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It’s night time when it comes in the mail.
Tubbo, losing his breath, heart pounding, steps away from the pile of letters on his desk like it’s poison. And maybe it is, with the way the yellowing letter is losing its composition and looking more like a pile of paper lumped together.
It’s not real, he thinks, heart aching even though the events flashing through his mind happened ages ago. Perhaps days, weeks, maybe even months.
Time doesn't really register to him, not anymore. Not since the day he got the news that Tommy was pronounced dead.
Darkly, with guilt, he wishes for his memory to be as awful as Ranboo's, the half enderman boy. Then perhaps this wouldn’t hurt him as much as it does now.
Tubbo, the docks, the front of the first envelope in the pile reads, and Tubbo refuses to acknowledge that it’s in Tommy’s handwriting.
(Although it’s there, clear as day, his best friend’s scrawly words which curls upwards and downwards like an never-ending sea.)
The brunette reaches his hand forward and flips the letter around. In the back, a pile of strings wraps around the flap, unsuccessfully holding together the messy envelope.
His lips twitch. It’s only Tommy who’d think that this type of packaging would last.
The thought stings. He rips open the letter.
Dear Tubbo,
Hey Tubbo,
Hey Big Man!
Bet you didn’t think I’d fucking know how to write a letter, huh? Wilbur actually taught me back in Pogtopia along with all those other stupid lessons of hunting and shit. I guess it’s actually come into use now. Something I want to say: fuck you. I can’t believe you exiled me just like that, were all those years of memo—
A dark puddle of ink covers up the rest of the word, as if the writer had paused in the middle of writing it.
The next paragraph starts, the words abandoned.
You know, Dream has been bitching around more than usual. He’s so goddamn annoying. And you know what he’s been doing? He’s been trying to become friends with me. FRIENDS. Like he wasn’t the one to— like he wasn’t the one who told you to exile me in the first place.
Oh, fucking hell, I hear him again. I have a limited supply of paper, and I’m nearing the end of this parchment. I’ll write to you again tomorrow, yeah?
Big T
Tubbo feels his lips curling down into a frown. It didn't hit him before, but why was this letter sent late? He rechecks and the date on the top of the parchment points to months ago.
He puts the opened letter aside and moves on to the next envelope, opening it with more care than the first one.
Big Man,
Dream’s been here every single day. It’s insane.
He’s insane. I swear, the guy’s delusional, he thinks that we’re actually friends. I’d rather fucking jump into the lava than getting in a friendship with that green bastard. Anyways, you’ve been pretty silent. Write to me back, dickhead! You may be busy being the president but I’m still a friend I hope.
No one visited me today. It was really quiet without the usual people to piss off, I’d admit.
L’Manberg is my home, and I swear I’ll get back, exile or not. I think that Ranboo might visit me soon. He better. And you too, visit me, or else.
Big T
Tubbo struggles to finish the letter, his hands trembling. Guilt wells up in his chest and he forces a breath between his lips. He should’ve visited Tommy. Should’ve talked to him again, should’ve paid him a visit before he never can again, should’ve at least tried—
Tubbo stares out at the lamp situated outside of his room, the beams blinding him. When he finally looks down, he can still see the circle of lights.
The wind outside whistles.
The third letter is different. It’s messier and heavier somehow, like Tommy had to throw it together in a time limit.
When he opens up the letter, a chain falls out of the opening and into his lap.
Tubbo,
Tubbo feels his heart drop at the different opening.
I think I’m going insane. Dream’s been quite alright. He helped me today, you know, with mining. And he didn’t make me put my armor and things in the hole like I told you yesterday.
Yesterday? Tubbo glances back to the pile of letters he had fixed in order, and sees no envelope with an earlier date than the ones he already opened.
Strange.
Maybe he is my friend, Tubbo. I don’t have much choice either. Nobody’s visited me, and only Dream’s here to keep me company. He’s the only voice I hear.
I miss you.
Why won’t you visit me? I’m still a bit angry at you for the whole exiling me thing, but please visit me. Please. I can’t think, Tubbo. I want to go back. I’m starting to see things. I thought I saw you around the campsite today. I’m so, so tired.
A splatter of ink in a frenzy.
Fuck, I can hear him. I’m writing this in a secret room that I hid from Dream. He thinks that I’m convinced we’re great, great friends now but I still want to go back. I need to go now. I've put a chain I crafted in here, Dream let slip that you have a compass that points to me, just like I do for you. Please visit soon.
Tommy.
The chain. Tubbo gently picks it up from his lap, the metal shining in the light. The brunette reaches into his back pocket, where he keeps his compass. It’s broken from a creeper that had gotten too close, a crack now displaying across the glass permanently.
Taking both of the items into his hands, he fixes the chain onto the compass. The gold of the chain matches the color of the compass, and the thoughtfulness makes Tubbo’s throat churn.
The back of the letter says the date: a month ago.
There’s only two letters left in the pile. Tubbo sits silently, still holding onto the letter.
Tommy has a compass for him.
Tommy had a compass for him.
And yet he had still refused to visit Tommy, afraid of judgemental stares and angry words, afraid of his best friend hating him. All this time, the ones who were afraid were the both of them.
They’re pathetic, Tubbo thinks through his muddled mind as a tear slips past and stains the parchment paper. He puts the compass, a necklace now, over his neck, and rips open the next letter.
He found the secret room, Tubbo, he found the secret room and he’s blown everything up and he left. Maybe he's not my friend after all.
No signature. A suffocating feeling overcomes Tubbo and he flips the letter around over and over again, eyes frantically attempting to find more information. What secret room? Is “he” Dream? What did Tommy mean by “blown everything up”?
The President of L’Manberg slumps down in his seat, head pounding, mouth dry, and feels the most powerless he’s ever felt. Even back during Pogtopia’s era, when he could’ve been found out as a spy any moment and executed, at least it was only his own life he was gambling with.
A dry sob wrecks his chest. Maybe he was right to not visit Tommy. How would the blond see him as now? A power hungry, arrogant git who couldn’t even find the will to visit his friend.
A wind blows past the window and blows out the candlelight beside him.
A harsh wind blew past Tubbo, untucking his tie from the inside of his suit.
Tommy stepped forward.
Tubbo stepped back.
“Tubbo,” his friend said, a tone aliken to desperation. Tubbo kept his gaze on the ground. He had to, or else he’d break like the rest.
Quackity and Fundy were still in disbelief behind him.
“Tubbo, don’t do it.”
“We discussed this man, why are you doing this now?”
“I thought we had a plan—”
“Shut up!” Tubbo yelled, not looking back. Quackity and Fundy grew silent. Tubbo continued, “All you guys do is fight, fight, and fight. What’s going to happen once we get Techno to help us? We’re a government, we’re everything he hates. Even if we stop Dream, he’ll still come after us.”
“Tubbo—” Tommy started.
Tubbo still wouldn't look at him.
“Dream.” His voice was deathly cold, his body frigid. “Please escort Tommyinnit out of L’Manberg.”
That night, when Quackity and Fundy left him, he fell down in his room and cried and cried and cried.
He blew a candle out pathetically.
Tubbo lights the blown out candle. He moves on to the next letter. This time, he opens the top delicately instead of just ripping open the sides like before.
A small piece of paper, different from the yellowed parchment from before, falls down onto his desk.
-80, 71, -2460 , it reads in Tommy’s handwriting.
Tubbo’s heart quickens. He shoots up from his seat, ignoring his candlestand wobbling hazardously from the sudden movement.
He runs out of his room, barely having time to grab his cloak and armor, and rushes out into the wilderness.
And he runs, and runs, and runs until little snowflakes fall on top of his bangs and makes them stick onto his forehead. He runs until his legs nearly give out and slips on the snow covered ground. He runs until he can’t anymore.
He sees a cabin.
The sun is rising above him but he doesn’t notice, watery blue eyes set on a shocked person peeking out of the cabin.
“Tommy,” Tubbo sobs with relief and pure bliss and his blond friend runs across to embrace him in a hug.
It’s nearly morning when the mail leads him to Tommy.