Chapter Text
"TommyInnit, you are hereby exiled from L'manburg and its surrounding populations." He watched distantly from his spot on the grassy fields far below the towering wall of obsidian the five stood on. Exile. It was a familiar word, but he couldn't quite place why. It was as if it was on the edge of his awareness, lost in the black spots that resided in his fractured mind. He could see glimpses of cold stone walls and weak lantern light if he tried hard enough. Maybe the feeling of a broken ankle- he was less sure on that one.
He watched as the red-clad one- Tommy, his Toms- fell to his knees, head held high, looking to the people- Tubbo and Dream- who stood tall and proud in front of him. If he squinted, he could see a trail of tears leaking from his eyes, glinting in the fading light of the sun.
He could hear his desperate pleas in between his choked sobs and it... it sparked something in him. Memories long since passed and fuzzy in their age, but there, nevertheless. It was of Tommy, but he was baby-faced and tiny- a young boy no older than six, perhaps- and he had scraped his knees when he tripped over his own two feet while chasing a bee. He remembers the big, fat tears that rolled down his face as he hiccupped and cried to him that 'it hurts- make it stop, Wilby.' He recalls vowing, as he carried a trembling Tommy in his arms back to their family home, that he would make sure his little brother never had a reason to cry again. But, the memory didn't stop there- well, that one did, but not the experience.
He remembers the crushing sense of failure that weighed him down as he cradled a sixteen-year-old Tommy in a dim ravine- Pogtopia, yeah, that's what it was called- as he wailed after they had lost their home and their friends to a vile, horned man that they had once trusted. ( He couldn't- he couldn't recall their name, but the feelings his image provoked were terrible.) He remembers not knowing what to do to make any of it better- to keep his precious little brother happy. But the memories wouldn't stop after that. He continued to spiral as all the voids in his mind slotted into place once more.
The Revolutionary War.
The Duel.
The election.
Their exile.
Dream creating all of these paranoid thoughts until they were his own and he had left everything he cared about behind.
The Red Festival.
November Sixteenth.
It hurt. It was like his entire body had been engulfed in flame- a vivid contrast from the never-ending chill that had seeped through his being after he'd died. He was- he was whole again and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Alivebur and Ghostbur were still parts of him, fighting for dominance on an even playing field. The glint of a netherite axe, glowing with enchantments, caught his attention, distracting him from the war raging in his mind, long enough to see that it was aimed right for his little brother.
He moved before he could think, the two halves of his consciousness setting aside their differences and unifying towards a singular goal- stoping that green fucking bastard. (Although, Ghostbur wouldn't phrase it quite so cruelly. Kindness was his main mission, after all.) Dream's wrist was in his hand, grip bruising, as his signature Pogtopia trench coat flapped in a wind only he could feel. He leaned close to Dream's face, ignoring the stiffened postures of those behind him. He only had one thing on his mind- too deadset in it to care.
"You will not touch my fucking brother, you bitch," he seethed, voice laced with all the violent madness of Alivebur and all the fury of the Ghostbur who just wanted peace and safety for everybody. He wished the blonde would take off his stupid fucking mask for once- he wanted to see his face- wanted him to show all the bitter emotions he tried to hide from the world.
"He's still exiled, Ghostbur." He couldn't help himself as Ghostbur stepped to the side- metaphorically- to let Alivebur take the reins, and cackled. Cackled like the madman he was. He could feel even the stoic, ever emotionless Dream stiffen in his grasp. Of course he would- he created that cackle after all. He knew what it meant- the horrors that it entailed.
"Oh, Dreamy boy! That's where you're wrong," he giggled quietly to himself, stepping impossibly closer to the man, nose nearly grazing his cracked porcelain mask.
"You think you can exile my Toms? And get away with it scot-free? Perhaps you're more mad than even I!" He exclaimed, grin wide as he watched Dream try to, fruitlessly, yank himself from his grip.
"No, no, you won't be able to. I won't let you. You forget, Mr. Admin, that I may not be the greatest example of sanity, but I am the man you created. November sixteenth will be child's play compared to what I'll fucking do to you all. Oh yes!" He whipped his head to Tubbo, the small, horned boy quaking in his improperly sized suit.
"Don't think you're exempt from your punishment just because you used to be Tommy's friend! You've not only betrayed him, my trust in you when I appointed you as President, but the very core values of L'manburg- the discs, and that you never, ever, listen to anything this green fucker," a jerk of his head to the man in question, "says."
He let Dream go, backing away until he stood in front of a still sobbing Tommy, back to him as he faced the Admin and his new right-hand man- Tubbo- paying no mind to his son or Quackity.
"Remember, I'm dead- a ghost among the living- and that means that there's nothing you can do to stop me!" His gaze was deadly, promising that his threats were anything but empty.
He kneeled in front of Tommy, then, gaze soft and a small, gentle smile on his face.
"Hey, Toms." Said boy jerked his head up from where it had been buried in his hands, baby blue eyes red and puffy, brimmed with tears that still cascaded in rivers down his flushed cheeks.
"W- Wilby?" he murmured back, words unsteady and choked with sorrow. It only served to strengthen his resolve to burn this place to the fucking ground. He let his smile grow, tilting his head to the side as he did so.
"Yeah, Toms, it's me. We're gonna go on a vacation for a little bit, okay? It'll be like our old saying- Lads On Tour! Sounds fun, right?" He let Ghostbur's easy-going, fun-loving nature bleed into his tone, hoping it would ease Tommy's cries.
"But-" the teen started, lower lip trembling.
"Just a tiny break, I promise. It'll be like old times! Remember when we'd go camping- just the two of us- every time Techno and Phil had to go to a tournament? It'll be just like that." Tommy stared at him in silence for what seemed like ages- accompanied only by his stuttered breaths and harsh sniffles- before he nodded his agreement- a hardly perceptible shake of the head, really.
He reached out a hand to comb Tommy's hair out of his face and rested it there for a moment, heart breaking and fury rising as he leaned into it like an animal desperate for attention. He stood, then, holding out a hand to the still kneeling boy.
"Come on, Toms. I've got the perfect camping spot in mind." Shakey and unsure, Tommy's hand found his and he drug him up, letting him cling to his greyed fingers like a lifeline. He slowly led them down the rickety staircase to the awaiting plains below, letting Tommy burrow himself into his side as they walked, paying no mind to the stares of everyone behind them.
He looked back once they were far enough to see the top of the wall once more and met Dream's awaiting gaze. He smirked, mouthing the dreaded words they all knew by heart- "It was never meant to be." He turned back to his little brother after that, wrapping an arm around his hunched shoulders, ignoring the horrified faces of those they'd just left behind.
"Let's see if we can find some blue along the way, yeah? I like blue." Perhaps Alivebur wasn't such a bad guy in the end, after all. Perhaps, just maybe, he and Ghostbur would get along just fine if it meant Tommy was safe and happy as could be, tears and betrayal only a distant memory.