Chapter Text
Tommy, the great, unbeatable, handsome, talented, Tommy Innit, was fucking dead.
Now, if for some reason you don’t know why that was (and if so, what are you doing with your life? The best man in the world and you aren’t keeping up with him? Pathetic), he should probably add some context.
It wasn’t a well-kept secret, or really a secret at all, that the Crafts were known at the university, hell, the town. The last name meant they could fuck up your life with a click of their fingers, or have you bathed in riches by the simplest word. There were three, the trio, a family that would never fall from grace.
Wilbur Soot Craft, a ladies’ man, he excelled in music and theatre, popular beyond belief everywhere, the radio played his songs on repeat. With good grades, charm, and some good looks, he had the uni wrapped around his finger.
Techno Blade Craft, a brute, the highest marks for AP English in the country, enjoyed fencing as an extra-curricular, in almost every newspaper you could see. Smartest guy in school, who was classy and dignified, he was bound to be the centre of attention everywhere he went.
And Phil Craft, not much was known in the void that was his life. He was a genius, he ran the university, literally, he owned it. He started off as a professor, he was known world-wide for some one-hit-wonder that he created back in the day, making him rich as hell. Then, when the owner, er, kicked the bucket, he gifted it to Phil. It was odd, the man had kids, but left his inheritance to Phil instead. It was the talk of the town for years, still brought up in conversation sometimes, but that was all.
They were the family, the perfect family, the ones who were respected, they were rich (and they showed it. You could take one look at Soot’s fancy-ass cotton sweater, Blade’s jewellery), they were smart, and they were evil.
Phil was rumoured to be a kind man, with forgiving eyes and a wide, bright smile (Tommy would believe it when he saw it), but apparently, it didn’t carry on.
Soot and Blade were twins, the twins of chaos (Tubbo would call him a nerd), terrifying creatures who wreaked havoc on the university grounds and anyone unlucky enough to be there at the time. Blade was scary, he was intimidating, martial arts and fencing shaped his build, all muscle. Soot was mean, a manipulative man who would snarl and poke until your insides felt rotten and your brain was numb.
Tommy hated them, and it seemed he was the only one. Others looked at them with envy, or with desire, but all he saw were some fucked up, angsty teens who flaunted their wealth because of inferiority issues (and yes, maybe Tommy felt bitter at the fact that they were born with it all.)
And they were, born with it all, that is. Tommy though? He was fucked the moment he was ripped out of his mothers’ dead body, into a world of an angry dad, a world that didn’t give a shit, and a world that screwed him over constantly.
Cause yeah, they were smart, they were successful, they were on the deans watchlist for their grades! But so was he. Nobody cared that he had gotten into this prestigious fucking university on a full scholarship. Nobody cared that he was on the deans watchlist as well! No, he wasn’t jealous, he simply felt a shallow hole in his chest, a place that had no room for anything but disappointment.
The disappointment of the world itself, he supposed. At the fact that his so called ‘loving father’ couldn’t find the will inside himself to forgive his infant son for ‘killing his mother’. That people laughed at him all the time, the only time he was acknowledged was for being annoying. That the constant chives and jokes were always there. That even though he was 17 on a full ride scholarship, with some of the highest marks in one of the most prominent universities in the world, he still wasn’t noticed.
So, he glared. He hated the way they’d laugh with each other, careless, life as easy as only a millionaire could have. And yes, he was shaping that disappointment, the shallow hole that wreaked of 17 years of loneliness, into an empty rage. An anger that was not really anger, but a desperate attempt to feel something other than emptiness, disappointment, and the urge to end everything. So, he’d rather make the desperate attempt at feeling something and blame two ‘innocents’ (they weren’t innocents, they were cruel and sent knives of hurt and a crushing hopelessness at you), then feel nothing at all and accept it.
Because Tommy Innit could do it all, he could get the best grades, he could ignore the shaking of his hands as the bone-deep tiredness washed away at him, eroding his will to live in little bits at a time, he could carry on and pretend his loud and arrogant persona was real, that it was never fake. But he couldn’t accept defeat, he wouldn’t, even if the defeat was a different part of his brain begging to die.
So yes, he had been sitting in the library that night. Surrounded by books, piled up and up and up, as high as he could reach, he sat at a desk, on the second story of the library, overlooking the large bottom floor. The entire wall was windows, so you could see the dark, cold ocean lapping at the sand on the beach just ahead. You could see the starry night sky twinkle with the promises of entire galaxies to be found, explored with a single thought. You could see creation, you could see imagination, a happiness and desire to learn. And, unfortunately, you could see Soot.
Tommy had taken to calling them Soot and Blade to dehumanize them in hopes of not feeling bad about blaming them for everything wrong with the world.
…What? He could self-reflect. He just hated doing it.
Soot had been sitting at a table on the floor for a while now, and with the occasional glance up, Tommy concluded he wouldn’t be moving for a while, if the poorly concealed flask in his hand or the woozy and delirious state he was in was any indication.
It was only them now, 2am and most had gone home, Soot was passed out and Tommy was packing up, placing books away and gathering his things. One look at Soot, slumped down at the table, back angled strongly to accommodate his lanky-ass legs still hung limply on the floor. Tommy winced, as a uni student, he knew that’d be hurting in the morning.
He felt bad for the dude, he was trying to self-reflect and not blame his misfortune of being born on every rich fucker that turned the corner, so he did something very out of character.
He helped.
Slipping the flask (that was hanging by a thread from Soot’s gangly limp fingers), he grabbed Soot’s underarms, and hoisted.
Now, Tommy didn’t look strong, his build was naturally tall and lanky, but he had some muscle. Growing up on the wrong side of town with a friend who worked in mechanics hiring him (thank God for you Sam) had him lifting heavy stuff every day.
So slowly, he dragged Soot over to the couches that were lined up behind the bookshelves, out of view from the windows, but close enough to a light that if he woke up, he’d know where he was.
He wrote a letter, because he knew what it felt like to wake up in a strange place after being black out drunk, how you panicked, the headache forming a fuzzy cloud around your mind, trapping you in a haze of confusion. Even though reading through a hangover sucked, it was good to have something to focus on, especially if it explained what the hell had happened.
Oi asshole,
You blacked out drunk in the middle of the library (your flask is in your satchel).
Next time don’t come to the library drunk, or to drink, I don’t care who your daddy is, or that he owns the place, it was very distracting trying to do my work while you got yourself worked up over the fact that the pig from Charlottes Web was an asshole and you wanted bacon.
Well, actually, how about you don’t let there be a next time? In the library especially. Go to a bar, or a rehabilitation centre or something, you alcoholic.
I’m only writing this letter to explain that no, you were not kidnapped (you aren’t that attractive, you weirdo), but that some broke uni student cared enough to not let you catch a case of scoliosis (because the way you were slouching over that table looked painful man).
Right, bye.