno— Technoblade— states, hands raised placatingly.

Tommy glares at him. “You participated, prick.” He slides his gaze to Wilbur, swallowing hard. “You humiliated me.”

“Oh, come on,” Wilbur soothes, though Tommy doesn’t care for it. “Dream had no clue. You’re fine.”

“I’m not—” Tommy’s breaths come a bit too quickly. Humiliation is not something he typically feels, but now, it ravages him. His bones feel like they’re swelling, dwarfing his body, too big for his skin. He swallows hard, spitting the next words. “That’s not fine. If he had known—”

“He didn’t,” Wilbur says quickly, and Tommy thinks he’s realized he’s upset him, because he instantly sobers, apologetic. If backpedaling were a person, it’d be Wilbur. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Tommy scowls, though he feels it dip into a pout before he can help himself. “You’re a dick.”

“Hey, I’ll make it up to you,” Wilbur offers quickly, glancing at Techno with panicked eyes that Tommy, dimly, relishes in. Prick. “You can stick with me today. I’ll show you all around set. All the cameras and bullshit—”

“I think Dream will actually murder me if I do that,” Tommy counters sullenly, crossing his arms.

“He won’t,” Wilbur insists. Now he sounds like he’s talking to a baby, eyes pouty — as if his net worth isn’t twenty times the net worth of Tommy’s whole family. As if Tommy is someone that a movie star needs to grovel to. “Techno, back me up. He won’t.”

“He won’t,” Techno agrees flatly, “But—”

“You’re insufferable—”

“Let the kid go back to work,” Techno continues, offering Tommy a faint smile. “If he gets fired, the movie’s down an errand boy—”

“Set assistant—”

“And you’re down someone to drag around like a stray cat,” Techno finishes, lips twitching.

Wilbur looks remarkably petulant for a grown man, but he concedes. “Fine.” Then, he holds out a pinkie. “But only if you promise to let me make it up to you properly while we’re still shooting.”

And, okay. Now that Tommy’s skin has cooled, and some time has passed, he can appreciate that Wilbur’s prank wasn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. And Wilbur was fun, before he was a dick. Can Tommy turn down a debt from a movie star — prick or not?

“Okay,” he agrees, finding himself able to somewhat mirror Wilbur’s smile as he interlocks their pinkies. “I’ll let you make it up to me, bitch.”

Wilbur seems apologetic enough to let the swear words slide. This feels like proper payback.

Relief turns Wilbur’s smile soft. “Good, good. That’s—”

“Wilbur, Techno,” a voice calls from behind him, interrupting him. Instantly, Tommy straightens, eyes widening. “What are you boys up to? Not terrorizing this young man, I hope.”

Tommy turns on his heel, swallowing hard as his heart starts to race, because he recognizes that voice—

“Philza,” he breathes reverently as he comes face to face with his idol. “Holy shit.”

Philza smiles kindly, eyes crinkling as he walks over to them. “Hiya, mate. I take it you’re a fan?”

“Superfan,” Tommy answers without thinking, 90% sure that his eyes are glazing over like blue marbles in his skull. “I’ve seen all your movies. You like, reinvented film with the Hardcore trilogy.”

He thinks he’s going to faint as Philza smiles, all pleasant and nice.

“Aw, thanks mate, that’s very—”

“Hold on—” Wilbur interjects, shoving between them with a look of disbelief — shattering the moment. “You know who Phil is, but not me?”

“Everyone knows who Philza fucking Minecraft is, dickhead,” Tommy counters hotly. “He’s a legend among men.”

Wilbur shakes his head disbelievingly. Over his shoulder, Techno radiates amusement.

“C’mon,” Wilbur announces, turning on his heel determinedly. His hand tangles in Tommy’s sleeve, dragging him forward. Tommy raises an eyebrow, letting him — he does have a job to do, after all, and a time limit to do it in. “What did Dream say? Costuming? We’re leaving.”

“You’re a disgrace,” Techno drawls to Wilbur, as Tommy is half-dragged, half-led across the room.

“It was lovely meeting you!” Tommy calls, a saccharine smile shot over his shoulder, which Phil returns with glittering eyes.

“Don’t let those two get you into trouble!” Phil calls, smiling wide.

“I won’t!” Tommy hollers.

Techno chuckles, and Wilbur shoots him a glare. “I hate you both.”

“You barely know me,” Tommy snipes, yanking his arm free to walk at Wilbur’s side. Two can play at the being-annoying game. “I thought you were supposed to be making it up to me. What happened to that, Wilbitch?”

“Techno, get him out of my sight.”

“You signed up for this, Wilbur. This is on you.”

“Fine,” Wilbur sighs, but the playful expression on his face tells Tommy that he’s not truly upset. “I suppose I did.”

Heart suddenly swollen with a mischievous sort of warmth, Tommy grins, only to himself.

The production has just started, he’s just met his idol, and there are still months of filming to go.

Maybe sticking around Wilbur and co. won’t be so bad after all.

#tommyinnit #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #dream smp #actor au #tommyinnit fic #fanfic #sleepy bois fanfic #SBI #sleepy boys inc #dream

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jallieae · 2 years

Text

lead me through frigid waters

where olive gets an unwelcome demonstration of how tommy’s coach used to treat him—and does something about it

“It’s true then,” a curling voice murmurs, and Olive freezes in place to listen before they’re even aware that their feet are stopping. “You’ve been replaced.”

Instantly, Olive’s skin prickles with discomfort. The voice is eerie and dangerous, like jagged thorns and slick oil, and verging on familiar—so familiar that they can’t help but do anything except stop, and then—

“What?” croaks Tommy—Tommy—sounding painfully quiet.

ice!cobbleduo ficlet || 3.6k words

— ❅ —

Olive waits ten minutes before their patience runs dry.

It’s not that they aren’t patient—they are. Just… not when it comes to being worried. And Olive is worried.

Tommy was supposed to be here by now, and if there’s anything they’ve learned about Tommy—and they’ve learned a lot over these past few weeks—it’s that he’s never late. Never. Well, except for the times that he has been late, but all those times had been for bad reasons.

Reasons like he had a migraine and could barely get out of bed, nevermind hobble over to the rink for practice. He had been cornered on the street by a cluster of nosy reporters, aching to sink their teeth into a vulnerable skater with a tragic past. He’d been sick and tried to hide it, only to fail miserably before his skates touched the ice.

So—never good things.

And Olive, standing with their duffel bag hanging loosely from one hand and their skates from the other, is gradually being overcome by a suspicion that this time is just like the others. As in not good.

The rink is still packed with spectators, visitors from all over who’d come to watch them perform. Tommy would never say anything, but Olive knows that sometimes big groups of people (the ones not obscured by the haze that overcomes him when he performs) can overwhelm him. Olive typically makes a point to plant themself conveniently at his side whenever it’s just the two of them weaving through big crowds, but this time, they couldn’t. And now Tommy’s gone and Olive’s worried and screw it—they’re not waiting anymore.

“I’ll go find him,” Olive volunteers when five more minutes crawl by, and Tommy is nowhere to be found.

Eret hesitates, lips pursed and eyes scrunched with worry as he scans the crowds. Hesitance drips off of him, and Olive can feel it as if it’s tangible. But finally he nods, slow and distracted, and so Olive sets their duffel bag and skates down at his feet.

“Be right back,” they declare, smiling past the anxious skip of their heart before turning on their heel towards the rink. “Promise!”

They’re confident (hoping) that they’ll run into Tommy before they have to do too much looking, because more looking means more possibility for trouble and Olive doesn’t want that. Not for Tommy. Not after how open he’s been lately.

In the end, though, Olive is so consumed by the messy flurry of their thoughts that they almost walk right past Tommy. But they don’t, stopping just in time to catch the whispered conversation—to find Tommy—and then instantly wish they hadn’t.

“It’s true then,” a curling voice murmurs, and Olive freezes in place to listen before they’re even aware that their feet are stopping. “You’ve been replaced.”

“What?” croaks Tommy—Tommy—sounding painfully quiet.

They’re around the corner, secluded from everything else, so Olive can’t see them, but they can hear the man’s scoff, quiet and mocking, plain as day. It sends a chill up their spine that grows vines of dread in their stomach.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, sweetheart,” the man continues—and oh, Tommy’s old coach continues—taunting words colliding into Olive’s eardrums like gunshots. “I warned you, didn’t I? If you weren’t useful—”

“I’m sorry,” comes Tommy’s voice, quick and clumsy, and so unjustly apologetic that Olive is propelled forward, legs moving, mind snapping into itself, “Coach— no, sir, I’m—”

“Tommy?”

Both Tommy and his ex-coach turn when Olive ducks around the corner, smiling pleasantly. Tension lingers at the corner of their eyes, but they think they do a decent job shielding it as they are appraised by two distinctly contrasting expressions: one of a broken sunbeam, pale and watery and creased with fear; and one of a dangerous snake, cold and poisonous and damn-near predacious.

Olive’s smile doesn’t waver in the face of the grimace that affronts them. All they can see is Tommy, eyes wide and panicked, shoulders down and trembling hands pressed together, as if to ease the shake. Olive is suddenly taken back to that very first practice with him, and they, with a wash of nausea, don’t like it one bit.

“There you are,” Olive continues, the corners of their mouth threatening to curve into a frown. “Are you okay? Eret’s worried, and I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It’s a lie, because this is the first and last place that they looked, but they hope Tommy gets it. We’re worried. You’re wanted. You’re not alone. Please come with me if you feel safe.

Tommy, meeting their eyes with a shaky sort of desperation, looks like he tries to answer. But he doesn’t get far, because his ex-coach steps forward, and Olive sucks in a sharp breath when his hand curls around Tommy’s wrist, tugging him towards his side. Tommy blinks, stumbling towards his coach without resistance but looking like he can’t believe that his legs are moving.

“Excuse me,” his ex-coach interrupts flatly, skimming Olive over. “But my athlete and I—”

“He’s not yours,” Olive interjects instantly, and even Olive is surprised by the hostility lacing their tone, turning every word into steel.

Tommy’s ex-coach is even more so, reeling back. “Excuse me?”

Tommy has gone from panicked, to full-fledged terrified. Balling their fists deliberating at their side to quell the rising mess of emotion welling in their chest, Olive takes a deep breath and stomps right through Tommy’s terror to get to him. They have to.

“He’s not yours,” they repeat evenly, ignoring the holes Tommy is boring into the side of their face with his horrified gaze. “He’s my friend.”

Shoulders heaving just a bit, the coach takes an indignant step forward—dragging Tommy with him, who gasps as his wrist is jerked. Olive’s heart pounds in their chest.

“I’m his coach,” the man lies, lies, eyes like two embers, attempting to flatten Olive where they stand, and—

“Are you?” Olive accuses, blood heating impotently because he’s lying. He’s lying right to their face, and they can hear Tommy’s breath begin to pick up a dangerous rattle as he does it, and they can see him wince at the grip on his wrist because his coach is squeezing it too hard, is hurting him, and Olive won’t let him continue. They won’t. “Because last time I checked, Eret was our coach.”

Olive watches the realisation settle over the coach’s prim features in high definition. The realisation that Olive isn’t just Tommy’s friend, but his skating partner. They can’t deny the hot flash of satisfaction that shoots through their chest when the coach falters, poise cracking. He clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring, and Olive tilts their chin up, acting braver than they feel.

“I know who you are,” Olive tells him, eyes blazing. “Now let him go and leave before I call security.”

There’s a tense, suspended moment where they’re not sure that the coach will listen. Olive’s lungs remain swollen, fear starting to creep through their bloodstream, because they don’t know what they’ll do if Tommy’s ex-coach doesn’t listen. Well, besides scream maybe (probably) and at the very least get Tommy away. But it doesn’t come down to the what-ifs, because Tommy’s ex-coach scoffs, lips twisting into a snarl.

He flings away Tommy’s wrist carelessly before shouldering past both of them—nearly checking Olive’s shoulder as he goes. And oh, Olive is totally having Eret call security anyway the minute they’re back, but for now, all they can focus on is the hollowness circling Tommy’s irises and the mounting shakiness of his breathing.

When the coach leaves, Tommy seems barely able to be upright—like he’s forgotten how to balance. Olive’s eyes widen as his arms curl over his stomach, hugging himself tightly as his lungs begin to protest each breath. His eyes are lasered unblinkingly, unseeingly, at the floor in front of his shoes, and Olive recognizes the oncoming asthma-panic attack combo for what it is.

They move quickly, fear finally having a chance to sprout inside of them. It threatens to weave around their lungs, clog their trachea, but they don’t let it stop them from shooting to get to Tommy’s side—managing to get a steady hand around his arm the minute his knees start to buckle.

(Olive almost wishes it wasn’t so familiar by now: Tommy’s attacks. He’d begun to let Olive, and Eret, see a lot more of them—whether intentionally or not—and Olive is beginning to learn the unsteady rhythm of his panic. Even if this is the worst one they’ve seen.)

“I’ve got you,” Olive breathes, getting Tommy down to the floor with minimal struggle. He hardly seems coherent enough to move his limbs, and that’s as relieving as it is frightening. “Come on, breathe, Tommy. I’ve got you.”

They’ve found that reassuring words like that—I’ve got you, you’re safe, I’m here—sometimes work better than just telling him to breathe. Tommy’s lungs know he needs to breathe, but there’s a mental gap there that isn’t always bridged, and Olive is almost as proud as they are saddened by how easily they can step in now to try to patch it up.

Key word: try, because this time, Olive’s words only seem to collide with an invisible, vacant wall that they know has something to do with the haze obscuring Tommy’s eyes, and panic slashes through Olive’s chest. His breathing only becomes even more staccato and ragged, a wheeze more than a gasp. Crap. Heart racing, Olive pats at Tommy’s pockets, and comes up empty. He doesn’t have his inhaler on him. Double crap.

Olive is half a second from drowning in their own panic before they remember—they have an inhaler. A backup one, specifically for Tommy. They’d started carrying it around after one-too-many times of Tommy forgetting his inhaler and having an attack. Now, as they fumble to get it out of their back pocket—eternally grateful they’d slipped it in there after their performance—Olive thinks it’s the best decision they’ve ever made.

“Here,” Olive breathes, voice trembling despite themself. “Come on, just like that— good job, Tommy.”

Something comes to life in Tommy’s eyes, and Olive lets their murmured reassurances pull him back to shore like a steady fishing line, tugging and easing and caring.

Olive’s not sure how much time passes before Tommy’s breath starts to even out, aided by the inhaler. All they know is that it gets better before they have to call another ambulance (a thought which nearly puts their heart out of commission at the reminder.)

Eventually, Tommy pushes their hand away, and Olive shuffles back on their knees—but not too far away since it’s clear that he is barely able to hold the inhaler to trembling lips on his own. They wait patiently, giving him space even as worry chisels tension into every muscle in their body.

Their mind is a globe, spinning and spinning as everything starts to catch up with them.

Olive had met Tommy’s old coach, but they’d scared him away. They’d helped Tommy. Everything was fine. (So why did they feel so shaky still?)

“Thank you,” Tommy croaks, startling Olive back into reality. Tommy’s shoulders are still heaving, and he has the inhaler an inch away from his mouth, fingers curled tightly over it as he whispers endlessly, “Thank you, thank you Olive.”

Olive nods, throat suddenly a little too tight to get a word out, and that has Tommy’s eyes somewhat clearing in an instant, tracing worriedly over them. He lowers his inhaler, guilt and concern battling for space on his expression.

“Are you okay?” he rasps, and Olive nods quickly.

Maybe too quickly, because Tommy’s worry only seems to compound, and Olive clears their throat.

“I was worried for you,” Olive admits quietly, fingers digging into the thighs of their pants. They clear their throat again, eyes scraping over Tommy’s still-shaking form. His ex-coach’s words infest their brain like sticky tar, clinging and clinging. “That was… pretty bad.”

Tommy’s eyes flash with something infinitely pained, and miserable. “I thought I was alone. With… him.” His eyes flicker up again, just slightly calmer. “But you saved me.”

Olive nods, tongue clumsy as they fight for control of their brain again. “He was being a jerk.”

Tommy blinks, and then his lips twitch. It’s a gross understatement, and maybe that’s why he manages a faint smile.

“He was,” Tommy agrees, almost a whisper. Then, laughing brokenly, “You can be scary, you know that?”

Olive instantly recognizes that he means it as a compliment, and grins, fast and fierce and mostly genuine.

“Only because of you,” Olive croaks, lips twitching to the side. “Besides, he deserved it. He shouldn’t say mean things to my friend.”

On cue, the “mean things” race through their head. Replaceable. Not useful. Sweetheart. Things that make their heart beat too quickly, and their head feel strangely light.

Olive shivers, wishing they could cast the words out of their mind, banish them from existence—and maybe banish them from Tommy’s too, for good measure. But they don’t have a chance to linger on it, because Tommy is suddenly jerking his head up, eyes wide and painfully open.

“So… you meant it then?” he hedges quietly. Olive frowns—meant what? But Tommy cuts over their thoughts. “That we were… friends, and all that.”

Now, Olive truly frowns, confusion furrowing between their brow. “Of course I did. I thought you knew that.”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he straightens. “I did! I did, I swear I just… I was making sure.”

He sounds panicked again, and Olive almost panics because he’s panicking again, but they don’t, because they get it.

“It’s okay,” Olive tells him, eyeing him worriedly. Quiet falls, a shade too awkwardly for Olive’s comfort. So they try another route, latching onto the faint threads of humor extended between them and pulling. “In fact, I’d almost say we are best friends, Tommy.”

When Tommy looks at them, tilting his head as their words land over him, Olive continues. They haven’t met the SMP hockey team that Tommy speaks so fondly about, but they know a lot about them. And maybe a familiar name might pull Tommy back down to Earth with them.

Olive sighs, playful to mask the lingering anxiety. “I know you said you liked that Wilbur guy, but I feel like I could be a strong contender for best—”

Tommy coughs, and Olive nearly scrambles forward to steady him as Tommy’s eyes widen.

“Wilbur!” he bursts out, breathing hard. “I’m— we have to go, don’t we? To see them? They’re coming to meet us, right?” He exhales heavily, glancing around, and Olive is alarmed just watching him. They don’t like the way he latches onto this easier than his want to make sure he’s okay. “Eret’s going to be so mad that I—”

“Hold on,” Olive interjects quickly, laying a tentative hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy looks at them, eyes wide and— oh. They can tell that he’s not quite as there as they’d assumed. Either that, or he is falling back into that absent hollowness. “I can text Eret to meet us. You can’t—”

Olive cuts themself off, suddenly overcome with emotion. Tommy freezes, watching them with his knees curled up towards his chest, and Olive has to wrangle their next breath down their throat.

“We can’t just brush past that, Tommy,” Olive whispers, and Tommy shakes, throat bobbing as he meets their eyes. “I’m calling Eret to make sure you’re okay and that your old coach—”

“It’s fine,” Tommy whispers immediately, looking away. Something in Olive’s chest clenches. “I can breathe, it’s not—”

Olive is flooded with a nasty cocktail of disbelief and horror. “It’s not about that—about breathing! It’s never about just being able to breathe. You have to be okay, too.”

When Olive finishes, breathing hard, Tommy just looks at them. There is something horribly fractured and dead in his eyes. It looks like a tombstone, and feels like a burial plot. Resolute and rotted and sinking into the ground.

“I don’t… Olive, I don’t know how to do that.”

Olive’s breath hitches. “I—”

They cut themselves off, because what do they say? You can’t put broken things together and expect the fracture lines to realign the same way as before. It’s not— it’s not impossible. How can they possibly expect Tommy to even know what okay means?

“Please just wait,” is what Olive eventually settles on, because it’s all they can say. “Please be careful with yourself, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy just looks at them, and Olive can see him swallow down that dead-eyed look, and it almost makes them nauseous, but then, a delicate hand lands on top of her own, and Olive freezes, eyes flickering up.

“Okay,” Tommy whispers, chin wavering. But his eyes are genuine, and wide, and rimmed with red but more or less lucid. “I can— I can try. To be okay.” He swallows, hesitating. “Is that…”

Olive’s chest cracks, like a skate skipping across a frozen lake, spraying ice. They grip his hand, squeezing tightly.

“That’s perfect, Tommy.”

Tommy smiles, barely a movement but a smile all the same. Olive mimics it, even though the muscles in their face feel so tired. They almost want to collapse, right in the little side-room, but instead, they shuffle over to Tommy’s side.

Olive feels Tommy looking at them but all they do is lean their head on his shoulder and sigh. Tommy tenses, just for a moment—just long enough for Olive to consider pulling back—but then he relaxes, and Olive relaxes all over again with him.

They wonder if this is the harmony Eret was talking about them needing to find during their routines—the balance between the two of them, pushing and pulling in equal measure. It feels like it.

It only takes another minute for Olive’s text message to send, and for Eret to see it.

“He’s coming,” Olive remarks, feeling more than seeing Tommy’s minute flinch against them. They can tell that he’s worried about Eret being upset, and try to assuage him. “And I think he’s calling— wait.”

They cut off, realising something in an instant, mind rewinding. Tommy reels back in visible confusion as Olive jerks upright, looking at him with wide eyes. They can’t deny the flare of accusation burning through them.

“How did you know that we were meeting the team?” Olive demands, because it’s supposed to be a secret, a surprise, but Tommy had mentioned earlier like it wasn’t. “That’s not fair.”

Tommy snorts, light and quiet. “Sapnap accidentally sent me a picture from the airport this morning without realising. It’s too late.”

Olive groans, spilling their weight right back onto Tommy’s side. “Well, there goes my one job.”

Tommy snorts, nudging them with his shoulder. “That’s not your fault. I’m still glad I get to see them.” Then, clearing his throat, “But… thank you.”

Olive frowns, looking at him. “For what? I just said I—”

“Not for that,” Tommy interrupts, and Olive freezes. He swallows, shoulders coming up a bit. “For helping me. I don’t— I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t show up.”

Olive’s heart does a quad lutz in their chest.

Because maybe Tommy doesn’t know what he would’ve done, but Olive’s brain supplies them with some ideas, each worse than the next. Each starting and ending with that terrified look on his face fusing into acceptance, and that grip on his wrist that seemed to render his limbs into clay.

Olive can’t help but get the feeling that they’d pulled Tommy out of some sort of abyss. That they’d climbed into a black hole accidentally and yanked him out of it before he could be pulled apart. It scares them—that they’d done it and that they’d had to do it.

“Well,” Olive begins lightly, “No need to thank me. We’re partners in crime, remember? We help each other out.”

Tommy’s eyes take on a faint shine. “And friends.”

“And friends,” Olive agrees, feeling the tension begin to hemorrhage out of them. “Which also means that I’m going to wait here with you until Eret shows up and you’re going to deal with that.”

Tommy blinks at them, and Olive’s not sure if they’ll ever get used to that stunned little expression he makes when someone is good to him without prompting, but they’ll keep trying to get him used to it.

“I—okay?” he says, and Olive knocks their shoulder against his.

“Glad you agree,” they hum, and then, verging on bashful, “This also means that you have to act surprised when we go to the airport to meet the team. I’ll even buy you an airport pretzel.”

Tommy laughs quietly, and though there is still a shake to it, it’s at least lighter. “Sure.” Then, lips curving, “With cheese, though.”

“With cheese,” Olive agrees, threading their hands together gently and squeezing.

Tommy returns the gesture, a little more delayed than it should be maybe, and he has to take another breath through the inhaler, but at least Olive can feel his heartbeat, strumming beneath their just-barely-steadier fingertips, and know that for now he’s safe. He’s their friend and he’s safe.

And if he’s safe and if Olive was able to help with that, then, well. They can work out the rest later.

— ❅ —

inspired by @honeycowinnit‘s ice au! i once again cannot express how cool it is that you are okay with letting others branch off this au. i had a lot of fun writing ice!cobbleduo they took over my brain.

#tommyinnit #tommyinnit fic #olivesleepy #figure skating AU #angst #fluff #protective!olive #olive and tommy are best friends i decided #tw child abuse

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