Archive of Our Own

He passes by Phil on his way back to the White House.

“Hello,” Phil says, and his voice stops Tubbo in his tracks.

Phil is still confined to his home. His legs swing from the railing; the sight makes Tubbo feel fuzzy.

“I heard Tommy was here,” Phil comments. “Techno, too.”

“They were,” Tubbo says. 

Phil’s smile, now, is decidedly unfriendly. “Did anything interesting happen?”

So much, Tubbo thinks. He wonders whether Phil knows that two of his children were threatening murder and extortion to get a few enchanted weapons back. He wonders whether Phil knew that Tommy was alive. 

The more Tubbo thinks about it, though, the more obvious it is. Phil doesn’t sound surprised. He only sounds… happy? Curious? Interrogative? Tubbo doesn’t know. 

The thing, is, Tubbo isn’t blind. He knows the loyalties that Phil has, and the history that he’s shared with others. He knows that Phil isn’t a citizen of L'Manburg; never has been, never will be. The smaller part of him, hurting and quiet, wonders if Phil is still his father, or if Tubbo’s role in the government has changed that. He certainly doesn’t feel like Tubbo’s dad, anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.

He realizes that Phil is waiting on an answer, and fumbles for something to say. 

“A lot happened,” Tubbo says, and fumbles out the question waiting on his tongue, desperate to be answered, “Did you— did you know— Tommy—”

Phil tilts his head. “What do you think?”

“I think you knew,” Tubbo says, “But I want to hear you say it.”

His months in the presidency have hardened him, just slightly. Enough that Phil’s eyebrows crawl up his face at his newfound assertiveness. Surely he’s wondering where that came from.

“Yes,” Phil confirms. “I knew.”

He gazes down at his adopted son with nothing in his eyes that signals remorse or regret. Only cool indifference. 

“You knew,” Tubbo repeats. His mouth feels numb. “You knew, and you let me…”

“He’s in hiding,” Phil says, like the explanation makes it any better. 

“You watched me plan a funeral!” 

Phil at least has the gall to look slightly guilty. Politely, he asks, “Would it have been easier if I broke the news to you?”

Would it? Tubbo wouldn’t have gone through days of absolute hell, holed up in his room with nothing but the moonlight for company. He wouldn’t have mourned his best friend and brother (are you still family if you exile the other from the country you both helped create?) until he grew nauseous. He wouldn’t have berated himself, day after day, for everything he did wrong. Why couldn’t he do anything right?

“Of course it would have been easier,” Tubbo says, and his voice is choked and wet, “I mourned him, and I miss him…”

“To tell you the truth,” Phil comments, “I was surprised he didn’t tell you first.” 

Something burns in the back of Tubbo’s mouth, and nausea crawls up his throat in slimy, goopy strands. He thinks he’s going to be sick. 

He looks at Phil. He doesn't look guilty or upset over the role he played. Strangely, Tubbo finds that he doesn’t much care. 

“You can go,” Tubbo says, and the words burn.

“Go where?”

Tubbo gestures aimlessly. He doesn't care about the politics of it anymore. “You’re off house arrest and you’re not a citizen of L’Manburg anymore. So go be with them. I know you want to.” 

Phil’s gaze softens, just a touch.

“Tubbo,” he says, “You’re a good kid.” 

Tubbo’s eyes sting. 

“Thank you,” he says.

He barely makes it back to the White House before he crumples in on himself. 

Night begins to fall over L’Manburg, and with it brings heavy, damp fog that hangs low over the floating city. Tubbo knows that in the midst of this fog is Phil, leaving to go be with his other children. His other sons. The ones he truly loves.

Somehow, that doesn't include Tubbo. 

He wonders why. Phil is technically his father, after all, even if he wasn’t adopted the proper way. He’s heard the story a million times, enough that Tubbo nearly knows it word for word. 

You were found in a box on the side of the road, Phil told him. You looked hurt and abandoned and alone. I couldn’t leave you there.

Tubbo has no recollection of that moment. He must have been very, very young. Sometimes he wonders what it was about him that made people abandon him, that early in life, alone under the sweltering sun. Did they know that he would grow up to be like this? Could they tell that Tubbo would be a failure from day one? Or was it just a matter of being unable to care for him, and leaving him to die? 

Tubbo doesn’t know. Phil doesn’t really tell him any more details besides that. When he was a kid, curious and wondering, Phil told him firmly that it didn’t matter. Phil was his father, now, and would take care of him.

But Phil found his hands full, occupied with three other children, and Tubbo was a quiet child. Certainly not as loud as Tommy was, who would cling to Phil and cry and scream and demand attention. Tubbo much preferred his books and quiet time to the rest of the world. 

The door of his room clicks shut behind him. Tubbo wraps two arms around his middle like he can hold himself together better. His face burns and dully, he realizes that he’s crying. 

“I never wanted to be president,” Tubbo whispers out loud, as if anyone can hear him. I never wanted this. 

No one listens. No one answers.

There are so many people to be angry at. But the only person he’s angry at is himself.

The thing is, Tubbo was there, and it's his own fault for being so gullible. He saw the tower, lightning-struck and looming overhead. He saw the exploded remnants of Tommy’s camp. He looked down at the compass and saw it spinning aimlessly. The lodestone it was once attached to was destroyed. 

Tubbo still wears the compass on a chain around his neck. It presses against his heart, a reminder of a world he can never return to. 

He takes it out, watches it spin around and around, pointing to nothing in particular. It’s this final connection to Tommy that makes him crumble.

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo cries, and he holds the compass tight, digging into his palms, “I’m so, so sorry.” 

The howling wind holds no answers.

Neither does the compass, spinning and spinning and spinning.

He wakes in the morning with puffy eyes and reddened cheeks. 

Tubbo fell asleep in his presidential suit, which is a habit that he’s been trying to break. It feels like a ball and chain, sometimes, the authority that it carries. It leaves him feeling heavy and sleep-deprived. The tears have dried on his cheeks, as well, leaving behind the bitter taste of salt. 

But what’s most important, regardless of the grogginess, is this: he wakes with a strengthened resolve.

His conversation with Phil last night, the conversation with Techno and Tommy earlier in the day, and the soft glowing of the compass fill him with a twisted sense of determination. Tubbo will get his family back, even if he has to fight for it. Even if none of them think of him as a brother or a son anymore— he’ll do what it takes.

Because nothing can possibly be worse than living this half-empty life, surrounded by members of the cabinet who don’t care an ounce for his well-being. Nothing can be worse than the loneliness.

Tubbo packs his things with a swift, brisk efficiency. The compass is tucked underneath his shirt, around his neck. He leaves his presidential suit hanging in the closet, wrinkled and worn from use. He takes a potion of swiftness. A potion of invisibility. Fresh golden carrots from the farms. Smooth, glossy ender pearls. Everything he’ll need for a long journey to the north. 

He opens his ender chest and surveys the items in there. It’s mostly valuables, things that can be mined from the earth, and Tubbo almost closes it before his gaze lands on something much more important.

Before Tubbo can change his mind, he puts the music disc in his bag as well. 

Technoblade’s house is very quaint for someone who calls themselves the Blood God.

Tubbo sits behind a tree and finally allows his weary legs to rest. 

The last time he was here it was to arrest Technoblade, before the whole fiasco went down. Then, he had three other people on his side, a country at his back. He remembers standing very tall and feeling very brave, in between the moments when Techno’s axe cleaved the snow next to where he was standing. 

They called themselves the Butcher’s Army. How laughably naive. 

Smoke rises from Techno’s chimney. Golden light floods from within. Shadows move about in the windows. 

Tubbo’s feet are freezing. He had forgotten how far it was. And just how cold the tundra is. 

Is Tommy in there? He cranes his neck, trying to look closer. Tommy likely is; where else would he be?

The cloak he brought from L’Manburg isn’t doing much for the chill. Night is falling and the entire land will be crawling with mobs. Tubbo’s never been a fighter; he doesn’t even have his sword with him. 

That leaves one option. 

He raises his hand as the sun falls, and knocks on Technoblade’s front door. 

Voices coming from inside quickly hush. The sound of music ceases. There’s a scrambling sound. Tubbo waits, unsure whether to knock again.

Finally, the door opens. 

“Tubbo,” Phil says, sounding surprised. “Are you here for something?”

Some one, Tubbo wants to correct. 

He shelves all his worries and fears and says, “I want to see Tommy.”

Phil glances backwards. His forehead creases.

“He’s unavailable right now,” Phil says politely.

“When will he be available?”

“Never,” Techno says, and he appears directly beside Phil. 

“But…” Tubbo glances between the two of them, both so different from when they were younger. “I need to talk to him.”

Techno flicks his fingers dismissively. “Go tell Dream that his little plan won't work. Tommy’s staying with us.”

“Dream?”

“Yes,” Techno says, “If he wants to call in a favor, he can do it another way. Go home, Tubbo.”

“I can’t,” Tubbo says. A note of desperation worms into his voice. “I just need to talk to him once. It won’t even take five minutes.” 

“Go home,” Techno repeats, and his hand moves to rest at the crossbow beside him. Tubbo’s gaze moves to it and he flinches. It’s about as clear a threat as Techno can get without loading it with rockets and pointing the crossbow directly at him. His voice is level, but Tubbo knows from experience that Techno’s neutrality doesn’t mean he’s not violent.

“Please,” Tubbo pleads, a last ditch effort, and with numb hands he fumbles for his bag, “I need to give him this.”

He holds out the disc.

Both Techno and Phil stare at it.

Techno is the first to speak. “That's fake,” he says. “Go away.”

“Techno,” Phil mutters, “I think we should let him in.”

“He’s lying,” Techno argues, “Dream is probably watching, we can’t take any risks.”

“He’s traveled a long way. It’s cold.”

It stings to hear them talk about him like he’s not there. Like he was never part of their family in the first place. 

Tubbo’s fingers are white where he grips the disc. His reflection in it seems to taunt him.

Finally, they seem to come to a hesitant conclusion. 

“You can come in,” Phil says, and his voice is both gentle and firm, “But if there’s anything suspicious, anything at all, Techno will escort you out.”

His voice leaves no room for negotiation, but Tubbo will agree to anything. All he knows is that Tommy is inside, and Tubbo has the disc, and he’ll give it back, and maybe if he tries hard enough everything will smooth itself out. 

The heat from indoors hits him like a wave, a shocking difference from the winter outdoors. Tubbo only has a moment to glance around before he sees—

“Tubbo?” Tommy says, voice colored with shock and grief and rage, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Needless to say, it doesn’t go as planned.

In hindsight, Tubbo doesn’t know what he was expecting. That he would give Tommy a hug and everything would work out? That they would play the disc together, on a bench somewhere in the snowy wasteland, and remember all the good times? That the world would go back to normal just like that?

Nothing of the sort happens. Instead, Tommy only glares at him. He takes a few steps back. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tommy repeats again. 

“I came here to give you this,” Tubbo stammers, and he holds out the disc.

Tommy looks at the disc. He looks back at Tubbo. Everything about him reads distrust.

“Just like that?”

Slowly: “Do you not want it?”

“I do,” defends Tommy, and he crosses his arms, “Why are you giving it to me now?”

“It’s yours,” Tubbo manages, and he holds it out, well aware of how his hands are shaking, “You should have it.” 

Tommy glances between the disc and Tubbo to the two people standing behind Tubbo, on either side. His eyes seem to be asking the question, do you trust him?

Tubbo doesn’t dare turn around to see the answer for himself.

Like a wounded animal, Tommy snatches the disc from Tubbo’s hands before retreating back a few steps. Everything about him is guarded and scared. 

“Time to go,” Techno orders, the moment the exchange is done, and there’s a sharp jab in his back. The tip of a crossbow presses into his spine. Tubbo goes cold.

“Wait,” Tubbo scrambles, but Techno clamps a hand down onto his shoulder, directing him toward the door, and already everything is fading, washing away like snow in the night, “Let me stay, just five more minutes—”

“He can stay,” Phil says sharply, and everything stills.

“What?”

Phil directs his words towards Techno: “He let me go from L’Manburg. Let him at least have a few hours.”

Techno’s presence is threatening and still, but he removes his hand from Tubbo’s shoulder. It burns, an imprint of fear. Tommy still hasn’t said anything.

“Give him a tour,” Phil says, gentle yet demanding, and points towards Tommy. “Just for tonight, and he’ll leave in the morning.”

Leave in the morning. Tubbo will leave in the morning and go back to L’Manburg, a country that holds nothing for him, and he’ll leave his family behind. Even his own father doesn't want him.

Tommy’s expression is still guarded, suspicious, untrusting. 

“Just for tonight,” Phil reminds. 

Tommy sets his jaw. He bristles, but clambers down the ladder beside the door. Tubbo stares for a minute before he feels another nudge to his back. Right. Follow Tommy. 

“So,” Tubbo asks stiltedly, when they reach the next floor down, “How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks.”

“Ah.” 

They continue on downwards. Tommy pauses to feel for the hidden edges of a trapdoor, cleverly disguised as stone brick. He lifts it to reveal a ladder that vanishes into darkness. 

“This is where I’ve been living." He gestures once Tubbo reaches the bottom. It’s a cramped basement, hardly more than a few feet square. It’s wallpapered with yellow, vibrant against the dim lighting. Tommy’s bed frame is pushed into the corner to make room for chests, stacked against the wall. 

“It’s nice,” Tubbo says.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Tommy says, just as brash as always. “It’s shit.”

A choked laugh. “Yeah. It sucks.” 

Tommy takes a seat on his bed, and Tubbo sits next to him. The sharp yellow wallpaper does nothing to lighten the mood of the room, even though that was obviously the intention. Tubbo stares at where a corner of it has begun to peel off from the wall, the beginning of a very long fall. 

“Better than Logstedshire, at least,” Tommy mutters. 

The memories of Logstedshire flicker through Tubbo’s memory. A tower, rough and ominious. Stone exploded so deep that it gouged into the earth. 

“When I visited Logstedshire,” Tubbo starts, and the words are curdled in his mouth, coming out sour, “I saw— there was a tower, and I thought—”

Tommy’s face is grim. “You thought I killed myself.” 

Tubbo makes a strangled noise of assent. His throat closes up.

Tommy laughs uneasily. “Well, obviously I didn’t.”

“Obviously.” Tubbo’s head spins. “But I still…” 

He presses his palms to his eyes. Don’t let Tommy see echoes through his mind. 

“I'm here,” Tommy says, uncharacteristically gentle, “I’m here, alright? I’m alive. Stop your stupid crying.”

Tubbo hiccups. “I’m not crying.”

“You are,” Tommy teases, “Crybaby.”

“Stop it,” Tubbo says, and presses his hands to his eyes, harder, until stars explode across his vision, “I just don’t know what to do— you’re alive, and I thought you were dead, and it was all my fault—”

“Hey, hey,” Tommy says, and now he sounds vaguely worried, “I’m here, alright? And it’s not your fault. Never was.”

“But—”

“It was Dream ,” Tommy says forcefully, “So you’d better stop blaming yourself before I make you.” 

Awkwardly, because Tommy has never been built for comfort, he wraps an arm around Tubbo, and waits until Tubbo’s breathing evens out again. 

It takes an absurdly long moment before Tubbo is able to say, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Tommy doesn’t bother answering. He only vanishes upstairs for a moment, and returns with enough bedding for Tubbo to curl up in a corner as well. Tubbo’s tears have long since stopped. They leave only the taste of salt on his tongue. It takes only a few minutes for the two of them to extinguish the lights, leaving them both in pitch darkness. Tubbo stretches his hand in front of his face, barely an inch away, and cannot see the outline of his fingers. 

In the silence, Tommy whispers, “How long are you staying?” 

As long as you’ll let me, Tubbo thinks.

Instead, he says, “I don’t know.”

In the morning, Tommy wakes Tubbo with only a few words: there are tasks to be done. The sun is barely yawning overhead, shades of orange, and their to-do list is only half completed. As long as he stays in Techno’s house, Tommy explains, he has to help out. 

“I don’t know what I expected,” Tubbo admits, about Tommy living with Techno again. “You two used to be really close.” 

Tommy huffs. He bends down to prod at one of the turtles. Greenback and shelled, it allows Tommy to run careful hands over it, checking for disease. His hands are much more gentle than Tubbo would have expected. 

“He’s not that bad,” Tommy says. “Has a lot of big plans and shit. Probably not the best for you to know about.”

From that, Tubbo gathers that Techno’s plans involve destruction. Likely of L’Manburg. The thought ripples down his spine. 

Tubbo braves the fear, though, and asks: “Are people going to die?”

Tommy’s movements are swift and precise.

“I hope not,” he says. Unspoken is yes. They are.

Tubbo swallows. He turns his attention to the turtles. Firmly does not think about the prospect of death. 

“He’s treating you well, though, right?”

“Of course,” Tommy says, “He always has.” 

Tubbo thinks about a pit, dug out inside a cavernous ravine. He thinks about knuckles against bloodied faces and a rocket launcher, pointed at his, and wonders who Tommy is trying to lie to: Tubbo or himself. 

“And Phil?”

Tommy’s face softens. 

“Phil is great,” Tommy says. “He built this greenhouse, you know.” 

Tubbo looks up. The hemisphere of glass creates a pocket of summer in the middle of a frozen wasteland. Both of them shed their cloaks as soon as they entered; Techno had grudgingly given Tubbo a blue one (if only so he wouldn’t freeze on the walk to and from the turtles). 

“It’s nice in here,” Tubbo says awkwardly, “Very warm.” 

“Mhm.”

Silence.

Tubbo hates himself for asking, but he does anyway. “And— you’re not coming back to L’Manburg?”

“I was under the impression I was exiled.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Tubbo tries. “I’m sure Dream would understand if you wanted to come back. It’s been months.”

Tommy’s hands still. His shoulders tense up.

“If Dream’s got you doing shit for him,” Tommy glares, “I don’t want any part in it. I’d rather die than be under Dream’s thumb like you.”

He spits the last word with such anger that even Tubbo, hurt and tired and worried, can recognize that Tommy’s anger isn’t directed at him. It’s directed at something much larger.

“I’m not doing anything for Dream,” Tubbo says, heart twisting. “I run the country. Not Dream.”

“Techno tells me otherwise,” Tommy says, and his voice takes on a sharp, cruel edge. “Told me you’re nothing more than a puppet.”

Something hurts in Tubbo’s chest, hearing that. It spikes through him, icy and damaging. 

Tubbo finds his voice again and mumbles, “I don’t think I’m a puppet.”

Something in his voice must betray how awful he feels, because Tommy stops and looks over at him.

“That’s just what Techno thinks,” Tommy backtracks. As if that makes it any better.

Techno and Tubbo used to be quite close when they were younger. Techno was similarly quiet, though by the time Tubbo was old enough to recognize him as family, Techno had already left for different worlds. He would return, every so often, get playfully annoyed by Tommy and irritated by Wilbur, and come and talk to Tubbo. Tubbo would tell him about the adventures he got up to in his spare time, the projects he was working on building. He faintly remembers that during family game nights, Techno would cover up whenever Tubbo stole money from the bank. He never said a word and simply allowed Tubbo to win. 

Everything has changed now.

Techno has chosen a side, and it isn’t Tubbo’s. Tubbo has nobody anymore, not even his cabinet. There is no one for him to talk to. 

“It’s sad that things have to end like this,” Tubbo says out loud. 

Tommy shakes his head. Tubbo is unsure whether that means he agrees or disagrees. 

“It’s the way things are,” Tommy says. “Not much we can change.”

He finishes collecting scutes from the turtles and stands up. The two of them grab their cloaks and turn to leave; Tubbo still isn’t used to seeing Tommy in blue and gold instead of red and white. He wears the colors of the Antarctic Empire like they’re second nature. 

Tubbo tries desperately to hold himself together as they walk back to the front door, and he miserably fails.

His old family, Tubbo quickly learns, has a lot of secrets.

The first secret is this: whatever Dream did to Tommy, don’t talk about it. Tommy only gives Tubbo the barest pieces, nothing more. Techno is silent altogether. Phil only says move on, Tubbo, whenever the topic is brought up, and so Tubbo does.

The second secret is this: whatever Techno does in the Nether, don’t ask about it. Tubbo’s older brother (can he still call him that if Techno has murdered him?) returns with fingers calloused and bleeding, the familiar marks of wither poison on them. Tommy stares as well. He rubs at the back of his neck whenever Techno vanishes, mysterious and plotting and always, always keeping secrets.

The third secret, which doesn't remain a secret for very long: Tommy is a surprisingly good cook.

He makes dinner for them some nights, and on the other nights, when he and Techno get into shouting matches that make the floor shake, makes dinner just for Tubbo. Tubbo’s never seen him look so at ease with something; he hums along to the music that plays from the disc, filling the room with sound. Techno sits at the kitchen table and mocks him for it, and most times Tommy doesn’t look upset. He only laughs. 

Tubbo counts the days on his fingers: one, two, three, four, five. It’s been nearly a week since he’s left L’Manburg and no one has come looking. Nearly a week has been spent with his old family. 

“Tubbo,” Techno directs, one of the only decent words he’s spared in this entire time, “Go change the music.”

The record player has reached the edge of the disc, and only silence emerges from it. With fumbling hands, Tubbo takes one of the records and switches it out. 

“Chirp,” Techno notes. “This used to be your favorite.” 

“Really?”

Techno shrugs. “You would play it all the time. It was god-awful and annoying. And you would whine from your cardboard box for Phil to replay it.” 

Tubbo has no recollection of that. How young was he? 

“I don’t remember that,” Tommy adds, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Techno says. “How do you not remember, Toms? You were just as annoying about it too.” 

Tommy considers that. He frowns.

“Don’t remember,” he says, “But we’ll listen to it anyway.” 

The turntable spins, the disc spinning as well. The needle skitters, proof of the wear and tear this particular disc has been through. Tubbo props his elbows up on the counter and doesn’t say anything. He tries to remember a time when this was his favorite thing to listen to: in the box he was found in, the one place he felt comfort. 

For all his trying, the only thing he remembers is this: sunlight, warm on his skin, and the feel of hands on his own. 

It plays in his mind, over and over. The soft sound of the music, playing through the air. Techno’s words. God-awful and annoying. With a touch of fondness. Like Tubbo was being welcomed back into the family he had been exiled from. 

Tubbo doesn’t know if he wants to be part of the family anymore. Everything has changed, so much.

Phil drags him out into the garden one morning to help rebuild Techno’s bee farm. For efficiency, it works well; in terms of aesthetic, it isn’t half as pretty as it could be. Tubbo, with an endless soft heart for bees, suggested making it larger. Bees are happier when they can roam, after all. A few inches of space isn’t enough for them. Phil had readily agreed, so long as Tubbo would help.

That brings them to now. Phil gestures to one end of the wooden plank, and says, “Hold that in place.”

Obligingly, Tubbo does.

He can hear Techno and Tommy move around through the open window. His memory replays the music disc, over and over. Spinning in circles like the turntable, like the needle on his compass. 

Without thinking, Tubbo asks, “Where did you find me?”

Phil steps back from securing his side and switches places with Tubbo. He doesn’t say anything. 

Again, in case Phil didn't hear: “Where did you find me?”

“In a box,” Phil says. “On the side of the road.”

Something clenches inside of Tubbo’s chest. 

He’s never bothered to ask again, never bothered to ask twice. But it’s been eating at him, painful and sharp, and for some reason he wants himself to know the truth.

In his adopted family, Tubbo was always regarded as the quiet pushover. The one who barely spoke up, who found assertiveness difficult. Tubbo was never like Tommy, brash and loud and exciting. He was never like Wilbur nor Techno. He wasn’t even like Phil.

Voice firmly held steady, Tubbo asks, “Really?”

Silence. Long enough for Tubbo to play the entirety of Chirp inside his head. 

Finally, Phil says, “I didn’t think you were interested in hearing the truth.”

The words hang suspended between them, an ominous promise of the truth. Tubbo’s chest is an iron weight, sinking lower and lower.

“Oh,” he manages. 

“You were a child,” Phil explains. “It was easier.”

“But I’m not a child anymore,” Tubbo says. 

“Sixteen is still young.”

“I’m not sixteen anymore,” Tubbo says, and that final sentence is what causes him to crack. He remembers his seventeenth birthday: celebrated alone. How can his own father not know his age? “I deserve to know what happened.” 

“To tell you the complete truth,” Phil says, after an endless moment, “I don’t think I was the best father to you.” 

His gaze is clear. Tubbo glances down. 

The truth hurts. But it’s what Tubbo has needed to hear, for a long time now.

“I picked favorites,” Phil continues, “And I prided other children over you. But I think life with your original family would have been worse.”

Tubbo’s lips are numb. “You think?”

“Your father—” and at this, Phil’s lips twist to the side, a silent admission of judgement— “He loved you with all his heart. But all the love in the world can’t keep a child alive.”

The words strike a soft and tender place inside Tubbo. 

The sickening reality is this: there’s an alternate timeline out there, somewhere, where Tubbo lived an entirely different life. Where L’Manburg never rose and never fell, where he was never president, where he was wholly loved by the people who raised him. 

Tubbo opens his mouth, wanting to ask who? Who are my parents? Why did they leave me, what did I do wrong, can I get them back?

He tries to form the shapeless words into a sentence and finds, to his horror, that he doesn’t want to know.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to know because he isn’t living in that timeline, he’s living in this one. And he can’t abandon the world that he helped create, nor the country, nor the people. What matters is here: his father, who was never really a father at all, his brothers, who never cared much for him at all. Tommy, the one exception. 

Tubbo takes a swaying step backwards, and then another. 

“Thank you,” Tubbo says instead, and the words are cold in his mouth. “I appreciate you telling me.” 

Something rages in Phil’s eyes, an admission of guilt, shame, anger, pity. 

“I wish things were different,” he says.

“So do I,” Tubbo says, and he turns away, “So do I.” 

That night, Tubbo sorts through his ender chest in the basement.

There isn’t much of importance in there. He has the glittering blocks of emerald stolen from Techno. Tubbo remembers taking those, on the eve of the sixteenth. So giddy and so excited. He sets them to the side. 

He has a shuffled stack of pictures. Most of them are of L’Manburg that he was going to give to Tommy when he visited him in exile. But they’re all yellowed at the edges, worn away with time. Besides, he doubts Tommy wants to see them now. Christmas was a while ago, and looking at them, Tubbo feels a faint disconnect. He doesn’t recognize the country he used to build. 

The pictures, too, are set to the side.

The final thing is the compass.

Now that he sees Tommy daily, he doesn’t need a physical reminder of everything he’s lost, everything left to mourn. The compass spins and serves no purpose, other than to remind Tubbo of all the terrible things in this world. 

Tubbo wants to set this to the side, too, but finds that he can’t let go of it. 

“Hey,” Tommy says, cocks his head in confusion. His voice startles Tubbo out of his thoughts. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning out my ender chest,” Tubbo says hastily, and curls his hand around the compass. He doesn’t want Tommy to see that he still carries it around like a baby. "Nothing fun." 

“Anything interesting?”

“Nope,” Tubbo says. “Just garbage.”

Tommy sits down next to Tubbo, who obligingly shuffles to the side, giving Tommy a chance to look at his own ender chest. Tubbo catches a glimpse of the contents inside; there’s the purple disc, a few scattered phantom membranes, a brown coat ripped through the center. 

“I can’t throw it away,” Tommy mutters, sounding half embarrassed when he catches Tubbo’s look at the coat. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Tubbo hastens to say. He understands wanting to cling to people who have vanished.

“It’s just…” Tommy gestures, like he can make the words come to him, “I miss him.”

Tubbo nods.

“Even though I hate him.”

Tubbo nods again.

“But he’s still my brother,” Tommy says, “Always will be.” 

Tubbo pulls his knees to his chest, rests his chin atop them. 

He understands the sentiment. But his mind is still whirling from the revelation that he’s always known to be true, earlier, and spinning with the memories of everything he’s been forced to do: Wilbur’s smile, Phil’s uncaring, Techno’s murder. Everything that his family has done against him.

“That doesn’t mean you have to care about him,” Tubbo says. "Or hold onto the memories still." 

“But I do,” Tommy says, “He did terrible things but he still cares about me. Even now.” 

“Does he?” Tubbo asks. “Or is he just lying to you about everything?”

Tommy slams the lid of the ender chest shut. 

“You’re not talking about Wilbur anymore, are you?”

“No,” Tubbo says, “I’m not.” 

“It’s not his fault,” Tommy argues, words spilling over themselves, “He’s explained it to me, alright? And I don’t have anyone else to turn to— I don’t agree with a lot of the anarchy shit he does, but I’d rather have him on my side than no one at all—”

“Wait,” Tubbo says, confused, “Who are you talking about?”

“Who are you talking about?” Tommy retorts.

“Phil,” Tubbo says, at the same time Tommy says, “Techno.”

Both of them stare at each other, faces colored in shock.

“He lied to me,” Tubbo tries to explain, throat dry. “For a long time.” 

“Oh,” Tommy says, and recognition floods into his voice. “ Oh .”

 “I probably should have known,” Tubbo admits, and that’s the worst part of it. “Why did I believe it for so long? Why wasn’t I smart enough to just— to know?” 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment. 

“He’s still your dad,” Tommy says, quiet and uncomprehending. “Even though—”

Tubbo’s frustration only mounts. “You don’t get it.”

“So explain it.”

“He lied to me!” Tubbo shouts, boiling over, and Tommy hushes him. Footsteps can be heard from upstairs. Neither of them want the rest of the family listening in. 

More quietly, Tubbo says, “He lied to me my whole life, and he still wants me to call him my dad?”

“What difference does it make?” Tommy says impatiently. “Technoblade killed you. Wilbur blew up my country. Phil abandoned me. You exiled me. But we’re still family, Tubbo. That’s how family works.”

Tubbo shakes his head. “Not for me.” 

He understands the sentiment, but time has taught Tubbo many valuable lessons, and one of them is this: you choose your family. Blood might be a common tie, but at the end of the day, it’s the one that matters the least. Family is who makes you happy, who cares about you, who loves you.

Tubbo thinks about everyone he knows, all the people he’s met, his entire cabinet, the people he grew up with. He thinks about Dream’s smiling face, reassuring him that he was doing a good job. He thinks about Phil, lying to him for years about finding him abandoned in a box on the side of the road. He thinks about Wilbur, whispering in his ear of what a good spy he was. He thinks about Schlatt, condemning him for the same actions Wilbur praised. He thinks and thinks and thinks. 

Does anyone love him?

Has anyone ever loved him? 

“I think,” Tubbo says, and tries to breathe, chest tightening, “I think we choose our family. And I don’t know if I want to choose Phil.”

Tommy looks at him carefully. “That’s okay.”

“Is it?” Tubbo whispers. 

Tommy opens his mouth, and Tubbo braces for whatever he’ll hear. An admittance of family, of guilt, of shame. Because by all means, Tommy should have turned his back on Tubbo the moment he was exiled. By all means, he should have abandoned him and forgotten him.

Instead, Tommy opens his arms as well and says, quietly and cautiously, “Can I give you a hug?”

Tubbo doesn't answer with any recognizable words. Instead he clambers across the bed and flings his arms around Tommy, and carefully, so carefully, Tommy’s arms come to rest around his shoulders. 

“I think you’re my family,” Tubbo whispers, into his best friend and brother’s shoulder, “I want you to be my family.”

Tommy’s grip tightens further.

“Good,” he says, voice muffled. “You’re my family too.”

They stay there, in the hollowed out basement flooded with torchlight, and Tubbo cries into Tommy’s shoulder until his shirt is damp. 

Even the rising sun sheds no light onto them.