Chapter Text
Denial, denial, denial. That’s what Tubbo deals in, lives by, works with.
If he plays music loud enough his thoughts go away. If he builds for hours and hours all of his mistakes turn into brick and stone and structure. If he doesn’t chase after Tommy, then they never fought at all.
There’s a stinging in his chest. Like his heart is sliced and dipped in acid. His guilt is bitter. His guilt is sour. (His guilt is sewn into his body. He wishes he could bleed it out.)
He shuts his eyes and all he can see is Tommy’s tear-stained face, and all he can see is “Did it have to be him” and “I know I’m replaceable” and “Did you even notice I was gone” and “I have to go.” All he can see is bunched-up hands and scars he doesn’t know the origin of and Wilbur’s stupid jacket on him, charging off into the cold in not nearly enough layers. (He wonders if he was always such a mother hen. He figures that since Wilbur’s not here to do it anymore, someone ought to.)
He feels the weight of his actions on his shoulders, he feels the words in his mouth still, the “don’t be stupid.” (Why would he say that? Why would he say that after everything? He’s supposed to be good at this, he used to be good at this.) The ache is familiar, the ache settles back over him with practiced ease. His stomach swims with nausea but he swallows it down.
He thinks Ranboo is sweet, with his little ideas of hope, his gentle declarations of maybe’s and beliefs. That’s why Tubbo loves him, he cares about people the same way Tubbo does, he wants to make things better. But they’ve got differing opinions on the reality of it. Tubbo’s seen firsthand that shit like that doesn’t work. That you can forge a nation in hope and liberty and in the end it will crumble to corruption even so. It doesn’t matter what they hope for, it doesn’t matter if you chose people. Tubbo’s fucking sick of hoping. There’s no damn point, it doesn’t help anyone to entertain ideas that will never be true.
Tommy’s always been the optimist of the two of them. He’s the uplifting speech guy, the pre-battle rousing guy. When he looks you in the eyes you feel like you could take down a dragon, it’s the thing that most clearly separated Tommy and Wilbur from everyone else, to Tubbo at least. Their ability to make a cause worth fighting for, to rally the troops, and get people to really believe in things.
But Tubbo’s not a general. He's not some president with honey-coated words, not anymore at least. He’s a spy. He knows what it’s like on the inside and he doesn’t have to fake it for anyone but the guys on the other team. Tubbo sighs. Maybe this attitude is the whole reason he was a shit president in the first place.
He used to hope, he thinks. Lost it somewhere in that terrible fucking ravine, lost hope to grim reality. (It didn't feel fun anymore at that point. He stopped feeling like a hero and felt a bit more like a child of war, a kid ravaged by the world and all the horrible things in it. It was tough for him to smile back then, Schlatt over his shoulder, Wilbur in his face. But Tommy kept smiling through it all, somehow. Even when Wilbur yelled, even when Techno shot him, even through tears, as cracked as it was, Tommy smiled. As fucked as it all was, it was still a smile, he was still trying.) He reckons he got it back, just after they won L’manburg again. A brief, shining moment of victory, gold blood in his veins, where his eyes cleared of fog and he felt like he could breathe again, like he could believe it when he said that L’manburg was something beautiful still.
It didn’t last. How long was it before he exiled Tommy? A month? A week? He doesn’t remember at this point, all he remembers is the way his hands trembled as his friend’s face fell. How his heart stuttered when Dream dragged him away. How he couldn’t even hear his friends yelling over the rushing in his ears.
Somewhere along the way, hope was stripped from the peacemakers. And they didn’t realize, really, what was being taken.
When people like Dream beat the light out of you and everything you care about, you focus on what’s real. Hope is a fantasy, a fuzzy feeling floating in you, and all it ever does is sink.
Tubbo wakes up the next morning, his neck cramped from where he fell asleep on the couch. Ranboo is snoring still, muttering something soft in his sleep. Tubbo smiles at him, carefully maneuvers out of his arms. He’s itching to do something, to go out and build or fight or run. He starts to make breakfast.
It’s a forced thing, every step he takes around the kitchen feels like a challenge. Because he knows that Tommy is off thinking he hates him and he’s ruined everything again. He hasn’t, he didn’t ruin anything in the first place. But he doesn’t wanna tell him that. He doesn’t wanna run after him because he doesn’t want to face what he’s done because he’s weak, and maybe he wasn’t always but he is now. He cracks an egg.
Tubbo doesn’t know when he became such a coward. They’re all victims of circumstance he supposes, but the curious things about him, he thinks, is that he feels well and good to have peace talks with Dream and hunt down the Blade of all people, but as soon as he has to talk to his best friend, as soon as he has to apologize? He falls apart, he crumbles.
“You should talk to him.” Ranboo’s voice startles him a bit, from just kind of staring at the egg he’s not quite sure how to cook. Tubbo ignores him and he walks over and snatches away the spatula he’s got in his hand.
“You should talk to him. ” He repeats.
“I don’t want to, Ranboo,” he whines, and his voice shakes embarrassingly.
“Why didn’t you yesterday?”
Because I’m not quite sure how. He doesn’t say. Because I’ve colossally fucked this up. Because things were supposed to be better now but they aren’t. Because exile is over and Dream is locked up but things still keep getting worse.
“It was late.” He lies instead. “I was tired.”
“ Tubbo .” Ranboo knows him better than his bullshit.
“Fine! Fine. I guess I was just... scared? I don’t know, I just feel like I’ve already fucked it up so much, and I’m so out of my depth. Because he was right! I don’t know anything about him. I want to. I just don’t know how to start. It sorta feels like if I don’t look at it, it’ll go away.”
“He needs you,” Ranboo says.
Tubbo sighs, “I know. I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”
He shrugs. “Learn.”
“I don’t-“
“Learn.” Like it’s easy.
“I can’t-“ What if I make it worse somehow? What if I ruin it more? “I know.”
“I can make breakfast, okay?” He flips the egg and walks over to him, gives him a quick hug, pushes his hair out of his eyes. Tubbo tries to cling when he pulls back but Ranboo keeps him upright. “You need to speak to Tommy.” He chides. “You both deserve that at least.”
“Okay.” He inhales. “Okay.”
He can do that. He can talk to Tommy. But first, yes, first, he needs to find out where Tommy is. He sits down at the kitchen table to think.
“Tubbo?” Ranboo raises an eyebrow at him.
“I’m thinking about where Tommy could be?" He says weakly. Ranboo shoots him an unimpressed look.
“Stop stalling. You know where he is. Go.”
“Fine, fine, fine. I’m going.”
“Good.”
He pauses. “But should I maybe wake Michael first? I mean it’s getting kind of late and I don’t want him to-“
Ranboo grabs him under his arm and lifts him out of the chair. “ Go .”
He lets himself get dragged to the door, his shoes scratching against the wood, “Yeah okay, going.”
And he’s out. He pulls his jacket close, marches through the snow until he reaches the border to the rest of the server.
He halts, just a moment, before charging on. Ranboo is right. He knows exactly where Tommy is. He knows that much about him at least.
As he walks he tries not to look around too much. He balls his hands into fists at his sides, takes the path that passes the hotel, keeps his eyes to the ground as he walks by L’manburg.
He’s right, of course. About where Tommy is. Because it where he always goes, and despite it all, some things never change. There’s always a constant somewhere in the mess.
Tommy sits with his legs crisscrossed on their bench, holding a disc in his hands and staring out at the horizon. The wind sweeps his hair just slightly, though he looks gaunt and tired in the bright light like he hasn't slept or eaten for too long. Tubbo hesitates just a moment before approaching him.
“Hey, Tommy,” he starts, awkwardly, and Tommy jumps, dropping the disc in the grass and scrambling after it. Great. Good. This is going well.
“T-Tubbo?” He pants, “Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me, man. What the hell?”
“Sorry,” he scratches the back of his neck, “sorry,” he repeats. “Do you mind if I sit? I came here to-well I came here to talk.”
“Oh?” Tommy says, voice pitching up. He doesn’t meet his eyes. “What about?”
“We shouldn’t dick around, Tommy. I don’t want to do this as much as you do.”
“Who said I don’t?” And Tubbo tries not to be surprised at the thought that that’s out of character. Because maybe it isn’t now. Maybe it's exactly who he is.
“Oh. Sorry, I-shit.” He’s screwing it up already. He just sat down and he’s already fucking things up. “I came to say I’m sorry. For a lot of stuff.”
Tommy’s eyes go big.
He laughs a bit at that, “yeah I know. Ranboo’s idea. He worries about you, you know.” He breathes. “So do I.”
Tommy’s voice is raw. “Why?”
And Tubbo stops in his tracks. Because Tommy can’t seriously be asking that, after everything. There’s something so existentially painful about seeing Tommy and those ever-truthful eyes and that in them there’s nothing but blame. Not even for those who are at fault. For himself. It’s like being shot in the soul, with one of Ghostbur’s magic arrows, it makes his being ache. He sees Tommy and he’s transparent. He knows somehow that he believes wholly that he isn’t worthy of Tubbo’s love, and it splits his stinging heart in two. Because how can Tommy not see everything he is? He’s the best person. The best Tubbo knows, a boy built from resilience and brilliant, persistent love, love for those he’s fought and is fighting, love for those that have ruined him and left him bare, love for those he hates, who hate him back, love for Tubbo of all people, despite it all. Love for Tubbo.
In that moment he wants nothing more than to show Tommy what he would do for him, what he would give, what he would sacrifice. Tubbo would die to see Tommy smile like he used to. Tubbo would die to see Tommy smile at all.
And maybe he didn’t visit in exile, and maybe he didn’t cry when he died. But maybe it’s because he’s fucked up too, because somehow coping turned into ignoring, and now as soon as those feelings of dread and guilt and grief enter him, he isolates and kicks them away. Files them for later. Because that’s the kind of shit he doesn’t want to have to face, doesn’t wanna deal with.
“Oh, Tommy.”
Tommy blinks, cheeks going ruddy and tears blurring his eyes. “What?” He demands. “What are you looking at?”
“You.” He says, because apparently, he’s being honest now. It feels funny to be honest when he isn’t gonna die. “I am so, so sorry Toms.”
Tommy twists his face up. “Are you okay? Are you about to tell me you’re gonna die or something?”
It’s a weak attempt at a joke but Tubbo chuckles anyway. “I’m not, I’m not. I talked to Ranboo.” Tommy bristles and Tubbo instinctively reaches out to support him before stopping short. “Can I touch you?” He asks, and Tommy nods after a beat. He reaches over and takes Tommy’s hand in his own. “Ranboo told me to stop avoiding shit.”
Tommy interrupts him, “Ranboo said ‘shit?’”
“Not in so many words, no, but basically. I’ve-I think I’ve been a bad friend." He admits, his eyes downcast.
“Tubbo you haven’t, I’m just overre-“
He shakes his head. “No, Tommy, I-“ he sighs. “I fucked up a lot. We both have, I think. But I fucked up with you."
“Tubbo, you’ve been there for me plenty, I’m just-I get in my own head. It’s stupid. You nearly died for me when we were fighting Dream,” he runs a hand through his hair, distressed. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”
Tubbo is grateful, selfishly. That Tommy thinks he’s a good friend because every beat of his heart aches and reminds him that he isn’t. Every glance at Tommy, every new scar he can’t identify, it reminds him he doesn’t know so much about the boy he loves more than anything. “And then I ran away again. Because that’s what I do, that’s where I’m comfortable. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t supposed to be a part of my life. I guess I thought-you said you didn’t wanna talk about it, and that idea sounded fine to me.”
“I’m not sure if I do. It’s messy up here,” he taps his temple lightly, “Head’s all a bit scattered, confusing to sort through, but dying will do that to you I suppose.” He shrugs around a grimace.
“You were dead,” Tubbo says, and he really lets himself feel it for the first time, lets himself entertain the idea of a world without his best friend in it. Tommy was dead, he died , Dream beat him to death with his bare fucking hands like an animal. Tubbo’s eyes well up, his chest swims with anger and terror and a bone-shaking sort of despair. Tubbo would’ve never seen him again, never heard him laugh or shout or ramble about discs. He would’ve never seen him cry, never watched him grow up, never held his hand again. He nearly lost him for good.
He winces. “I was.”
Tubbo squeezes his hand. “But you’re not anymore.”
Tommy smiles a little sadly. “No, I’m not.”
Tubbo tries to look at him. To look past the stitched together miracle and the sky-high walls. He sees Tommy. He sees his best friend. He sees a boy with a bandaid on his cheek and a braid in his hair. But he sees that he’s missing things, a lot of things. A scar above his eyebrow, gray where there should be bright blue in his eyes, eyebags like bruises. And he wants to learn him again, to learn how to be there for him.
“What happened to you?”
“Gods, Tubbo,” he laughs wetly. “What didn’t?”
“I’m serious I-If you don’t wanna talk that’s okay. But I’m here. I wanna be here. I want to help.”
“I don’t know if I can talk, I don’t know if I can be helped, Tubbo.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I think the words would get caught if I tried now. And I think I might be ruined for good.”
“It doesn’t have to be now Toms, it can be whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait,” he insists. “I’m not in a position to demand anything of you. And you’re not ruined.” He states, firmly. “Quit saying shit like that about my best friend.”
“You-“ Tommy blinks. “Tubbo, I love you.”
“I love you too, man. And I like you quite a lot as well, just as much as I did before.”
“You’re being clingy,” he says, childishly.
“Oh am I?” He prompts.
He nods stubbornly, a little quirk to his lips that makes Tubbo’s chest soar.
“Well I can-“ he goes to pull his hand away.
Tommy tightens his grip. “No.”
He grins with relief, at this return to semi-normal. “No?”
“No.”
He chuckles. “I think you should come by for dinner again tonight. Michael likes you very much.”
Tommy smiles a little more. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I can do that, I bet.”
“It doesn’t need to be perfect, Toms, it doesn’t need to be like before, okay? Don’t set expectations for yourself. All it has to be is me serving you food that Ranboo made because I don’t know how to cook.”
He laughs and Tubbo thinks there’s a bridge of sorts, forming beneath his feet. He’s not tripping and falling into that tearing chasm of distance. He’s rebuilding. He’s picking up where he left off. He’s going to make things right. It feels something like redemption.
“I erm-I don’t really like food all that much anymore,” Tommy says, awkwardly. “Exile made it taste all... shitty.”
“Oh.”
He ducks his head. “Yeah.”
“Well, maybe the food will be shit, but it’ll smell good, I suppose.” He elbows Tommy lightly, not enough to hurt. “Have you talked to Puffy about that?” He tries to keep out the concern, to treat Tommy like Tommy and not some risen angel he can’t touch. ( “I’m not broken” )
Tommy doesn’t flinch and that’s progress, he guesses. “Not yet.”
“You should.” He raises his eyebrows. “Or else I’m gonna start cooking again because you can’t taste,” he singsongs.
Tommy barks out a laugh and screws up his face in disgust. “Don’t do that to your family.”
“Unluckily for you, you are my family.”
Tommy grins at the declaration, teeth and everything, “I’ll be there,” says Tommy. “For dinner, I mean. Tonight or whenever you’ll have me.”
Tubbo grins back. He feels the slices in his heart begin to sew themselves up, the burning sting in his chest subsides just a little. Because maybe the guilt isn’t written in him, maybe he won’t have to bleed it out at all. Maybe he can just try and that can be enough. And he stops. It feels like healing, it feels like the beginning again. He stops and he takes a breath, and he lets himself believe.