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Tommy wasn’t sure how he had gotten here again. Back to the place where he and Niki buried Tubbo together under the birch trees, sun rapidly falling in time with their spirits.
Nothing had seemed real since the festival. Tommy hadn’t left the haze he had entered that night, permanently unable to see past the rising dust, unable to hear past the explosions.
His mind was as silent as when he had rushed the stage, pulled his best friend’s body from the ashes, running out to try to heal his wounds. He had felt someone, probably Wilbur, putting hands on his shoulder, attempting to take Tubbo’s body away, but Tommy refused, unable to see or hear the man trying to stop him. To him there was only Tubbo, the boy’s body scratched and burnt, look of innocent confusion still etched on his face.
“Wake up Tubbo, come on, you’re not really dead, please, please please…” He shook the small, lifeless body in his arms, praying that the cheeks would gain back their rosy blush, the eyes their sparkle.
Lying now on Tubbo’s grave, his arms dug into the dirt as if reaching for the boy that lay beneath it. In the corner of his eye, every movement was Tubbo, back to tell him that he was okay, that it was all a prank. He saw Tubbo everywhere, in the glint of the foul-smelling bottles that now littered the corners where Fundy thought he was alone, in the arrows fired from crossbows as the war raged on around him.
To Tommy, there was no war anymore. It had ended the second everybody had deserted him, the second Wilbur had prevented him from intervening, the second Technoblade had fired that fateful firework, the shot that killed Tubbo.
Tubbo. His best friend, the one person who stood by him from the beginning to the end, the one without whom Tommy’s world was hazy, full of dust and fire.
For the first time, Tommy let himself cry, let his tears water the dirt where flowers soon would grow. He curled his fingers into the rough soil, hoping that the dirt would get under his nails so he could keep a bit of Tubbo with him forever. He never wanted to see anyone again, not even Niki, the only one who had even tried to support him, the one who covered him with blankets as he slept for days over Tubbo’s grave, who forced him to eat and planted new flowers around the makeshift headstone, though the flowers never seemed to bloom.
Tommy knew it affected her just as much, though she somehow managed to stay strong. He knew Tubbo’s death had hurt everyone. He saw how Fundy drowned his thoughts with alcohol, how Eret hid in his castle, how even Sapnap seemed unable to laugh. He wished he could at least pretend to stay strong like them, and though deep down he knew they didn’t blame him, he was also well aware that without him, their cause was nothing.
As Tommy’s hands kneaded the coarse earth, he hoped that Tubbo knew how much he cared. That all his teasing wasn’t serious, that all the times they fought were meaningless. He flattened his palms, as if the ground was only a wall, and Tubbo was pressing his hands against it on the other side. As if he could open it up and Tubbo would be there, laughing and smiling as always. Tommy wiped away his tears with a scratched hand.
Tubbo wouldn’t want him to cry. Tubbo would want him to fight.
Placing one last touch on the headstone, Tommy stood up and walked away. He drew his sword and clutched the red scarf around his neck.
The pig who had done this was going to die.