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He expected it all to be different. Of course, expectations never really fit reality, but Tommy didn't have a frame of reference.
Well. Arguably, he should have. He'd died twice now, pretty shit luck on his part. But that was somehow a more morbid experience then the big 'D' Death, you know? The first two times it happened, it wasn't anywhere close to the poetic phrases of 'falling asleep'. Death was like being hit over the head with a heavy metal chair. Death was like tripping down the stairs. You tumble, it hurts, you're confused and screaming, but you can't stop. There's no up, no down, just space.
Just you.
And then it all stops. You wake up, you move on, feeling a part of you having been gone. Like you suddenly lost a weight around your chest, but instead of straightening your spine or lifting your shoulders, it dragged you closer to the dirt.
That was his normal. That was Tommy's only experience he could fall back on for what the last death would be like. It had it's similarities, no doubt. Taking a physical beating feels a lot like death. Because Tommy knows that crack and snap that shudders him is his ribs, and the slick tacky substance coating his neck, pouring from his nose, is blood. In that way, it's like death.
But instead of the continued tumble, of being wrapped up in ropes and thrown down a hill, it's like the cliche's. And he'd hoped it would be, so some entity out there must have mercy. Pain, aches, it all slides from him in shallow gasps. It'd be quicker, he assumes, if Dream wasn't taking his sweet time kicking him in the gut, but it isn't unlike falling asleep in a warm bath.
The first thing to go is his touch, feeling. There's no ground beneath his feet, no hand in his hair, no painful tugs. It's the first act of mercy he's felt in awhile. Then it's hearing. There's no noise anyway, not any Tommy'd want to hear. Sounds of wet thuds and breaking bones muffle, shriveling away. It reminds him of hot summers in L'manburg, when the cicadas buzz was so loud, he thought he'd never hear anything but their white noise.
Then goes his vision. Black funnel, how fitting. It's slower, painfully slower, but it digs and claws through his vision till he could only see a mere prick of light in the distance, the shining glimmer of bright purple against obsidian black. It's beautiful, really. Tommy doesn't like to admit it, but he truly admires a lot of the beauty of this world, even with it's hardships. Exile had taught him that you had to find the silver lining, even in the worst situation. It's not easy, but Tommy had time. Time to watch the coast lap at the sands, the sun shimmering across the surface of the water, mirroring the sky.
It became a habit. And, he supposes, he took it to his death, because even in the last moments he can't help but wonder if Tubbo would want a picture of it. The way the violet groove of stone split off into smaller and smaller creeks, dripping with slow pace. It shines that maroon color that he loves so much. It even matches the compass with it's similar glow.
That's easy to focus on. Even in the growing darkness, the dulling of life, the violent shaking of his skull back and forth, forward and back, impacting against a wall he knows is splattered with blood-- He can focus on the tears of something else. Something better.
Then it all slips out of his hands, sand tumbling from between his fingers. Blankets of darkness swoop around his shoulders and hold him tight. It's a hug. It's warmth, love, rest.
Fuck. It's rest.
After that, it takes a few moments to regain his bearings, mostly because he didn't realize he had bearings to regain. Again, sort of new to the death thing. Slow, inchingly slow, the senses come back to him like old friends.
And he hears the gentle rumbling of passing people in a busy crosswalk, the shudder of rails. Metal against metal screeching, slowing, and stopping. Mumbling, murmuring, like speaking underwater, and then it all starts again. It's not repetitive, it's all at strange intervals and after long pauses of time. Not like a recording but, as if he wasn't dead, not in the Dream SMP at all, but rather at a more busy server.
A tug in his gut reminds him of very early days when he'd hop around Hypixel and Hive, Tubbo or Purpled in pursuit as he weaved through the crowds.
So, when Tommy's sure he has them, he opens his eyes.
It's a station. Or a tube line, he supposes. A large, gaping empty space shows the tracks of a railroad disappearing to his right and left, the space waiting with bated breath for the next tram to arrive. He's standing, just far enough from the edge to feel comfortable, but close enough to feel like he's supposed to be in line for something.
His hand presses tentative against his chest. Cold, solid, but no thumbing beat. There's no life left within, no rushing blood or working organs.
Tommy's hand rockets back to his side with a shuddering breath, that's a little too freaky for him to confront right now. He feels rather warm, though. Not internally, but the brush of his skin feels like he's in a heated space. His clothes aren't tattered or worn, in fact, they're clean-- cleanest they've been in awhile. He balls the soft cotton fabric of his long sleeve into his palm, squeezing it to ground himself.
He brushes his hand back and feels something rather... new. Well, not new-- old- but unexpected. His hair is cut clean, trimmed back to exactly how he liked it. Tommy hadn't ever gotten the time to cut it after exile-- he's-he's not exactly sure why he didn't cut it earlier but it felt like it was the last familiar part of himself.
It does... feel better to have it gone though. His fingers rake through the back cut and thumb the green handkerchief around his neck, just hiding a thin straw string. He pulls it, and a compass emerges from his shirt. The needle spins, twisting and turning in it's steel casing, no real direction to point towards.
His fingers tense, that's a good sign then. Tubbo is still alive. He used to watch the needle, just to see it move when Tubbo was nearby, show him that his friend even still cared to visit him.
Now, he thinks if he saw the needle slow to a stop and point, he'd break down in sobs.
Tommy tucks the compass back into his shirt and pats down his pockets one last time, just to check if anything else was with him. In death or, whatever the hell this is. His cargo pants reveal no other bits, only a lazily stitched L'manburg flag into the bottom pocket of his pants.
He hums. Wil would approve.
The air around him tenses, that same metal screech shaking down the tracks. He can hear it from miles away, and he must not be the only one, because a swarm of shadowy forms step up beside him, stepping down the entry way stairs and exiting from bathrooms, lining up with nondescript faces, lacking facial structure.
"Fuckin'.... creepy." Tommy grumbles, crossing his arms and tightening in on himself as he feels the weird shadowy figures pool in around and behind him. They're cold, too cold, like him. He wishes they just looked like fucking people, but he guesses that's not a possibility in this freak tube station.
The oncoming tram is a blessing, it's shrieking metal coming to a slow and stop, the windows and doors to the tram stopping before him with a squeal of resting machinery. Over his head, a polite voice relays information, naming places Tommy's never been and times that don't make sense. But she sounds... comforting all the same. At least there must be someone else in this weird place if there's a voice.
The doors to the tram slide open, and the bodies begin moving into the tram, filing in. Tommy doesn't even question it, sensing he has little choice but to move forward, and steps over the gap into the tram. He keeps his eyes downcast, not wanting to look at the weird people any longer. Their press of cold dead skin against his grows more and more unbearable, sickening, stuffy-- And then as soon as it comes, it fades away as he squeezes past a larger form and into a carriage further back. Despite the swarming amount of people, there's barely anyone else on the tram, more and more room going further and further back.
Glancing the way he came, he can't even tell where the carriages end or where a conductor would be. He didn't see one when it sped by, too preoccupied with the uncomfortableness of sudden presences around him.
He takes a deep breath and holds himself a little tighter. Then he turns on his heel, thinking to maybe take a seat somewhere and go from there, when Tommy comes to the quick conclusion that someone is staring back. Someone not a dark shady figure of misanthropic being, but a solid person, with the longest brown duster coat he'd ever seen.
"Hello?" Tommy breathes out, voice small, quiet, tense. His knuckle grip on his arms feels cold and colder still.
Wilbur stares at him, emotion hooded behind his gaze but still analytical in the way he composes a situation.
"You won." He says after a long pause, one hand holding onto a handle dangling from the tram's ceiling and the other shoved in his coat pocket. His guitar case is even swung over his shoulder, because it seems like even in death, Wil can't go anywhere without his instruments. But he doesn't seem happy. Not as happy as Tommy would wish he'd be for seeing him again. It should be expected, he wasn't exactly courteous the last time they talked. But, Tommy should learn that things go differently then how he guesses they should.
"What do you mean-- Wh-where are we?"
"You won. Why are you here?" Wilbur doubles down on his statement, taking one step towards the other with near fury in his eyes.
"I-I don't know what you mean!"
"You got the discs, yeah?" He grits out, letting go of the handle to run a terse hand through his hair, "You got the discs, you peacefully arrested Dream, he's in prison. You won," Wilbur jabs a finger in his direction, "You fucking did it, okay? You made it, you finished your symphony, why are you here?"
"I wasn't done."
"What, you wanted to bring me back? Is that what this is? You're using this as some sort of trade off for my life? Wasting your potential? Phil always told me I just couldn't win but this takes the fuckin' cake, Tommy--"
"I wasn't done." Tommy juts in, gnawing on his lip, "I wasn't done... Done with this, done with Dream. I-I didn't-- try and bring you back I knew you didn't want to but I-I kept him around anyway. For Tubbo."
Wilbur's eyebrows crease, "Tubbo's not dead. I haven't seen him. Not even once."
"But in case he did, Wil! Things haven't-- It-It didn't get all better after you left." He lets out a shuddering breath, "There's this fuckin' egg and I think Techno isn't done with L'manburg, isn't done with Tubbo I-I needed that book. I needed it. Just in case." He grips the front of his hair and smooths it across his forehead.
"I know that. That's what you told me last time we spoke." Wil huffs, shoulders drooping.
"I needed Dream for that. But I-I wasn't ready to face him and in the end, I-I don't think he even had a book! So when I went to visit him it was the last time," His jaw sets, fists clenched, "It was going to be the last time. I was gonna leave, Wil, I was gonna go home."
The sudden furious energy that'd been radiating off his brother like flames extinguishes in seconds, leaving behind gentle smoke in the realization that Tommy was... he was about to fucking cry--
Wilbur feels his stomach settle uneasily, lips curling down in distaste.
"Tommy... What the hell happened then?"
"I don't know!" He chokes out, "I don't know. There was an explosion somewhere when I was visiting the prison and," Tommy swallows hard around the bile in his throat, good to know that shit still sticks around after you die, "Sam had to lock it all down. Find the security threat before he could let me out and I was stuck--I was stuck in there with him Wil. Again. Just-Just like exile."
"And then Sam left and-and he just didn't come back. I don't know how long I was there I-- I thought it was 19 days, I counted 19 days, but Sam said it wasn't even close to that. It could've been less but... Maybe it was so much more. Just me and him in that shitty, shitty fucking box--"
"You know how I am, you-you know how I get and one day me and Dream argued and he... he snapped. He lost it."
"He didn't have a weapon, did he?" Wil asks with veiled alarm.
"No. He did it with... with his fists alone."
A thin pull of air cuts through the air, Wilbur being thoroughly shaken. That... that was rough. Hell, rough was an understatement. It makes more sense now, that when Wilbur can turn his head right, he sees vague imprints of a bruise under his eye, blood dripping from his skull.
He hums, thoughtful, pale eyes watching Tommy shiver.
"I was gonna go home... I had-had plans...I had a hotel, did you know I had a hotel? I left Sam Nook there... who's gonna take care of him? Sam better not forget he's there... Oh god... Tubbo--" Tommy whimpers, rolling his lip between his teeth. Hot tears sting his eyes, and he desperately rubs at them with the heel of his palm, taking in short wet breaths.
"I'm okay, I'm okay-- I-I--"
Wilbur lets out a soft sigh, seemingly defeated. He sets down his guitar case carefully on the basic plush seats of the tram and tugs off his coat. With steps and a long stride, he towers an inch or two over the boy and flutters the coat outwards and around Tommy's shoulders, pulling it tight to him.
"Arms out." He says, voice low. Tommy complies with not much complaint, sliding his arms into each of the sleeves and letting Wilbur adjust it, curling down the collar so it doesn't poke at his cheeks. Tommy's glad he's dead, or his face would burn with embarrassment. He's not a kid anymore, he doesn't need people's help putting on clothes or anything.
It's not like he says that out loud though.
Then, with a huff, Wilbur sits down on one of the seats and pulls Tommy with him, situating him on the seat beside him.
"You were proud of me." Tommy hiccups, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding them in the coat too.
"Hm?"
"You were proud of me, for stopping Dream peacefully. And then... then I died because I did."
Wilbur purses his lips, thinking hard, "I know. I-Alright, it could've gone better. Probably should've killed him as soon as I said I didn't want to come back. Bit shit, I'll be honest. But you still managed to do it all peacefully. You know, you did what I couldn't, you brought an end to a war. You stopped Dream. Maybe he took you out, but that's, you know, details. In the grand scheme of things, you still probably helped save the entire server. Brought everyone peace n' all that."
"But you were proud of me." Tommy pushes, driving the word 'were' home.
Wilbur sighs, "I wasn't proud because... you got him or anything, I mean, I'm sure it's possible a lot of people could've. I'm proud because you were some," A snarky grin spreads across his face and he leans across to mussy up Tommy's hair, much to Tommy's chagrin, "Some punk runt with anger issues when I first met you. Then you managed to end Dream's reign without killing anyone. I'm proud of you because of the growth you made, not because of whatever grand deeds you did."
"God knows, it doesn't seem like good deeds make a good man anymore. Not usually, at least." Wilbur frowns.
Tommy pushes off Wilbur's hand, leaning back into his shoulder as he hears the train start to rumble and wheeze, signaling the start of another travel onwards, "But you are proud. Of me?"
There's a long pause, the two of them listening to the woman over the speaker list out more names and titles, just cutting through the chug of wheels against rail.
"Yeah, Tommy." Wilbur answers after a moment, "I think I might've always been."
The tram bustles on, the low amount of people in their carriage now reclining against chairs or standing, holding one of the handles or poles for stability as it rumbles. Station platforms disappear from the window's view, deep maroon turning black. They're in the tunnel, lights whizzing by the window at picked up speed.
"D'you know where this tram goes?" Tommy asks, pressing his cheek to the glass. It's the calmest he's felt in awhile, knowing there's not much left to do. Not in a tram, not when you're travelling. They were already going towards a destination, all he had to do was wait till he arrived.
Wilbur shrugs, leaning back and stretching before clasping his hands behind his head, "Dunno. Tram only stops to pick up passengers. I'm assuming I'll know my stop when I get there."
"Aren't you worried of missing it?"
"Lighten up, Toms," He chides playfully, glancing to the boy curled up in his side, "We've got nothing but time. We can keep going for however long we want. If we miss the stop, we can just wait till it goes back around. Not like we're wasting money in the goddamn afterlife."
"And when we reach our stop, what happens then?"
Wilbur chuckles, "You can never take things as they are, huh? Gotta keep asking questions. For once, Tommy, it's... out of our hands now. We'll stop when we stop. We're depart when we depart. There's nowhere to be, Toms, no wars to fight or people to find."
Tommy looks anxiously out the window, finger digging into the bed of his nail as an anxious habit, still hunched over. Wilbur probably should've expected this. Tommy was a wound up kid for sure.
"How about this," Wil sighs, dragging his guitar case closer and unzipping the side. Simone, bless her, is shiny and new, with fresh string and polish, "You rest for a bit, get some shut eye or somethin', and I'll play us some music to pass the time. I'll even stay awake, let you know if I hear a stop that sounds like us." He plucks at a string or two, turning the pegs at the top as the instruments purrs back correct tunes after slight modification.
"Promise?" Tommy looks away from the window, finally, and his eyes glimmer at the sight of the guitar. It's been too long since he heard Wilbur sing.
"Promise. Can't exactly fall asleep while playing, yeah?"
"Yeah," He agrees with a breath, leaning his cheek into the other's shoulder and hugging his knees closer, "Okay. Just a bit."
Wilbur 1, Tommy 0, he remarks internally with a snicker.
"... city line and national rail services." The voice calls.
Noisy bumps in the track soon smooth to a restful hum in the background, satisfying and quiet. Others on the train don't even seem to notice Wilbur's presence, but he already knew that. They were good company nonetheless, ears to hear. People to listen, or souls, whatever they were.
Chords ring loud, reverberating through the carriage with magnified sound. Tommy can feel it in his chest, being so close to it.
His eyelids droop. Wilbur's cold but it's still him. It's still his crooked grin as he argues with the strings, strums quiet tunes, sings low and under his breath.
"I missed you." Tommy says.
The chords slow, stutter, but don't stop, as Wilbur snorts not unkindly. In a way, Tommy's sort of the best and worst person to be here, on a train that never reaches a destination. But either way he sees it, Wilbur can't find himself regretting it, regretting seeing him again. He didn't want this for him, of course. Tommy had lived, he deserved to live a long life, happy, full of friends.
But that's not an option now, not a serious one at least. And they can only move forward, the tram never goes back. It goes back around, eventually, sure-- but it never goes back. And, well. At least Tommy's here. And at least Wilbur's here with him, so neither of them have to be alone.
"Yeah," He admits, "I missed you too."