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“I’m the hero right?.”
He questions quietly to no one other than the wind. The question seems to burn his tongue like acid, choking him with the truth hidden just behind the years of self indulgent lies and protection. The snowstorm harshly whips around his hair, now long outgrown reaching nearly halfway down his neck. He would have cut it but the cool steel edge of his sword so close to the vein on his neck--at least without Wilbur’s help--had unnerved him. It was ironic that scared him considering he was now standing at the edge of a platform nearly touching the build limit contemplating his death.
He crouches down and leans over that edge, taking a deep, slow, painful breath of icy night air. It sends a chill rippling down his spine. The land far below, at least the parts visible, was lit up with his makeshift lanterns and torches. As well as the fire left over from the explosion of Dream’s wrath. Both literally and figuratively.
The air stings his eyes, forming crystals at the tips of blonde eyelashes.
Another deep breath, a little shakier, comes and goes and he begins to think.
“Why am I here?” He asks out loud. Again, no one hears. He's then reminded of the deafening silence of the world. The solemn loneliness of the rolling hills stretch farther than the eye can see with no signs of human interference. These hills were his only company. He’d never seen the world outside his own bubble of youth. The emptiness of it all... it was shattering.
Tommy had never been alone before.
His whole life he had grown up with someone by his side: nagging him, yelling at him, laughing at him, laughing with him, crying with him. His whole life he had never had to face the silence. But now, at this moment, he couldn’t hear anyone else's voice. That sound of nothing was louder than any voice he’d ever heard. He could scream as loud as his vocal cords would allow him and it still wouldn’t be enough to drown out the sound of false tranquility. No one would hear his cries of desperation. Wilbur wouldn’t come upstairs to tell him off, Tubbo wouldn’t stifle a laugh into his elbow, Phil wouldn’t rush in asking what the matter was, Techno wouldn’t bang on the wall and yell at him to shut up.
“So what's the point of screaming then?”
…
He does it anyway.
He screams.
And screams
And screams
And screams until he’s weak in the knees.
It feels like he’s trying to force himself to be heard by someone, by anyone. He just wants to be heard. He wants, no NEEDS someone to force him to feel something other than the smothering emptiness.
When the shattering screams finally cease they’re met with no more than what he expected.
Nothing.
His throat burns now... at least he knows he’s still alive.
Then the thoughts come rushing back like a tidal wave toppling over a tranquil beach house in the sand.
They all left him to this loneliness. All his friends. For a moment he feels resentment towards them all. Feels repulsion and anger bubble in sporadic spasms. But then he quickly gives up on that fiery feeling, letting it flicker and fizzle to a dull roar, like a candle flame, now directed towards himself. Eating away at the walls he built of false self-image, false protection. The first cracks, the first realizations, the first efforts of full self-awareness.
It’s his own fault they left anyway.
No no, that’s ridiculous. They like having him around, right? Big Q and Fundy had both fought for his right to stay… right? But the more he thinks about it… Fundy did tell him off for giving up his one chance at redemption. At least, before he convinced them to fight. But that.. That would have likely cost them a life. Isn’t that..? Selfish?
He feels his heart begin to hammer.
How selfish indeed. They had all said it then, called him selfish, self-centered, a nuisance, a burden, “L’manberg’s biggest liability” In the words of his own best friend. The words bounce around his skull, plaguing him with a stinging headache, and the sting of hot, salty tears blurring his vision.
His old frame of mind clashes strongly with the new revelations, using all of its feeble might. The old memories painted vividly in carefree joy so desperately try to block out the new ones painted in dulled out disgusting hatred. He had put off the disks so many times, he deserved to get his revenge, get back the one thing he cared about. Right? It was his time right? He wasn’t being selfish he was just-
“The one thing you care about huh?” The saddened faces flash briefly into his memory, they turn their backs on him in repulsion. His eyes go wide.
Then it all shatters.
The walls come tumbling down and the joy is smashed to bits by the anvil of annoyance and nuisance on his friends' faces that, until that moment, he had never taken note of. They all hated him, of course they did. It’s why they never visited. How could he have been so blind? He was terrible. An atrocious friend. A sickening comrade. A failure of a son.
If he hadn’t been so fucking terrible, so worthless, and unhelpful, maybe they would have stuck around. But no, he had to be problematic and drive them all away. For what? His own fear of betrayal? He let them all down from the start and he was too proud to admit it.
His last friend, the last person who was on his side was Dream. He had let him down. His eyes drift to the explosion residue. Dream had trusted him, trusted he would keep their friendship honest and true… but Tommy had gone behind his back and done the one thing he vowed to never do. Keep secrets. Betray him. Just like everyone else did to him. Now Tommy’s home was gone and it was his own fucking fault. He was scum.
The corner of his mouth twitches in repulsion and he slides to dangle his feet over the edge of the platform. The tears ran freely now, convulsing in his chest with threats of collapse. But even then he fought them. Who was he to cry for himself? He didn’t deserve to.
His compass bumps against his chest and he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of its weight around his neck. It’s a burden of knowledge he doesn’t even want to begin unlocking. But his fingers seem to involuntarily take the cool metal and flip it open and closed a few times. It points forward, swaying ever so often in small increments. Which he assumes is due to movement on the other end. He licks his lips, picked to bits and pieces, and the taste of salt graces his tongue.
Another deep, hiccup ridden breath passes.
Tubbo.
He drove Tubbo away too. He let Tubbo down. He made Tubbo hate him.
He swallows hard.
Tubbo hates him no doubt in his mind. Dream said he burned the compass, one that Tommy imagined was similar to the one he held in his palm. He burned it deliberately.
Why wouldn’t he? Tommy wasn’t good enough for him. He never deserved a friend like that. He knew that from the beginning and yet he ignored it and chose to be selfish, chose to cast Tubbo aside every time, and put his own selfish needs before his own best friend’s feelings. He knew and yet he did nothing. He knew he could have changed and fixed it all. He would be fine right now but…
Oh...
There he goes again thinking of his own needs.
That was the key here, he kept thinking that HE, TOMMY would be fine now if he hadn’t TOMMY would be happy TOMMY would be okay. But what of Tubbo? Would he be happy if Tommy hadn’t left? He watches the compass sway again, thinking of Tubbo happily sprinting around somewhere on the other side of its gravitational pull, smiling brightly while he works on some new building, or talks mindlessly to his bees. He imagines the warmth of his best friend's company. No, he decides, Tubbo wouldn’t be happy now, not if Tommy had stayed.
“He’s happier without me.”
Of course, he is. Tommy had seen first hand how L’manberg flourished in his absence. He was the one holding Tubbo back from his potential. He would be better off without him.
Tommy isn’t good enough for Tubbo. In fact; he isn’t good enough for anyone. He never has been and never will be. No matter how many times someone has told him he was or that he can be he knows now that it’s all just lies. All artificial pity they rain down on him simply because he’s a child and they feel obligated to do so. Simply because he’s helpless. But he knows better.
He knows that as hard as he tries he’s never going to be good enough. He knows he’s a nuisance to them all. No matter how many fronts of faulty confidence that he places forward, they’ll all think he’s a burden and he’ll always disappoint them.
Then, with a voice so quiet, so broken, it’s hardly recognizable as his own, he whispers one final time to the wind and the memories of his loud and boisterous past-
“I’m not The Hero. I never was.”
And he steps off the edge.
No more tears, no items, only the quiet wind and the compass digging into his hand so deep it might as well have been a part of his very skin,
Then it’s all gone.
A dull warmth flickers to life.
Tommy doesn’t remember how he got a compass engraved in the palm of his hand, but he assumed that Alive Tommy had his reasons.