Chapter Text
One day, late in the evening, a small chest appeared in Tommy’s room.
Tommy had just returned after a walk, so was sure it had been brought recently. He didn’t need to wonder who could be the person to leave it. After the sudden visitation incident three days ago Sam has decided to install an alarm at the entrance, similar to the one used in the construction of Pandora’s vault. In case anybody tried to open or destroy the door, the inhabitants of the base would be alarmed immediately on their communicators. Considering the fact Tommy didn’t jump up to the ear-breaking squeal of the alarm – they tested it once; it sounded like a dozens of ghasts screaming directly in your ears – the chest had to be from Sam.
Tommy didn’t actually see the man yet, but judging by the fact that the chest upon the entrance (Sam had the habit of throwing extra materials in it before sorting them out) was full with tools and pieces of crying obsidian, the man had already returned from the prison. Even though Pandora’s vault was pretty much a self-sustainable establishment, especially with prisoner’s food and water delivery system now ready, Sam still had to check up on the it every once in a while: refill the supplies, check the functioning of the outside and inside security systems, schedule and organize the visitations. He always left a breakfast and a lunch for Tommy, though, often supplemented with a list of chores, for the lack of the better word, with the major difference that he wasn’t obliged to do them unless he wanted to.
Tommy supposed the chest probably has some new blueprints – he recently asked Sam to show him the work scheme of his super-smelter. When he lifted the lid, however, he found a carefully folded cloth inside, with a piece of paper scribbled in familiar handwriting resting on the top.
‘I figured your coat is a bit too warm for the current weather,
And a village nearby has a very good tailor.
Tell me if it doesn’t fit or you want something else to wear.’
Tommy curiously read the note at the same time as he lifted the clothing, which turned out to be a long dark-green cloak. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers and found it to be thin, yet soft to the touch. Tommy put the thing on, and the cloak comfortably settled on his shoulders. They didn’t have a mirror in the base, other than a small one above the bathroom sink, so Tommy went to the huge glass panel separating the main hall and the sugarcane farm. The cloak fitted well and distantly reminded him of his revolutionary uniform with the similar shape. The uniform, however, was tight on his back and waist, whilst the cloak rested free, allowing the wings to twitch slightly under the fabric. It barely weighted anything. Tommy spread one of his wings – the fabric slipped down, touch ghostly elusive – and searched for a loose feather to pull out. Once he found one, he put it against the cloak and compared the touch sense of the both.
His fingertips caressed the cloak as a careful smile lightened Tommy’s face. Warmth in his chest, an early spring flower, bloomed and shined with life. The paper-thin petals fluttered upon the touch, melting into streams of heat and gentle light. One of them wrapped itself around his heart. Tommy wondered how Sam managed to get his measurements so right until he remembers yesterday, searching for his missing shirt.
“You really did go for extra steps to make this a surprise, huh?” he asked, facing the reflection as if Sam was here right now.
Once Tommy’s sight fell on the glass again, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. An odd twisted sensation crawled its way from somewhere in his stomach. The flower of gratitude faded away, nothing but sparkles of the dying fire. Tommy’s smile fell. Where the softness rested before a cruel wrench had raised. A consuming feeling of wrongness crashed through his body, heavy as an anvil.
The only thing he realized in the striking shift of emotions is that something has changed in his reflection. Tommy wasn’t wearing the cloak anymore, curling in a heavy trench coat instead. He expected to feel it’s weight press on the sensitive feathers of his wings, but no sensation came from the limbs whatsoever, as if they disappeared completely. The reflection fluttered. Real Tommy was still. Tommy in the reflection shivered and hugged himself. His hair was soaked with water and lips stood out blue on the pale face. Tommy’s heart skipped a beat.
“Not you again,” he said, teeth grinding.
Tommy took a step back, and the reflection’s head instantly snapped at him. Blank expression was washed over with fury. Tommy has never known his face even could produce such a deep expression of disgust.
“You forgot,” the reflection opened its lips. The voice sounds exactly like Tommy, but with a strong tone of accuse, “So I will remind you.”
Tommy was running.
He was alone in the empty forest yet he was running from the invisible danger. His body was radiating heat, cold air struggling to cool it down. Tommy didn't to dodge the low branches, and they left short sharp cuts on his arm and face. He didn’t feel it. If Tommy twisted his ankle right now, he wouldn’t notice that under the tide of adrenaline. He ran and ran, ignoring ache in his lungs and in his side.
Wilbur has lost it.
Wilbur wants to blow up L’manburg.
Tommy’s thoughts haunted him, and he didn’t stop moving, as if it was possible to run away from his own mind. He was concentrated too much on making his limbs move to notice when the scattering of trees abruptly shifted into a lake shore. Tommy failed to halt in time and fell into the water, head first.
He managed to turn mid-air at the last moment. His elbow hit a rocky bottom of shallow waters, clothes and hair instantly soaking wet. Someone’s hand gripped a handle of his shirt and yanked him up. Tommy let out a surprised yelp as he was pulled back to the shore. A face, reddened and sweating, knelled above him.
“Are you-?” Wilbur breathed in sharply, “You alright?”
Tommy’s body flashed with rage. He rolled on the ground, and next moment he’s was his legs again, backing away from the man. Wilbur took a step forward, brows furrowed in concern.
“Don’t – “Tommy hissed, “don’t pretend you care.”
Wilbur stopped. His eyes widened, brows falling sorrowful. That’s unfair of him to say it, Tommy realized. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t chase him all the way here from Pogtopia, wouldn’t bother with asking if he’s okay. Wilbur looked so hurt the immediate remorse engulfed Tommy’s anger and made his heart wrench. He drew into himself and looked away.
“I didn’t mean it.”
He saw, in the corner of his eye, Wilbur’s head shaking slightly.
“I understand.”
Tommy raised his head, “You do?”
Instead of an answer, however, Wilbur sat down on the gravel, back leaning against a rock. He gestured near himself, suggesting Tommy to join him. He usually preferred to walk while talking to somebody, but the adrenaline burned out, leaving him with the tiredness gradually catching up. Additionally, wet clothes burned his skin with cold. As they sat together like that, in silence, Tommy listened to Wilbur’s wavering breath and wondered if he has changed his mind. The whole idea of blowing up L’manburg – it still didn’t feel quite real. A month ago, Tommy would find such an idea absurd. How could Wilbur, who raised the nation from the delicate seeds, who slept with the dreams of making it independent and strong, who lovingly and proudly called L’manburg his greatest symphony, think of destroying it?
You answered the question yourself, a mocking voice in his head suggested. A month ago, he still had his L’manburg, and you two weren’t banished to live in misery and shadows of your own failure.
“Do you seriously want to do that, Wil?” he asked quietly.
Wilbur looked into the distance. Tommy followed his stare and found nothing but still surface of the lake, fluttering under the soft wind. It made him remember the lake around the Camarvan, the one that saved them from the explosions when L’manburg blew up. Tommy wondered if Wilbur’ was seeing that memory, too.
Wilbur turned to face Tommy. His vision became clear, and expression shifted into one of familiar determination, the one he wore so often during the war and during the elections, expect this time, there was a strange light, deep in his eyes. Gleaming and flashing lit fuse.
“I haven’t been not sure about a lot of things recently, but, destroying L’manburg – I want to do it, Tommy. I need to.”
Shivers ran down Tommy’s spine.
“I just… I don’t recognize you anymore, Wil. It’s like you have been replaced, “Tommy feels Wilbur stiffen by their touching shoulders, “Whatever is happening in your head right now, it’s just not you.”
Wilbur fell silent for a few moments, processing the information.
“I am still Wilbur,” he said, “Maybe I’m not quite the same as before, but the life’s been harsh on both of us lately.”
“Then talk to me, Wil.”
Tommy unintentionally raised his voice. He shoved himself from the tree and stood up in front of Wilbur. Wil, who had been avoiding his gaze, had no choice but to raise his head and look Tommy in the face. A pair of determined blue eyes met the hesitant brown ones. Tommy’s chest quivered at the painful realization of how exhausted Wilbur looked.
“I want to help you,” Tommy said, offering him a hand. “I promise we will get through this. Together."
The treetop casted a long shadow over Wilbur. While Tommy stood high, submerged in moonlight, the man was almost one with the darkness. They both have been frozen like that for another minute before Wilbur finally shifted from the ground and grabbed his hand. The shadows shed from Wilbur with great reluctance. By the moment Tommy managed to pull Wilbur up, a dense grey cloud engulfed the moon, and the whole world fell dark.
“I will think of it,” Wilbur said and then immediately jerked his fingers away, “your hand’s cold.”
Tommy frowned, “Of course I am cold, I fell into a lake.”
“Because you are an idiot who doesn’t watch where he is going.”
Tommy gave him an angry look. Wilbur grinned in response. The warning light in his eyes disappeared, and he finally felt the tension between them dissolve.
“Let’s go back,” Wilbur said.
Tommy nodded and proceeded back into the forest. A chilly wind flew through the trees. His whole body had started feeling numb from the cold. Great. Tommy has some spare clothes in Pogtopia, but they don’t exactly have a shower with hot water to warm up himself upon the arrival.
Something touched his back. Tommy looked around and met Wilbur’s gaze. His brother was missing the trench coat, the clothing now resting on younger’s shoulders. Warmth started spreading from where the thick fabric touched his skin. Tommy immediately wrapped himself even further, hiding the satisfied grin as Wilbur chuckled, “You owe me one.”
“You wish,” Tommy grumped.
Ten minutes upon wearing the coat, Tommy started to understand why Wil had refused to put the thing off. He was already thinking of the plan on how to steal it later, but, when they arrived into the ravine, and Tommy held out the clothing to Wilbur, the man waved him off.
“I have several. You can keep this one,” he said, a kettle in hand, “change your clothes and come, I will make some hot chocolate.”
They spent another few hours like that, drinking hot chocolate and joking around. Wilbur grabbed the guitar, Tommy sang purposefully awfully just to piss him off. He was finally put at ease.
The story isn’t over, not yet and not like that, and he knew it. They still can – and will – get L’manburg back. Wilbur has surrendered early on, and wants Tommy to do it as well. He wanted to remind Wil of the last time they’ve decided to give up. Tommy couldn’t bare the idea of defeat and challenged Dream for a duel. He almost got killed, he gave up both of his discs, but they won. If they could evade surrendering that time, they can do it now, too.
Tommy will not give up, neither on L’manburg or Wilbur.
The world around turned blurry, his senses merging in one ash-grey mess. Tommy blinked rapidly and massaged his eyes with his palms. It didn’t work. Something poked deep into his neck. Air got stuck in the throat and refused to go either way. Tommy raised his hand to undo the clasp of the cloak. The moment it slipped from his wings and shoulders down on the floor, his surroundings came back in place. The base was normal, the reflection was normal, the only thing messed up was Tommy himself. His muscles ached like he had walked miles with no rest, skin cold yet sticky with sweat. The smell of hot chocolate tickled his nostrils with sweet undertones, floating in the air strong and dense, yet not enough to fully suppress the pungent odor of pine oil. Tommy found himself slightly shivering, even though the base was kept warm, and if he listened close enough, he could catch the close hissing of a flame as it greedily munched on firewood.
Tommy never left the base physically, but all of his senses but vision insisted he was in Pogtopia, during the very start of Wilbur’s insanity. He could close his eyes and let himself slip back into the memory. Tommy could pretend that Wilbur, even though struggling, was still alive, and everything never really went downhill, and it was just him and his brother, a campfire song and warmth of a cup in his hands. He has gotten snapped into his memories every now and then, but never had the flashbacks been so peaceful and warm and accurate all at the same time. The reality seemed so wrong, now, in the same way the cloak has felt on his shoulders.
Tommy took a step back and tripped over his own feet.
Back of his head got slammed into the glass panel with a loud thud. Color circles sparkled in front of his eyes as Tommy let out a cry of surprise. The pain startled the last remains of the memory to fade away, sounds and smells and images all dissolving in the air as if they never existed in the first place. His chest, full of warmth and happiness mere minutes ago was now left hollow with nothing but disappointment to refill it.
Tommy slipped down the wall. The sharply lighted chunks of empty space around him sent sharps spikes onto his skin; too slow to cause any real damage, but thin enough to make every touch uncomfortable. Tommy felt the urge to crawl inside the relative darkness of his room, yet dozens of meters of floor separating him and the door felt like the hardest challenge in his life, so he had stayed where he sat and hugged his knees so he could hide his face from the light better.
The reality caught up on Tommy, harsh and at once.
Wilbur is dead.
For quite a long time already.
Tommy’s mind found it useful – or fun, he couldn’t ask – to forget this fact every now and then. It was sure to correct itself, though, usually when he enjoyed anything just a bit too much, sometimes in the form of something outside of Tommy’s head, like with the reflection.
He’d be lying if he said he was over Wilbur’s death. Sadness dissolves in the flow of time. Guilt, however, could last for years, taunting your days and nights along. The hallucinations he saw, particularly the one that decided to show up today, are nothing but a reminder of his unfulfilled duty to his brother.
You didn’t keep your promise.
When Wilbur died, not by the hands of his father, but when the real Wilbur still stood on the edge of sanity and Tommy dashed to catch his falling body, his fingers grasped nothing but air and dancing flakes of ash and soot. The guilt of it didn’t come as he saw the bloodied body and dull eyes nor as a shovel pierced the dirt in the place of a future grave. If somebody were to ask Tommy who he was digging the hole for, he would shrug his shoulders, annoyed. Not for his brother, of course! Wil is well and alright, he would say, and then point at a tall figure in a sun-bright yellow sweater and the trademark beanie on top of the fluffy hair. Well, no, he actually wouldn't because Wilbur was so shy these days, he disappeared whenever Tommy wasn’t alone. He didn’t feel the guilt because his brother was here, and they were together. It was only later that Tommy started realizing this Wilbur was not real, and, in fact, it is the very first one of his soon-to-be-normal hallucinations. He came to terms with that, too, as it meant he didn’t leave his brother or his memory behind.
We will get through this together.
The time he actually did break his promise was during the Doomsday. With every piece of the country going up in fire and explosions, a part of Wilbur died too. Dragged away by someone’s steady hand, Tommy was forced to watch the execution of the Camarvan. When they noticed the fire on the L’mantree, it was too far gone. The rain was merciful for leaving an ugly smoking corpse for him to mourn over. Light pouring quickly turned into an aggressive thunderstorm. Tommy wasn’t alone this time, yet he caught the bright dot of a lonely figure sitting on a cliff overlooking the crater. Each drop of water on his skin was followed by quiet hissing. By the time Tommy reached Wilbur, he had already melted, leaving nothing but a dull blue crystal behind.
I will not leave you behind.
And here they were again, Tommy betraying his brother once more. He had promised they would be together, yet he almost gave up on the very last thing connecting him with Wilbur – the coat. His consciousness’ reaction on the cloak suddenly made much more sense, and the absence of familiar weight on his shoulders made his back shake painfully. Tommy pulled himself back up, breathing sharply. As soon as he made it to his room, he grabbed the coat and wrapped it around himself, nose buried in the fabric. It smelled like ash, hot chocolate and pane oil, but it also smelled like Wilbur.
It hurt endlessly to think this is the closest he will get to seeing his brother again.
***
The twilight had already fallen upon the world, and Sam probably wouldn’t notice a feather if he hadn’t stepped directly on it, effectively snapping it in half. Now, Sam was not an ornithologist in the slightest, but he had been living in this area for long enough to mesmerize the majority of the birds around, and none of them could physically leave a feather the length of his hand. Tommy’s feathers Sam had occasionally found around the base were close enough, but they were gold-colored, white sometimes, and never the dark shade of grey this one had.
The feather had to be Phil’s, then.
What the winged man could possibly forget here, he didn’t know, but the thought of him being anywhere near Tommy made Sam’s fists clench. The last encounter between Tommy and Phil was far from a pleasant one. When Sam saw Tommy literally dropping down, that horrified helplessness on his face, his only instinct was to protect. He had kicked out both intruders and did his best to help Tommy calm down. It seemed to work, but the incident had shaken up the boy noticeably. He didn’t joke as much, stayed in his room most of the time, didn’t engage in conversations. Sam was conflicted between trying to get Tommy to talk and help relieve whatever thing that was bothering him, and staying away, letting him come back to his usual self to avoid any further damage.
One other thing that had been bothering him was Tommy’s wings. He was very careful with hiding them both inside and outside the base. Letting Sam get a glimpse of the golden feathers right after the panic attack was a sign of a great trust on Tommy’s behalf. Sam valued it a lot, but couldn’t help but notice how unnaturally disproportional the wings had looked. Quackity, a duck, wouldn’t be able to shove the limbs under clothes like that, let alone Phil. A clear pained grimace appeared on Tommy’s face when he had put the brown coat back the next day. That was how Sam decided to search around for a tailor to make a cloak for him to wear instead.
The clothing had finally been ready, and he was going to gift it to Tommy today, until the feather distracted him just dozens of meters away from the base. Sam frowned and checked his communicator. There were no messages on the alarm setting off, however, he did get two new texts from Tommy.
Tommyinnit: went on a walk
Tommyinnit: will be back soon
They had been sent less than ten minutes ago, so Sam had some time for a quick check. He had left the chest with the gift for Tommy in his room, but left a note just in case Sam would return earlier than him.
Now, there had been a possibility that the feather was left here from Phil’s first visit, days prior, but Sam wasn’t going to risk it, especially when he didn’t know the man’s intentions. So he went to the basement, grabbed Fran, and minutes later the wolf had been carefully sniffing the damaged feather in his hand.
There was a chance there wouldn’t be any traces at all since Phil might have just taken off into the air from the very spot Sam had found the feather at, but Fran suddenly let out a short growl. She had clearly recognized the smell as one of an enemies. Sam smirked with satisfaction but didn’t pet Fran so she wouldn’t get distracted.
Soon enough, the wolf took off trotting, following an invisible trail. The sky turned a shade darker each following second, and it went completely dark once they got into the forest, under the shadow of the leaves. As soon as Sam put his goggles on, the world around raised with light and color, albeit a bit duller than during the real day. Night vision’s much more practical than carrying around a lamp or a torch.
Soon, however, Fran had stopped in her tracks just mere meters before a small clearing inside the forest. The wolf kept circling around that one area as she tried to get back on the lost trail.
“It’s alright, Fran. I think he must have taken off somewhere around here,” Sam scrubbed her neck, “You can sit for now.”
Sam looked around, but had found no evidences of Phil’s presence. It still wasn’t clear how fresh the trail was and whether they had anything to be worried about. Perhaps he needs to contact Phil and ask him directly. And, depending on the answer, officially prohibit him and Techno from coming into this area again. Honestly, considering all the history between these two and Tommy, he should have done this a while ago.
For now, though, it is really getting late. Tommy had probably already returned to the base and is waiting for dinner. Sam whistled for Fran, and they went back with a steady pace, his hand on the wolf’s nape.
At some point, Sam had felt Fran stiffen. She suddenly dropped her head down, the muzzle buried in grass and ground. A long plaintive whine left her throat.
“Fran, what is it?” Sam asked, concerned.
Instead of an answer, however, Fran took off running. Sam jerked after her, wondering if she caught Phil’s smell again. They didn’t have to go too far this time. Fran took a sharp turn few feet before the tall hedge surrounding Thickatron, Ponk’s giant tree. She ran past the entrance, directly to the bottom of the structure, voice constantly shifting from panicked barks to quite whines and vice versa.
Sam stopped before her, snapping his head up.
He didn’t expect to instantly find the winged silhouette on top of the tree. Phil wasn’t exactly hiding, his blurry figure sitting still, legs hanging down from the edge. Sam was confused, to the very least. Is this a strange invitation for a talk? But why not nave a conversation on the ground and not a good dozens of meters in the air?
Fran quitted her distressed circling and let out a long howl. Then another one, following right after.
The silhouette shifted rather sharply. Huh, maybe Phil didn’t even notice them before Fran’s signal. The man folded his wings, figure suddenly very small and thin. It was hard to tell from this height, but Sam assumed Phil’s looking right at him.
Then his communicator buzzled.
Sam took the thing out of his pocket and turned it on.
Tommyinnit: don’t freak out big man