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When Tubbo opens his eyes, he doesn’t awaken with a gasp or with a pounding heart. He merely feels the sensation of the muscles in his eyelids contracting, and his entire body remains relaxed.
Somewhere, in the back of his head, waking up each day with tense muscles and a racing heart is something like a ghost of a memory. Tubbo doesn’t have the headspace to accept that illusion now, so he touches it and, like a bubble, it melts under his fingertips and disintegrates into nothingness.
He moves his attention to his surroundings. A cool breeze wafts across his face, gently pushing his too-long fringe out of his eyes. The sunlight is enough to illuminate the beautiful flora around him, filtered to just the right intensity by the span of leaves and branches above him. The wind tastes and smells like salt, and the ground beneath him is a mix of soil and sand.
Tubbo sits up, and sees an ocean roughly a hundred metres away. He’s in some sort of jungle, he thinks, the trees are too tall to be anywhere else but in the deep wilderness. He stands up, walking at first in a way that puts less pressure on his right leg, until he realises that there is no need to limp because his body is absolutely fine.
He wanders this way for a good amount of time, walking aimlessly and appreciating the way the air is cool and comfortable, the ground soft beneath his feet, the plants unendingly beautiful. He doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of the shades of green around him - endlessly complex and ever-changing, yet pleasing to the eye.
Tubbo stops short when he sees a large structure in a clearing. It is made of wood, and incredibly tall. He’s impressed by the complexity of the structure. Whoever constructed it, he thinks, must be a genius at architecture.
There is a figure inside. A boy with blond hair, probably around his age. He turns around, and upon seeing Tubbo, freezes.
Tubbo racks his brain for reasons as to why the boy in front of him is so familiar.
“Tommy?” He finds himself saying. He supposes that he said the name correctly, for the boy’s face contorts into an even deeper frown, filled with an emotion that Tubbo cannot understand nor describe.
“Tubbo - you did-”
“Did what?” Tubbo responds, tilting his head in confusion. The boy in front of him has closed the distance between them easily, crossing the wooden floor in three long, gangly steps. He looks like he has difficulty breathing because his breath comes out in rasps, and for some reason, liquid is flowing freely out of his eyes.
Tubbo frowns. He doesn’t understand why Tommy is trembling like this, but he doesn’t like it. He goes closer and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?” He asks, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. To his horror, the boy only seems to sob even harder.
“I’m really sorry,” the boy repeats again and again like some form of mantra, in between gasps.
“Why?” Tubbo asks helplessly.
“They killed you, they murdered you and I stood by and let that happen-” the boy is staring intensely at Tubbo now, and the anger in his eyes makes Tubbo retreat a little, “-I didn’t stop them, I was too late, and they blew up L’Manberg and-”
“I’m dead?” Tubbo butts in incredulously, shaking his head, “But that can’t be, I’m still here.” Tubbo looks down at his feet. It is only then that he notices that his feet are grey. In fact, every part of his body is grey. Slightly translucent too - he could see the tiles of the wooden floor through his legs.
Tommy has shut up now, occupied with rubbing his eyes furiously with the back of his hand.
Tubbo tries jumping, and he is surprised to find that he can float a few inches off the ground, before gently descending.
“Holy shit,” Tubbo exclaims, “this is so cool.” He tries it again, putting more power into his jump and floating even higher. Tommy just stares.
He does that for a while, exploring the large room that they are in, climbing up the pillars and floating gently to the ground. Tommy remains at the centre of the base, unwilling to move. As Tubbo opens the chests, little memories trickle into his brain. Tubbo remembers the pleasant memories, memories of days spent collecting wood to create this architectural masterpiece, building his bamboo farm and discovering his love for bees, and most importantly, growing up with the boy that is currently standing, as still as a statue, in the middle of the large hall.
The Tommy he remembers is one with a loud and boisterous laugh, with bright blue eyes gleaming with mischief, one that has never looked at Tubbo like the way he did minutes before. The Tommy he knows doesn’t carry himself like he’s about to collapse, doesn’t have his right hand ready to pull out his sword, doesn’t look as exhausted and solemn like the one standing before him.
He decides that whatever Tommy said (that weird word, L’manberg, was it?) doesn’t matter. L’manberg must be a bad person, or a bad place, to hurt his best friend like this.
Running forward, he grabs his best friend’s hands and drags Tommy to his music room. He flicks the levers like he’s done a million times before, and relishes in the comfort of the Able Sister’s theme as it rings out. He observes as Tommy’s face relaxes slightly, the frown lines becoming slightly less pronounced. Good, he thinks, he never wants fluid to escape from Tommy’s eyes again. That is just a terrifying sight.
“Are you feeling better?” He asks when the song ends. Tommy nods, and wipes his dry eyes, turning to look at Tubbo.
Tubbo doesn’t like it. It seems that whenever Tommy looks at him, his frown is back. He doesn’t want Tommy to be sad, so why does it seem like he is the cause of his friend’s misery?
“If you would prefer me to leave-” He tries, before Tommy reaches out and grabs his wrist tightly, indicating that no, he would like Tubbo to stay.
He has to say something, though, because Tommy looks like he is on the verge of tears again.
“I don’t know what the hell L’Manberg is,” Tubbo says, “it doesn’t make sense, it must mean I’ve done something horrible to you because I’d never allow you to get this hurt… or wear a shirt that looks this shit…”
“No, Tubbo-” Tommy butts in, but he chuckles slightly.
“So I apologise for that. Whatever I did, I must’ve been a right arse.”
“You weren’t-”
“But L’Manberg must’ve been an arse too, hopefully more of an arse than I’d been… If L’Manberg was the cause of your attire today, well, I’m ready to go and sock him in the face-”
He stops when Tommy bursts into laughter. It’s less energetic than the one that Tubbo remembers, but it has its similarities. Tubbo considers it a success.
“L’Manberg isn’t a person, Tubbo, it’s a nation.” Tommy wheezes.
“Well, the inhabitants of L’Manberg then-”
“We are citizens of L’Manberg Tubbo,” Tommy replies, “We fought for it.”
“God, what have we been through?”
“Loads, Tubbo, loads.” Tommy’s face darkens again. They lapse into silence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Tommy is frowning, but at least he isn’t crying.
“L’Manberg was… kind of our home.” Tommy says quietly.
“Better than this place we grew up in?”
“Yeah… no… not really.”
Tubbo hums, waiting for the explanation.
“It was better at times, worse for some… we had a fight, Tubbo.”
“How bad was it?” In the life that he remembers, Tubbo can recall plenty of fights they’ve had. They were never really serious - resolved easily in a matter of hours.
“Well - we got separated.” Tommy fiddles with the hem of his shirt.
“How many days?”
“A month or two, maybe, I wasn’t counting.”
“Hmm… that makes sense.”
“What does?”
“That L’Manberg wasn’t really our home.”
“That doesn’t make-”
“My home was never a place, Tommy, it was always you.” Tubbo says lightly, staring at the tiles of the stone floor.
The past Tommy would’ve snorted, punched Tubbo lightly on the shoulder, told Tubbo that he was being too sappy. Despite that, he would’ve pulled Tubbo into a loose hug, conveying his true feelings.
The present Tommy merely looks at Tubbo like he cannot believe the words that are tumbling out of his mouth. Tubbo is struck by how vulnerable his friend looks in this moment - hanging on to the words that he should’ve already known, wide-eyed and blinking like this is a dream.
So Tubbo scoots over until he is sitting in front of his friend, wrapping his arms around him and gently guiding Tommy’s head to rest on his shoulder. Tommy takes a few seconds to respond, before his arms come up and his shoulders start shaking again. Tubbo feels his left sleeve dampen.
“I don’t remember what happened, but that wouldn’t have changed.” Tubbo continues, hoping that he is being sufficiently comforting, “not then, not now, not ever.”
They stay like this for a long time. Tubbo lets his friend lean on him and gently pats his hair. He sits up as straight as he can go, so that Tommy doesn’t get too much of a neck ache later on. Their height difference is greater than Tubbo remembered, which doesn’t make this position very ideal.
Tommy pulls away after an eternity, neck cracking when he sits up. He smiles as best as he can with eyes red from crying.
“Is my shirt really that shitty?”
Tubbo wrinkles his nose and nods.
“When was the last time you washed it?” He challenges, waving his hands and scooting away to emphasise how badly Tommy smells.
“Big men don’t need clean shirts when they can use deodorant.” Tommy retorts, trying to get closer to Tubbo, who springs to his feet and floats a few metres away.
“That’s rubbish, Tommy, and you know it.”
With that, Tubbo leaves the room, yelling at Tommy to return only after he’s cleaned himself.
There’s a lot more to be discussed, like what Tubbo is now that he’s dead and what actually happened in L’Manberg. Tubbo wonders if he can physically harm people in this state - he’d very much like to do that to whoever harmed his best friend, no, brother.
As he turns around to look at Tommy dashing up the stairs, laughing mischievously, Tubbo resolves to keep that frown off his friend’s face for as long as he can.