Chapter Text
“Fuck!”
The raw shout rang through the air, sending a bird perched on a delicate tree branch flapping away.
“Fuck,” the word dripped softly from Tommy’s mouth as he stopped running. He bent over, hands on his knees. The sun beat on his back as he stared at the ground, not yet willing to look at the familiar sight of his and Tubbo’s flower field before him.
He’d come here—a place not quite home, but close enough—to get away, away from everything, everything he was sick of.
Tommy, lungs expanding and deflating rapidly in short breaths, straightened up. The clearing was a blurry painting of reds, yellows, greens, exposed to the bright afternoon wind.
As he observed the vast untouched beauty of nature, a recent thought of his own popped in his mind:
I don’t want to destroy shit, I want to rebuild.
He’d told himself that after threatening and screaming to destroy Manberg’s property just a couple days ago, all under the guise of preventing Manberg leaders from discovering Pogtopia.
(Deep down, though, a sliver of him wanted to destroy the whole damn country, wanted to funnel all of his repressed emotions into something horrifying.
And while it sickened him to his core, it was positively tempting.
Especially now.)
His gaze fell on the patch of scarlet poppies at his feet.
A single poppy, perfect and cocky and taunting, embedded in the new office’s matching suit pockets.
He’s a mockery.
Tommy lowered himself to the ground, ripped up a handful of stems, and crushed the flowers between his palms.
Satisfyingly, the petals distorted into a gory mess.
He grinned, and he grabbed more, dropping the ruined red as he went.
When nothing was left, he looked at his hands resting in his lap.
Red stained them, his fingerprints and palm lines highlighted.
He stood and stumbled away. He leaned against the closest tree, eyes catching the dark purple tulips at its base, near its roots.
Wilbur, smiling at the bouquet of tulips Tubbo presented him as he, on the behalf of the rest of the group, thanked Wilbur for his leadership in the war.
Tommy, you’re scared.
Tommy wanted to laugh at the truthful words looping through his mind, but instead he muttered, “You’re a bastard, Wilbur.”
Without a second thought, his foot descended on one tulip, brutally crushing it into the ground. He repeated the process, over and over and over.
Tommy again let himself sit on the ground, ignoring the dull pain of his shin bumping a root. The grass was tender against his knees, like a wound.
He blindly reached for the next victim.
Then his eyes snapped to it, and his fingers halted mid-curl around the stem and fluffy, light-purple petals.
An allium: Tubbo’s favorite.
Tubbo? He’s lying to you!
Tommy didn’t move save for his trembling muscles and blinking eyes.
Tubbo, his best friend.
Know that whatever happens, we have to trust each other.
It wasn’t the first time it had traitorously crossed Tommy’s mind, but what if he couldn’t trust Tubbo?
If so, Tommy couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
It was at that moment that Tommy realized tears were streaking down his face and neck.
And realizing so made a choked sob break out.
Tommy didn’t care to stop it, scarlet fingers curling into and tugging blond hair as he leaned forward and wept.
He couldn’t.