✏ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

    

It's almost comical how often he finds himself in these situations; pinned in a corner and an unfaltering smile on his face, all while being two words away from getting his head caved in. He puffs his chest, hoping his bravado and a few charming words would get the communal punching bag out of this scuffle and back home. Back home with family and not two seconds away from needing a few splints and a cast again. Tommy sighs.

What's even more comical that his current predicament is the one dishing out the beating this time - a friend. His reason? Sentimental value. How ironic. Not the first time a friend's turned on him, and the blonde suspects it won't be the last.

The tension rises as that furry and that Punz guy holds him in place. His mouth runs one way, while his fingers plan his next move which involves the very lighter he's fidgeting with now. Hopefully, it won't result in the local authorities phoning up Phil. Again. Call him an arsonist but if people can use that against him, it's fair game. Wisp, was it? Burnt his textbooks and Tommy walked out of his own base smelling like gasoline. And no one cared cause they were friends with him. Friends.

A bee is the catalyst. An even worse reason than fucking discs. Spit lands on his face but he isn't listening - the adrenaline serves as an ample lubricant for the cogs in his great mind, and he's spouting out promises he doesn't intend to keep to buy him some time. The game is afoot.

He runs, and he burns Tubbo's arts and crafts project, and runs for the hills. He's a dead man walking if his feet stop moving.

Fortunately, he knows the forests worlds better than any of those hoodlums ever do. He hides high up a tree - thanks, climbing - and he sits, a familiar and visceral thrill course through his veins. He listens in; they discuss awful and vicious pranks like they're hexes, and it deepens the blonde's smile. He's learnt from his showdown with Wisp, and an Obby trap seems like child's play.

He passes by the river stream, and overhears their shouting. People tend to forget how used he is to escaping, and it's one of his many, many pros. The excitement is liberating, and he forgets the humdrum of life as he travels deeper around the lake, and he calls them up, and revels in their fucking unadultered exasperation, and he fucking taunts them. Guilt and euphoria intertwine. He can feel his heartbeat compel him to press on to find some twine he could use, all while their indignation echoes through viridian leaves. Is this what living off the grid feels like? A cheshire cat smile stretches across his face.

"Are you satisfied?" Tubbo sighs.

Tommy bats his eyelids, and scavenges more. "Not really; I really wanna go home."

They cast insults at him, but he doesn't care; he's a man on a mission.

"Just come back and do as we say." Tubbo says.

"I'll come back." Tommy lies, and fixes up a makeshift sword with some twine in between his teeth. He wonders if he should hang up and call Wilbur instead. He kinda misses him. But he calls Purpled instead.

"So, you sure you don't wanna tell me where you are?"

"Why would you wanna know where I am if you're back at the UFO, dude?"

"I just.. I look out for your well-being."

"Mhm. Well that's good to hear."

They talk, and Purpled seems very keen on knowing his exact location, and Tommy puts his GPS on for the fuck of it. What's life without a bit of fun? Tubbo and his new friends are a bunch of pigs in blue, and Tommy's the serial killer dropping massive clues to try and get caught, until he is caught.