Chapter Text
The frost has thawed and Michael picks a cornflower up from his favorite patch of grass. He looks up to see droplets clinging onto new buds on the birch trees.
Spring has arrived, and Michael is a year older.
He’s four now, apparently. Just a week ago, Tubbo had surprised him with a birthday cake that him and his other fathers helped made. It was obvious who did which part of the cake-making process - the cake batter itself was delicious and the candles were neat and tailored to Michael’s favorite colors, but the red and purple frosting was sloppy and clashing against each other.
Michael ate the cake regardless, hands and mouth covered with frosting and crumbs. Tommy was in a similar state, but he didn’t get off the hook as easily as the birthday boy.
As Michael ran around with his little basket, collecting flowers for the windowsills and pots and the garden, he thought. There wasn’t much going on inside a four year-old’s brain, but Michael wasn’t your typical four year-old.
He remembered Snowchester, but most of it was a faint cloud in the back of his mind. His uncles were still there, but their images were faded in his mind’s eye. It’s been months since he’s seen someone besides his fathers, and though Michael knows that one day he’ll see new people, he’s not sure when or who it’ll be.
It doesn’t matter right now, though.
The boys had all gotten progressively better, Michael noted as he picked up an early dandelion and bit at the yellow fluff. Tubbo still had nightmares, but rarely panicked from them anymore. Ranboo maybe had only one enderwalk on the entirety of winter, three months. That was probably a record.
Tommy hasn’t made any self-deteriorating jokes recently, resorting back to his own humor that took the piss out of others. He’s still clingy as usual, but his touches have gotten more comfortable and natural. Purpled’s too, a head scratch or a smile; the last’s weird eye disease, that red stuff that Michael wasn’t a fan of, had pauses its progression too.
In Michael’s book, all of those were wins.
As the zombie piglin dragged his basket full of the earliest spring flowers, animals crawled out of their holes and their nests to peer down at the growing boy. A squirrel scampers next to him, stealing a small weed before running off. A mouse squeaks from its burrow, watching Michael pass without much of a look its way.
A crow caws from overhead, but it’s only one of a rare few. Michael stares up at it on its high branch, and waves.
A man materializes before his eyes to wave back, crow wings glued to his back. When Michael smiles and blinks with another wave, the man is gone. It’s Grandpa, Michael remembers vaguely. He chooses to forget the image; Tommy usually got upset whenever Grandpa was mentioned.
An amber blond was leaning against a birch trunk as Michael walked by it. The zombie piglin pauses, looking up at the tall human. Michael snorts as the amber blond waves at him before disappearing with a short wind gust.
Nobody else’s apparition tries to stop Michael from walking back to the birch cottage, melted snow dripping off of its slanted roof. Outside were a few of Purpled’s dogs, playing in the last of snow hills and barking at each other.
Said boy was seated on his trusty log near the fireplace, hacking at a birch log in his hands with a short knife. There was a leather satchel around his torso, flapped shut with something inside. Michael trots up silently, only laughing in surprise when he was able to reach out and tap Purpled’s bicep.
After an initial jump, Purpled calms down and the knife disappears into his inventory. “Had fun, bud?” Purpled chuckles, setting his project down on Tommy’s bench before taking Michael’s basket from him. “Oh, wow, lots of flowers and.. grass! Did you find these in your field?”
Michael nods his head a few times, smiling, “Papa likes grass.”
Purpled laughs at the sentence before standing up. “Can you go find Tom-? Ah, Uncle Me-me, for me? It’s just something quick,” Purpled corrects himself after seeing Michael’s lost face, but it shapes up to understanding once Purpled uses Michael’s name for the other blond.
Michael mock-salutes the boy, single eye closing pleasantly. “Pups, yes!” He runs off with basket dragging behind him in the dry grass and snow melt, clopping up the cottage stairs and running through the open door, hollering Tommy’s name.
Purpled sits down on the log, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he looks out over the lake in front of their cottage. The ice was all gone, and a few fish were already swimming around, eating at the few awake bugs that settled on the water’s surface.
His hands fidget on the strap on his satchel, watching the water ripple ever so slightly until he hears a door slam from behind him. Purpled doesn’t turn around, listening at the crunching of the dry grass underfoot; he looks over when Tommy grumbles a hello, handing Purpled’s project to him to sit on his own log. Purpled tosses it onto Ranboo’s log instead.
“Mikey said ya’ wanted me?” Tommy greets, leaning forward on his knees. His fluffy blond hair is flat on one side, tied back with a yellow ribbon behind his head.
Purpled rolls his eyes at the sight, reaching over to ruffle the flat side of Tommy’s head. The other pushes against his hand, whining, but Purpled doesn’t miss how Tommy leaned into the touch. The older slides to the edge of his log, as close to Tommy without being shoulder to shoulder.
“I need to talk to you about something private,” Purpled begins, his lips pressing together. “I jsut want to go to the other side of the lake, it’s nothing-.. ah, it should be nothing bad.”
Tommy furrows his eyebrows, suspicious, but Purpled grabs his hand and yanks him up to his feet. Tommy trails behind the other blond, holding onto the hem of Purpled’s cuff. He drags his free hand down his face, matching pace with Purpled but still walking behind.
The former Bedwars competitor leads Tommy just past the tree line on the other side of the lake. Tommy shivers under his thick red hoodie, sheep wool sewn in to make it more warm - it doesn’t seem to make a whole difference. Purpled frowns as a hand places on top of his satchel. He should make this as quick as possible.
“When we were just leaving Snowchester and the rest, yeah?” Purpled preludes, letting Tommy still hold onto his arm. “Connor- he pulled me aside and gave me something to give you when I thought you were ready.” Purpled pops open the lock on his satchel and that’s when Tommy notices it. He pulls out a shimmering book.
“I haven’t,” Purpled sighs, flipping the book back and forth in his hand, looking at its blank front and back. It doesn’t even have a title and author, despite being seemingly finished. “I haven’t looked in it. It’s been in my ender chest since Snowchester.”
Tommy bites at his lower lip and he holds out his hands before freezing. The book hovers over his open hands, waiting for the signal.
“Why now?” Tommy whispers, previous brashness lost. “Purps, wha’ if ‘s somethin’ important to the SMP? An’ I can’t tell ‘em? I don’ wanna’ go back, don’t make me go ba-“
Purpled winces and he steps forward to place a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. The other leans into the action before turning towards Purpled’s chest, finishing a hug. Purpled rubs the back of Tommy’s neck below his ponytail, sighing softly, “Nobody is sending you anywhere, Tommy. You don’t even have to tell me what’s in it.. I just think that.” Purpled pulls away slightly to stare at Tommy with a smile.
“You’re ready, Tommy,” Purpled finishes, eyes closing.
Tommy takes the book from Purpled’s hand, the protective enchantment initially stinging his numb hands. He inhales slowly before exhaling, making sure Purpled’s hand is still on his shoulder before he even so much throws off the clamp lock on the book.
Purpled squeezes Tommy’s shoulder, reassuring. “Alrigh’,” Tommy whispers, grabbing the leather face of the book before flipping it over.
COnnOr’s diAry.
I jOinEd A nEw sErvEr TOdAy. IT’s shIT.
Tommy’s eyes roll back into his head and everything goes black.
-
He’s back in the gym. That old, sweaty, iron-smelling, gym. There’s a movie protector set up, broadcasting a white image onto the whiteboard that held routines and records only upheld by JSchlatt.
Connor messes with the projector’s settings and he greets Tommy with a smile. “About time.”
Tommy opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He screams - at least, he tries. No noise sounds. Connor sheepishly shrugs, his attention back on the projector. “Sorry. I thought you’d start screaming, so I might’ve tweaked with your conscious a little bit,” he informs the other with a small giggle.
Tommy looks up at him with a ‘what the fuck’ look.
Connor snorts, amused. “Karl can bend time with his traveling. I can bend reality.. sorta. It’s nothing special, really. I mean, my mom and dad had to meet somehow.”
He presses a blue button with the power icon on it. “Alright, have fun, Theseus,” Connor says before waving at him and disappearing with a pop.
Tommy blinks a few times. Music fills his senses, drawing him to the projector, and he settles on the iconic yoga mat with old cum stains on it, and slouches forward. Might as well get comfortable.
-
“Sorry, boys,” Eret trails off, her gaze finding the floor as their hand hovering over a button.
Four heads turn around at the same time, all bearing hesitate looks. “What?” Fundy asks with a small, awkward laugh, his snout wrinkling with a smile. “Eret?” He asks, reaching a hand out for his best.
Eret exhales. “It was never met to be,” he says with a lightly-optimistic voice, her voice twinging up at the end of their sentence. He brings his hand down onto the button.
A piston sounds and Fundy screams first. A sword is thrusted through his chestplate and out the other side, GeorgeNotFound’s usual neutral face contorted into a scowl.
Wilbur shouts at his son’s fall, but he’s silenced just seconds after when Punz takes a swing at his neck.
Tommy yells at the two other figures that swept into the final control room, and he turns towards Tubbo in an instinctive attempt to shield him. Tubbo’s eyes are engulfed in horror.
There’s no noise. Everything is moving in slow motion for Tommy - he’s been here before. He’s been here, he’s stood here, he’s died here.
Tommy brings Tubbo’s face between his hands. The preteen feels a sword slice through his chest. Tubbo is pulled away, and Tommy sees for too long to watch his best friend be butchered at the hands of Sapnap. The latter’s face, no more than fourteen, is washed with apathy.
The last thing Tommy sees, still confused as to where he is, is Dream’s smile. The sword is pulled out of his inventory and comes down onto the front of his torso.
It pierces one heart out of three.
-
Tubbo smiles at him, bright and wide. “Look it all, Toms! It’s ours, we did it! Tommy, we finally did it!” He proclaims, amazement coating his words. “Oh my gods.. we did it. Tommy!”
Tommy looks over his best friend and does his best to smile. “Did what?” He asks, confused as to where he is and what is happening.
Tubbo stares at him, as equally confused but for the different things. “What? Tommy, we won. We’re.. L’Manberg’s free!”
His heart drops into his stomach and then Tommy realizes: Tubbo’s horns haven’t grown in yet; only his ears and tail are apparent. They all thought he was a sheep-hybrid back then. There’s no burn scar on his face, on his hand, both of his eyes are light blue.
He’s dressed in a blue revolutionary coat, off-white jabot and a tri-horn hat. It’s his L’Manberg uniform.
Tommy raises a hesitate hand to his forehead, feeling at his forehead before choking on his breath. There’s a head bandage wrapped around his forehead, and when he pulls his hand down, his fingers are damp with red.
Tubbo winces at the sight and he pushes Tommy’s hand down to his side. “It’s okay, Tommy. You don’t have to forgive Dream for doing that, but hey, you did something none of us would have the guts to do. You’re a bloody miracle, Tommy,” Tubbo smiles brightly, grasping Tommy’s hands tight in his own.
Tommy gives the falsest smile he’s ever given someone ever to his best friend, age ten and eleven respectively.
There’s one humming heart in his chest.
-
He’s fifteen and falling and there’s nobody there to hold him.
Tommy hates pain, and he hates being alone, he realizes.
His body is being dissembled and resembles like a doll. His ears float around in front of him, one finger floating in the void. A foot hops around in his chest before flying away, a crawling hand chasing after it.
Blood streams around him, tying together bones and then muscles and tendons. It feels unnatural, like it’s not supposed to be happening to him, ever, and it fucking hurts.
Emerald eyes stare at him from the darkness before they close. Tommy falls deeper in the darkness, feeling hands reattach and limbs be sewn together by green and yellow magic. Someone is performing surgery on him and he’s right there, alive, awake, aware, when it’s happening.
He’s missing a middle finger.
Tommy’s hands solidify around a slick rod, something that burns with static electricity. The endless darkness the void held gives away from obsidian black to stormy gray. Water splashes onto his face, drenching his clothes, mixing with his tears. Lightning strikes in the distance, illuminating the flying boy.
He’s flying, and he has angel-feather wings.
Philza flies above him in the clear sky, bearing crow wings with a few crows fluttering behind him. He looks down and smiles at him, waving; water flicks off of his hand - it’s still raining.
Below him is alive with his closest friends: Tubbo is running around, as short as ever, with a purple helmet and a backpack full of flowers. Ranboo trails after him, holding an umbrella over his towering height. Purple particles glimmer around his person.
Slimecicle is sloshing around Wilbur, who is almost transparent, and JSchlatt, who has six spider arms and wears purple priestly robes. The oldest man is laughing, trying to hug the fluid Slimecicle, but the translucent green blob is bouncing around and mixing with the rain, causing a mess for the phantom-like Wilbur. JSchlatt is holding a bottle of perfume, a nice change from his alcoholic tendencies, laughing at Wilbur’s failed hugs and Slimecicle’s jokes.
Jack Manifold is sitting under a tree, taking incessantly about something to Nihachu. The woman is spewing out air bubbles, hovering underwater and engaging in her part of the conversation by popping her head. Manifold laughs at something, small fires igniting and smoldering on top of his shaved head.
And the universe is peaceful, and the universe is happy, and the universe is Tommy’s real paradise.
And Tommy falls, and his wings are clipped and torn off him by a green man with a smiley face that is not friendly, despite popular stereotypes. And the green man laughs and Tommy cries. It’s not enough to stop his last beating heart.
If Dream doesn’t finish off the hat trick and kill him, Tommy will take the task into his own scarred and shaky hands.
-
Dream’s fist comes expected and Tommy takes it like a heaven-sent. It’s all black again, and he’s almost seventeen and falling back in the dark void, but his body isn’t being ripped apart. He’s not alive, but awake, just falling endlessly, like a nuclear bomb that explodes within his chest and sends him flying into orbit.
-
It isn’t Connor or JSchlatt or Mexican Dream or some old image of himself that greets Tommy back in the sweaty, iron-smelling gym that he called home for two months. The projector is showing an error message.
His body hurts, but his heart hurts the most when he sees the man that stands just next to the projector, knocking on it in an attempt to turn it off. Tommy’s jaw drops slightly at the too-familiar face; he’s scrambling to his feet, getting into a defensive stance immediately with his hands in front of him.
The man does nothing but look up with a lopsided grin. There’s bags under his eyes and his eyes spiral with swirls of insanity, old cigarette burns on his knuckles and the backs of his hands. A giant rip resides in the center of his stained white undershirt, wearing an old brown trenchcoat with patches and rips and stains.
The man says nothing, only grinning. A smiley face steps out of the shadows behind him, a train whistle blares its scream, and Wilbur Soot, the founder and the first president and the destructor of L’Manberg is yanked out from hell. Someone far off is crying.
A dead heart thumps in Tommy’s chest, and now in his older brother’s as well.
-
Tommy opens his eyes to a bright light, blurry figures crowding around his head and peppering him with worried questions and coaxes of waking up. Almost immediately, the urge to touch something, someone, roars inside of him, and Tommy lashes out to grab the nearest person.
Ranboo looks over to him, seeing the squinting eyes and the hand around his wrist, and scoops Tommy into a hug. Tubbo turns around and rushes over, hugging both of his boys tight and pressing kiss after kiss to the top of Tommy’s head, whispering words of comfort and “we’re here.”
Purpled looks over from the doorframe, waiting his turn to hug Tommy. His eyes are cloudy with pain for Tommy, along with heavy eye bags underneath.
All the snow outside has melted. It’s been four days.
Connor’s diary is tucked safely into Purpled’s ender chest until another day.
Tommy hiccups against Ranboo’s collarbone, hugging the enderman-hybrid tight and leaning his head into Tubbo’s arms. He lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes tight before weakly sobbing.
“Fuck ya’, Wilbur.”
- and the universe doesn’t love him because Tommy isn’t love, and Tommy - Innit, Thomas, Theseus - doesn’t love the universe either.
Tommy knows this isn’t the end - it’s so fucking anticlimactic and ruinous and disgusting and everything vile combined into a single word - but he so wishes it was. Why him - why him out of everyone on this server, in the world, out of the universe -, why him?
- and the universe doesn’t answer because not even they have an answer because the universe can’t control fate. Tommy flicks it the middle finger and cries harder, holding his boys close and wishing that nothing hurts them anymore. It’s a poor wish.
The shitty radio plays its shitty songs on a shitty station, spewing out nonsense that applies to them but none of them bothers to listen because they’re all too busy crying to hear the lyrics. It cries, “Our little group has always been; and always will until the end.”
A crow caws loudly from outside and there’s a knock at the door. Michael answers it and he gives Grandpa a smile. It’s not reciprocated.