Archive of Our Own

.I.

Wilbur Soot dies throwing an egg into a black hole.

It’s kinda funny, really.

Yeah, sure, maybe Tommy had screamed himself hoarse with horror when Wilbur stumbled irreparably into the Black Hole’s suction; in retrospect, though, the way his face fucking stretched out as he struggled and his voice warped as he fell and his body just, just, just -

Hilarious. Or it will be, eventually. It’s nightmare fuel right now, but whenever he starts feeling all sad, Tommy squeezes his eyes closed and mentally chants this is funny until he feels - well, then he just feels even worse.

So other times, Tommy plans Wilbur a memorial in his head. He pictures a nice little carved headstone, somewhere in a forest where no one would ever go. Wilbur Soot, it would say, probably a beloved son and teacher. Died being a fucking dumbass. Like, surprisingly stupid for a particle physicist.

Phil might say a few words. Tommy would kick some dirt onto the headstone and think up something witty to send him off. This fucking Charlie fella, whoever he is, would probably cry. A lot. Bitch.

And Wilbur - Wilbur would still be dead.

It’s a work in progress.

He knows the loss he feels is probably a little irrational, due to the fact that they had only been introduced approximately one week ago, but, well - ever since Tommy can remember, he’s had Wilbur.

Things were crazy the first few days, what with the literal Black Hole, proper noun, slowly expanding and threatening to tear apart this foreign world they inhabit and not knowing who the fuck put them here or why. Wilbur had been the one to coax him out of the woods, gotten him to stop threatening them with stab wounds if they got any closer. He’d made sure Tommy knew he and Charlie weren’t a threat, and if that old guy tried to make any moves, well, Tommy wouldn’t be the only one, quote, “doling out a stabbin’.”

Phil turned out to be alright, actually, but there were other things to worry about. Every discovery their group of four made grew the list of dangers and unknowns exponentially longer. There’s a black hole and it’s growing. They’ve got nothing but their own wit and survival skills. None of them have any clue who the fuck they are besides the bare essentials. Hell, Tommy can’t remember anything but how to be a human being and his own fucking name. Sue him, but it’s a little scary, not even knowing how old he is.

Somehow, in the middle of all that, Tommy recognized that something about Wilbur felt safe. Familiar. Tommy clung to him like a fucking beacon while the rest of the world raged an ocean around him, threatening to crash in at any given moment.

Wilbur was in the same boat. He got it. He may have called Tommy a gremlin and threatened his life multiple times, but - he’s the reason Tommy had food to eat, most times, the reason he didn’t get killed by the terrifying undead creatures that roam the night. He was there. That was all Tommy needed.

The days went by and Tommy went with them, Wilbur a reassuring constant through it all. Tommy would say that he cared about the bitch, maybe. He might even go so far as to say Wilbur felt the same.

Now Will’s dead.

So.

Tommy’s fine, don’t get him wrong. Life goes on, dunnit? And it was really kinda funny, the way they lost Wilbur, because if it’s anything but funny Tommy thinks he might fucking drown.

.II.

“Did you at least learn anything from it?” Phil asks.

Charlie clears his throat, shrugs his shoulders. “It sucks in eggs. And people. Don’t get close.”

Phil scoffs. “This helps us how?”

“It doesn’t,” Charlie says. “Obviously.”

Wilbur’s - uh, mishap - is still fresh in their minds. They’ve moved base significantly further away from the singularity, just to feel safer, but all Tommy feels right now is a weird pressure in his chest and uncomfortably thirsty.

“I don’t know what he was even trying to do,” Charlie mutters for what has to be the seventh time in as many hours. “He - it’s so fucking stupid, man.”

Charlie and Wilbur had been colleagues - Doctor Cicle and Professor Soot, respectively, graduates from an alma mater neither could remember. They knew each other well. They knew a lot about the black hole. They ran around like overexcited chipmunks doing “tests” and “experiments,” while Phil and Tommy focused their energy on pure survival.

Tommy supposes the costs were balanced, though his sore muscles and dirty fingernails would beg to differ. Charlie and Wilbur seemed smart. He trusted they knew what they were doing. But really, he thinks, if they were so smart, they’d have followed their instincts and fucking ran as far away from Tommy as possible.

“All I got out of it is, like, what exactly it does to you when you get pulled in.” Charlie thumbs at the pages of his journal, full of various scribbles and theories. “Which doesn’t help, cause if you get close enough to experience spaghettification, you’re already dead.”

Tommy snorts. “That’s not a real word, dumbass.”

Charlie echoes the laugh back, faded. “Hell if I know. I barely remember what language this is.”

“Well, I mean you’re - you aren’t forgetting anything extra, are you?” Phil asks, frowning. “All that physics shit’s still rattling around up there?”

“Yeah, no worries. I think.” Charlie makes a face. “Then again, our strainer brains are hardly reliable.”

Tommy thinks about things he remembers and comes up very short. “Computers” make it on the list, just under “bees” and “women.” He doesn’t think he’s forgetting anything, but like Charlie said, how would he know?

“Look, Charlie.” Phil sits up a little straighter, which means he wants to talk serious. Tommy rolls his eyes and prepares for another boring TED Talk. “I was going to tell you earlier, but - uh - anyway, I found an old looking book in the village back there.” He purses his lips. “I read through it. It said there were other dimensions we could travel to.”

Charlie perks up at that. “What? That’s incredible, where is it?”

“Oh, well, I left it in the village.”

Charlie’s face falls, almost comical. “Phil.”

“No,” Phil explains, “I left it there because I already knew everything it said, mate. I’d have brought it with me if I didn’t.”

Charlie makes a weak gesture. “Still should’ve - goddamn, it’s probably been consumed by now.”

Phil shakes his head. “You’re not listening, Charlie, I already knew what it said. It was only a few pages, just had instructions on how to make the portals to these dimensions, right?”

“Dimensions?” Tommy interrupts. Maybe zoning out was a mistake - they’re saying shit about portals? “What do you mean, dimensions?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Like, alternate timelines?”

“Nah. Whole other worlds, at least two of them. You get to them through portals that you gotta make.”

“Oh, that’s fucking cool,” Charlie breathes.

“The weird part,” Phil continues, “is that I knew how to make them already. I read the name of the place and went, yeah, you need obsidian for that, and ender eyes, and blaze rods -”

“Slow down, grandpa -”

“Don’t call me that.”

“- I gotta write this down.” Charlie fishes for his pencil in his jacket pocket. “You gotta tell me more. Explain the funny words.”

“I’m going to check on the farm,” Tommy groans, standing up and brushing grass off his pants. “Have fun with your nerd shit.”

“Don’t go too far, Tommy.”

Tommy settles for mocking Phil until they’re both out of sight. He ducks behind the farm fence, apathetically pawing at the wheat stalks.

His stomach kinda hurts, now. Not a stinging pain, but more like a cramp - like something’s pulling at him, tugging at his gut. It’s uncomfortable. He must be hungry, but he doesn’t feel like it at all. He just feels tired and confused and more lost than before, which is saying something.

Sighing, Tommy stretches out beside the irrigation ditch, arms folded over his chest, letting the sun beat down on him. He closes his eyes.

It smells like dirt down here, but he likes it. Peace and quiet, or something. Stop and smell the roses. Try and forget about how the world you’re in is probably going to be torn entirely to pieces in a month or two.

The pressure in his chest is getting too much to ignore, anymore. He wonders if he’s coming down with something.

“Tommy,” somebody rasps, far too close to his face for comfort. He snaps his eyes open to see a silhouette blocking out the sun, brown curls hanging down to brush his nose.

Tommy screams and scrambles backwards, crushing a few wheat plots in the process. Phil can kill him for it later if he doesn’t die first.

“What the fuck,” he yells, jerking to his feet, wishing he’d had the sense to bring his knife out of the hut with him this morning.

The man - on closer inspection it is a man, not one of those zombies or nothing - straightens, shaky, arms up in a peace offering. “Tommy, calm down.”

Tommy blinks. The sun’s messing with his head. “Phil,” he calls, then louder, “Phil!”

The ghost-hallucination-corpse of Wilbur Soot winces at him. “Please don’t shout.”

“I’ll cut you,” Tommy warns, legs having trouble keeping him upright. “Whatever you are -”

“It’s me, it’s Wilbur,” says what absolutely cannot be Wilbur, cause Wilbur’s dead. They all saw it happen.

Phil rounds the corner of the house, then, sword unsheathed, Charlie close behind. They both skid to a halt soon after spotting Wilbur, who’s looking from them to Tommy pleadingly.

“What,” Charlie says, “the fuck -”

“I don’t know either,” Wilbur reaches out his hands to no one in particular. “Please, just - let me explain.”

Phil’s fingers twitch around the hilt of his weapon. “Jesus Christ.”

Wilbur Soot laughs, gravelly but alive, and says, “maybe, yeah.”

.III.

“Let me tell you, dude, the event horizon is pure black. Just you and the stars, thousands of ‘em, all laughing at you.”

They’re sitting outside in the light of the sunrise, just the two of them, and all Tommy can think is I am gonna kill Wilbur again with my bare fucking hands.

“When I was there, I felt this, uh, this presence, right? Like someone was watching me. There was this vague human-shaped outline wherever I looked.”

No, no he’s not. He’d never. But he’d love to at least deck him, just once. For being a jerk.

“I tried to talk to whatever the fuck it was, but I couldn’t move. It - it moved towards me, like - looking at me. Through me.”

Death has left its mark on Wilbur. Tommy can see it in the way he holds himself, all tense and pained. He’s overly pale, still, dark bags under his eyes. His voice scrapes against his throat, sounding painful with every inhale. Tommy can’t tear his eyes away from the new grey streak in his hair.

“And it spoke, it sounded like a normal person, and it told me, word for word - you’re not the right one. And I thought, what the fuck does that mean, right?”

Tommy had thought he was never going to see Wilbur again. It’s kinda rude, innit? Letting someone mourn you and shit when you’re not even dead. Tommy wouldn’t wish the whiplash on anyone. Hint hint.

“Then I realized - it’s looking for one of us. Has to be. And it’s not me, so it just spit me back out. Had a hell of a time fighting not to just get sucked right back in, I swear, I - Tommy?”

If Wilbur had a grave, Tommy would absolutely be desecrating it as they speak. He would be doing such heinous things on that fucking tombstone. So much cocaine.

“Tommy,” Wilbur snaps, waving a hand furiously in front of Tommy’s eyes, “are you even fucking listening? Oh, my God, if I’ve wasted the last five minutes -”

“Leave me be,” Tommy splutters back, “I’m tired, you asshole, I barely slept, I was on the grind, I was workin’ hard in the fields ‘till dawn -”

All in all, Tommy supposed he’s just really fucking - what’s the word? Annoyed? Resigned? Relieved, fine - that the past twenty-four hours are over.

He doesn’t think he wants to lose Wilbur again.

“You were very much not,” Wilbur huffs, threading a hand into his hair. “Fuckin’ hell, I spent so long telling you that. Please. What did you retain?”

“Uh.” Tommy frowns. “God called you a pussy.”

Wilbur stares. “Literally the opposite. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that was the devil.”

“Alright, then, the devil called you a -”

“The point,” Wilbur interrupts, “was that there’s something bigger going on here. People don’t - people don’t come back from the dead every day.”

Tommy clicks his jaw closed, then exhales through parted lips. “None of this shit happens every day, I remember that much.”

“Yeah.” Wilbur picks at the grass. “And listen, I - I don’t think we should tell Phil or Charlie what it said.”

“So it’s a secret?” Tommy asks.

“No, it’s -” Wilbur pauses. “It’s just not important.”

“It feels kinda important,” Tommy says. “If it’s the reason we’re here, or something, maybe -”

“Look, I don’t want anyone making rash assumptions,” Wilbur says harshly. “Just keep it to yourself, okay? I - I just had to tell someone.”

Tommy swallows back the sarcastic comment on his tongue at the shadows on Wilbur’s face. “Okay.”

“It’s just odd, is all.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not the right one,” Wilbur mutters. His eyes look older than before. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Tommy curls an arm around his stomach. His heartbeat pulses in his head.

“No idea,” he says.

.IV.

“So, to recap,” Charlie announces, slapping his pencil to the page of his journal. “Selective memory. Black hole getting bigger exponentially. Gravity field, do not approach. Other dimensions - dangerous, but perhaps no black hole, question mark. Devilish presence, question mark. Resurrection, question mark.”

Wilbur breathes out. “Been a hell of a week, huh?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Charlie laughs, eyes drifting to Wilbur like he still can’t quite believe it. “The question is - what do we do now?”

“We need to keep moving,” Tommy says, thinking out loud. “The fucking thing’ll block out the sun, soon.”

“Well,” Charlie says. “It’s not growing that fast.”

Tommy crosses his arms, leg twitching nervously. “I will not be fed to the Beast, Doctor.”

“Please stop calling it that,” Wilbur groans.

“It’s biblically accurate.”

“You’ve never read the fucking thing.”

“Listen,” Phil interrupts before that can get out of hand. “Here’s what I think - we pack up enough shit for a long journey, we get far enough away to be safe, and then we try to make a portal to the first dimension.”

Charlie exhales, long and slow. “I mean, I can’t find fault with that.”

“How do you know this shit, anyway, Phil?” Wilbur asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Phil shrugs. “How do you know you’re a professor? I just woke up with it, mate, I dunno.”

“But the important thing is, you can get it done, right?” Charlie asks.

Phil nods. “I know I can.”

“Great.” Charlie claps his hands together. “Cool. Great.”

“Well, then, I’ll start gathering food,” Wilbur says, slapping his thighs and stretching up to his feet. “Phil, you’re better at baking than me. Perhaps you make some bread, and I’ll go dig up some carrots.”

“I’ll pack up our notes,” Charlie chirps. “This’ll be fun! A roadtrip, whoo boy, that’s what it’s about, babey.”

Tommy shifts awkwardly in his perch on the windowsill, pulling his legs closer to him and staring through the shoddy glass. “Jesus. Are you sure we have time for this?”

“Don’t worry, Tommy,” Charlie says. “We’re safe for a day or two.”

Tommy squints. “You fucking blind or something?”

Charlie frowns. “Huh?”

Tommy points out the window. “It’s fucking huge, Charlie. Takes up most of the horizon.”

“It shouldn’t…” Charlie trails off, hurrying across the floor to join him at the window. “What?”

Wilbur pushes in between them, raising his hand to hover above his eyes. “Oh, God.”

“No, we measured it,” Charlie insists, scrambling to the doorway and out into the yard. Tommy follows him, Phil and Wilbur close behind. “We fucking - we - it shouldn’t be here.”

Sure enough, the Black Hole looms overhead, a rippling mirage taking up half the sky. It’s not close enough to feel the effects yet, but the sight of it alone is enough to make Tommy’s stomach jump into his throat.

“What the fuck,” Wilbur says. He looks rightfully terrified. “What the fuck.”

“It doesn’t look big enough to, to be here -”

“If,” Wilbur says, “if, Charlie, if it isn’t growing at the proper rate to be visible - then -”

“It’s - is it moving?” Phil asks, hands clenched white around the doorframe. “Following us, or something?”

There’s a beat of silence. Tommy can’t fucking breathe.

“Oh, shit,” Charlie whispers. “It’s moving.”

.V.

They’re not fucking fast enough.

Tommy finds it difficult to keep up, stuck just alongside Wilbur. He may have longer legs than Phil or Charlie, but the more he exerts himself, the harder it is to keep pace. Behind them, the Black Hole grows, crunching up the ground and effectively destroying their house. It’s hard to ignore when the very air seems to be turning solid around them, pulling at them like so many invisible strings all yanking backwards at once.

They’d wasted too much time gathering shit, Tommy knew it. He should have spoken up sooner about the Black Hole approaching, but let’s be real, he’s so fucking stupid - he was complacent, he’d gotten secure.

So what if he hadn’t wanted to leave? So what if he - so what - so what if he’d just gotten them all killed? At least they’ll go out together, and the Beast can chew them up or spit them out and maybe it’s what they should’ve done from the start, anyway -

Tommy’s foot slams into an uneven bit of ground. He yelps, stumbles, feels Wilbur grab onto his arm and pull him forward through the force threatening to suck him over backwards.

Ahead of them, Phil runs at a steady pace, looking back frantically to make sure everyone’s still there. “We can outpace it,” he yells, “we can! We just have to keep going, come on!”

Tommy’s lungs burn. Wilbur keeps pulling at him, breaths sounding ragged. All around, the noise of the Black Hole roars. Dirt and stone and trees peel from the ground, flying into its gaping maw with no restraint. Tommy feels rather than sees a branch whip by him, scraping a bloody line into his cheek.

Charlie yells out something to his left, and Tommy jerks his head to look. The doctor is a few considerable meters behind them, the ground under his feet rapidly peeling away. He’s focused, almost robotic, ducking through debris and parkouring oddly well over the traversable parts of the earth.

“Come on, Charlie!” Wilbur shouts. “Come on!”

It all happens slowly, relatively.

It’s nothing like before. Wilbur’s death had been sudden, quick, easily avoidable at that point. They’d shouted, regrouped, and booked it to a safer place to mourn. It was shocking, yes, but clear cut at the very least. This is slow, it settles into them heavily; they all know it’s going to happen minutes before it does. There’s nothing they can do. There’s nothing they can do.

Charlie inevitably stumbles, and the incessant gravity of the Black Hole pulls him further away from them.

Phil shouts encouragement from the front of the pack. Tommy doesn’t think Charlie can even hear him.

Tommy can’t watch the whole thing, focused on his own footfalls and not breaking his fucking ankle, but he hears Charlie’s last exhausted wail like the man was right behind them.

He tries to look behind them, but everything is on autopilot and he can barely think straight.

You’re a fucking murderer.

“No, no! Goddamnit!” Phil screams, but he doesn’t stop.

“Keep going,” Wilbur orders, loud, bright, forcing them ahead.

Tommy feels like throwing up.

He keeps running, instead.

It’s almost like the thing took Charlie as a goddamn sacrifice; after that, the Black Hole grinds to a slower pace. The Earth stays stitched together under them. The pull lessens and lessens until they’re running fully free again.

They only stop when Wilbur wheezes out that he’s literally about to fucking die again and Phil judges the stupid fucking dome far enough away to be safe, for now.

Charlie is, in fact, gone. Thankfully, he hadn’t been carrying anything much too important - Wilbur had the journal with most of the notes - but he had been holding most of their defensive supplies, which means they have to find shelter before nightfall.

Tommy and Wilbur sink to the ground, practically melting as the adrenaline leaves their bodies. Phil hastily pulls together the least effective axe Tommy’s ever seen, tells them they should keep walking, soon, and then goes off a little ways to beat the shit out of a tree.

Wilbur’s shaking when Tommy leans into his side, exhausted. Everything hurts. He’s not a runner, clearly.

“God,” Wilbur says, thin. “He’s gone.”

Tommy bites his lip, still panting. For once, he can’t think of anything to say.

“God, Tommy, I’ve known him - I’ve - oh, God,” Wilbur wheezes, and buries his face in his hands. “He - he has to come back. Fuck, Tommy, he - he can’t be the one, he -”

Guilt builds up to replace the ache in Tommy’s chest, boiling through his throat and out his eyes and nose and mouth until he feels like he’s going to explode. How much of this is his fault? How much more is he going to make them suffer?

“Hypothesis,” Wilbur mutters, desperate. “If Charlie isn’t the one the Beast is looking for, then - then he’ll come back, just like I did.”

Tommy thinks about running when Phil and Wilbur aren’t looking, just going and going again until he can’t outrun it anymore.

Wilbur pulls a trembling arm around his shoulders. They’re both sweaty and breathing hard, but Tommy collapses into the half-hug like he needs it to survive. He buries his face into Wilbur’s neck and tries not to cry out of frustration.

He won’t leave them. He couldn’t. No, he could - the truth is that he just doesn’t want to. The truth is that he’s too selfish to do what he knows he should.

What gives him the fucking right?

“Charlie will come back,” Wilbur whispers into Tommy’s hair. “He has to. Charlie’s going to come back, and everything’ll be fine.”

Tommy nods. His mouth tastes like acid.

And his chest still fucking aches.

.VI.

“This’ll do,” Phil says, finally, after what feels like an entire day of nonstop movement. “Start getting wood for a fire, please.”

That’s the last thing either Wilbur or Tommy wants to do; they don’t want to get overrun by mobs either, though, so they nod and mumble “yessir” and do as they’re instructed.

The place they’ve found is cold. Glaciers coat the ocean, waves gradually chipping off pieces to slam into the rocky beach. Tommy shivers in the chill and wishes he knew how to sew. Wilbur shivers against the wind and doesn’t offer Tommy his coat, the selfish prick.

Their makeshift boat floats weakly among the blue floes, soon to be trapped by the shifting ice. While Phil finishes retrieving their supplies from inside, Tommy and Wilbur wander up into the spruce forest, gathering sticks for a fire. Tommy pops any and all berries they happen to come across directly into his mouth, staining his lips and giving Wilbur an aneurism.

“You have no idea if those are safe to eat,” Wilbur grumbles, trying to slap Tommy’s hand away from looting his seventh berry bush so far.

“Haven’t died yet,” Tommy says, dancing out of reach, “and I’m fucking hungry. Try and stop me, bitch.”

Wilbur does indeed try to stop him, almost dumping his armful of branches in the process.

Tommy yelps, managing to duck and weave around Wilbur and pick away at the bush until he has a handful of red. He pops the entire thing into his mouth before Wilbur can do anything about it. “See? Try me. You won’t.”

It’s incredibly muffled around the berries. Wilbur just stares at him, pained, and says, “whatever. We need to get going, it’s almost dark.”

By the time they get back to the shore, Phil has constructed a makeshift house, complete with a pit for their firewood. He’s also started to cobble together an odd-looking black structure just to the right of it, like a backwards ‘L’.

“Thanks, boys,” Phil sighs once the fire’s decently started. He sits down in front of it, rubbing at his eyes with dirty hands. “Fuck, man. I feel eighty years old.”

“‘Cause you are,” Tommy says.

Phil must not have the energy to fight back. He just laughs and slumps tiredly against the makeshift log bench.

“So, what’s that ominous looking thing back there?” Wilbur asks, pointing to the black stone tower with a half eaten piece of bread.

Phil hums. “Beginnings of a portal. I didn’t have time to get enough back where we were, so I’ll have to do a bit of mining here in the morning. Found a cave not far off.”

Wilbur lights up. “A portal. Which one? The End or the, uh, Neutron -”

“The Nether,” Phill corrects.

“Excellent.”

Tommy wonders vaguely if Wilbur was a mad scientist before all this. He’s certainly got the look for it, all cheekbones and messy hair and a barely controlled wildness in his eyes.

“Oh, and we should find some sort of way to, like, help Charlie find us,” Wilbur says. “When he comes back. We did walk a long way, and we crossed the ocean, and all. He won’t know where we went.”

Phil and Tommy lock eyes across the fire. Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that, really. He wants to believe the same as Wilbur, but -

“Will, mate,” Phil mutters, “are you sure he’s coming back?”

Wilbur smiles. It’s colder than the air around them. “He will. He has to.”

“But how do you know?” Tommy asks. “Like, you - you can’t know -”

“Oh, really,” Wilbur says, sitting up straight to loom over Tommy. “I can’t? Which one of us has been to hell, here?”

He’s got a point. He’s also really much too close for comfort.

“Alright, okay,” Tommy whines, poking Wilbur away until he doesn’t feel so claustrophobic. “Frame it like you and Charlie did, then. Make it all science-y, prove your point, eh?”

“Help us understand,” Phil says. “What are you thinking?”

Wilbur stares into the fire for a worrying amount of time, looking conflicted. The berries in Tommy’s stomach are beginning to rebel.

“If I came back from the dead,” Wilbur starts, slowly.

The fire snaps. Something in the woods screams.

“It told me I wasn’t the right one,” Wilbur says. Phil narrows his eyes but doesn’t interrupt. “If there is a right one -”

Tommy curls a hand into his shirt and bites the inside of his cheek against the sudden surge of nausea.

“If the Beast wants one of us to die in the Black Hole,” Wilbur says, “then three of us won’t die in the Black Hole. That’s my hypothesis.”

Phil sits forward. “You’re telling me it’s looking for one of us? It told you that?”

Wilbur nods. “It did. It told me - before it spat me back out, it told me that I wasn’t the one.” He makes air quotes.

“Wasn’t the one?” Phil echoes. “So, you mean to tell me you knew it was looking for one of us - hell, following one of us, probably - and didn’t tell anyone?”

Wilbur winces, decidedly not looking at Tommy. “I - yes.”

“What the fuck,” Phil says, “Wilbur, we could’ve - we could be sitting safe right now, this whole thing could be over!”

“What, and how would we have done that?” Wilbur asks, throwing up a hand. “Willingly kill one of us just to see what happens? Throw each other into the Black Hole until it sticks, or - or something worse happens? No, I wasn’t - I wasn’t going to start that.”

Phil makes a frustrated noise. “God,” he says, putting his face in his hands.

Tommy doesn’t know what to say. His head is starting to hurt. He closes his eyes and presses the heel of his palm into his forehead.

“So there’s a twenty-five percent chance that Charlie will come back?” Phil asks. “Right?”

Wilbur nods, jerky. “If - if my resurrection wasn’t a, uh, one time thing, yeah.”

Phil exhales. “Okay. I get it. Uh, I can - we could set up a pyre tomorrow, send up smoke. He’d be able to see it from a good ways away.”

“Okay, Phil.”

“Yeah. Hey, Tommy, you good?”

Tommy snaps his eyes open. “Fine,” he says. “Incredibly tired, though.”

“You and me both,” Phil says.

Wilbur yawns and stretches out his arms. “We turning in, then?”

Phil nods, gesturing to the fire. “I’ll put this out. Save me a spot by the door.”

Tommy lurches up, booking it for the shleter before anyone else can get there first - “I call whatever surface is the most comfortable -” but in the end, they’re all very uncomfortably sprawled on the floor, cause it’s a fucking rock beach and they had not had the luxury of bringing along mattresses.

Tommy curls into a ball with Wilbur’s back pressed to his and spends the night having dreams he can’t remember, save for feeling weightless and a pain in his ribs. When he wakes up, he’s so cold that he can’t feel much of anything at all.

Phil finishes the portal the next morning.

It’s obsidian, he says, strongest thing this side of the Earth’s crust. He holds a glorified lighter in his hand, all armored up and ready to go, and wasting valuable time arguing with Wilbur.

“Since I’m the one who knows what’s going on,” Phil says, “I should be the one to go.”

Wilbur scoffs. “Bullshit, you can’t just open a portal to another fucking dimension and not let me see!”

“It’s dangerous, Will,” Phil counters. “I don’t want you getting hurt. It’s - it’s hell on Earth, mate.”

Wilbur grumbles under his breath.

Phil ignores him. “Someone’s gotta tend the fire, anyway, keep it burning for Charlie, and I’m not leaving Tommy here alone -”

“Ay, why not?” Tommy interjects, crossing his arms. “I can handle me-self.”

Wilbur and Phil blow right by that, rolling their eyes in a weird unison. Tommy would laugh if he weren’t so offended.

“Please, Phil, can we just look?” Wilbur clasps his hands under his chin. “Just a few minutes. Please. Please.”

Phil sighs, gaze drifting across the tundra for a few seconds. Tommy waits with bated breath.

“Fine,” Phil says. “Just a few minutes. And do not touch anything.”

Wilbur cheers. Tommy does too, but he can’t stop his gaze from drifting over to the horizon. There’s no sign of Charlie or anyone else - or the Black Hole.

Maybe Charlie had been the one, he thinks stupidly, selfishly. Maybe they’re safe.

“Not so close,” Phil says, waving Wilbur back a few steps before taking the flint and steel to the portal. It sparks once, twice, and then on the third strike, the whole thing bursts into flames.

Purple swirls around and up into the sky, flaring to fill out the black rectangle. The heat surprises Tommy, the bright light burning his eyes.

“Oho,” Wilbur giggles. “Oh, fucking hell. That’s so cool.”

Yeah. Definitely a mad scientist.

“Just step through it,” Phil instructs. “It may sting a little, but it won’t hurt you. See?”

He sticks his arm directly into the flames, pulling it back unharmed but smoking slightly.

Tommy weighs the pros (not burning to death) and cons (getting called a fucking coward by Wilbur until the end of time, probably) of deciding to just stay here, and comes to the sad conclusion that he must go through with this visit if he wants to keep his pride.

“Let’s do it,” he says, as bright as possible; after Phil gives him the go-ahead, he sucks in a breath and steps into the flames.

It doesn’t exactly hurt, but it is not comfortable. It feels like every limb has gone to sleep simultaneously, needles pricking every inch of exposed skin and then some. Tommy stumbles out and almost falls face first onto the jagged ground, would have if not for Philza expertly grabbing him by the back of the shirt on his own way through the portal.

The first thing he notices is the still in his chest and stomach for the first time since he woke up. For a fleeting moment, he’s elated.

But then he looks up, squinting through burning hot air, and sees vague shapes of deadly cliffs, lavafalls, the distant shapes and groans of monsters he doesn’t want to meet.

Everything’s red. Everything is on fire.

Behind him, Wilbur inhales too hard and chokes on a cloud of ash. “Jesus.”

“Welcome to the Nether,” Phil says grimly.

“Wonderful,” Tommy squeaks, and thinks, goddamnit, we would die here even faster.

They poke around the red cliffs for a bit, but Wilbur doesn’t fare well in the sulfurous air. Before they go, Phil gives them his predictions for how long he’ll be gone - no more than a day, so ‘bout a week for you, probably, time works funny down here - and smiles. He tells them he’ll be fine, that he knows what he’s doing.

Tommy carries that reassurance with him back to the surface. It helps, just barely - he and Wilbur dick around, gathering food, making bread, bantering to ignore the way the silence pushes down around them.

Wilbur tends to the fire all night. Tommy sleeps restlessly. The portal remains stagnant, and there is no fucking sign of Charlie.

“Do you think Phil will be okay?” Tommy asks when Wilbur finally crawls into the tent. The sun’s about to rise.

“Sure,” Wilbur grunts, flopping down with his back to Tommy. “Go make sure the fire’s okay. I’m taking a nap.”

“I’m worried about Phil,” Tommy mumbles.

“He’ll come back,” Wilbur says. “He’ll be fine, he always is.”

“What do you mean, always?” Tommy asks, turning to glare at Wilbur over his shoulder. “What’s that mean?”

Wilbur doesn’t answer for a second or two. “I don’t know. Just generally, I guess.”

The Nether’s no joke, and Phil’s only one man. If Phil doesn’t come back, it’s not like the Black Hole. Tommy has no idea what will happen. They should not have let Phil do this alone. They should never have split up like this.

The idea that Tommy may have said his last words to Phil worms its way into his head until he can’t think about anything else. His chest starts to hurt with it all.

“Well,” Tommy huffs, clearing his throat. “If he’s not back in a week, I’ll start stabbin’ shit.”

There’s no answer. Wilbur is already asleep.

.VII.

“TOMMY! Wake up, wake up, get out here!”

Tommy stumbles out of the hut and into the morning sun, roused by the commotion and not happy about it.

He’s sluggish, shielding his eyes against the light, head feeling fuzzy just like it has for the past couple days. It’s just a common cold from living so long in the tundra. Probably.

“Where’s the fucking fire, man, what the fuck -”

Wilbur practically vibrates where he stands at the edge of the beach. The ocean laps wistfully at his feet. “There’s a boat, Tommy, a boat, see?”

Tommy squints, following Wilbur’s gleeful point. Sure enough, there’s a small beige speck on the horizon, getting closer by the second. “No way.”

“It’s Charlie,” Wilbur laughs, “I knew it! I knew it!”

Tommy grins with him, clutching onto his arm. “No fucking way!”

“He’s rowing against the tide, he’ll be a while, but - oh, he might be hungry, I’ll get to breakfast -”

Wilbur bursts into action, looking more alive than he has all week. He instructs Tommy to go pick some more berries while he busies himself between roasting some beef in the furnace and staring out at the ever-approaching boat.

Tommy collects the berries and listens to the faint echo of Wilbur humming as he works. It’s familiar, but he can’t place the tune. He distracts himself with it until he accidentally pricks himself on a bush; the sting spikes his threat of a headache into full realization.

Fuck berries, actually, Tommy thinks, squeezing his eyes shut with a groan. Ow.

By the time he gets back with a bowlful of the little red shits, Wilbur is helping a haggard-looking Charlie drag the boat ashore. Tommy takes a minute to freely stare before they realize he’s back.

Charlie looks held together by fiberglass and tape. He’s precise, steps careful and planned, like if he breathes too hard he’ll shatter. His clothes are dirty. One side of his glasses is cracked directly down the center. He keeps a hand close to the crossbow strapped to his belt.

What a fucking journey it must have been. It’s been seven whole days since Phil left, and longer since Charlie died - who knows how many dozens of hours he’s been fighting his way here, all alone? They had a hard enough time surviving with the four of them.

Charlie looks up, locking eyes with Tommy before he can pretend like he hadn’t been blatantly ogling his disheveled state. His eyes don’t look right. There’s something cold behind them.

Tommy’s unsettled by it. He does his best to shove it down alongside the pain in his head. “Hey! How’d you find us, big man?”

Charlie breaks away, bending over the side of his poorly made canoe and dragging out a pack. “The smoke helped.” He sounds like shit. “Took me too long. I kept getting hungry.”

“You’re here now, yeah? You’re alright now,” Tommy says, aiming for reassuring. It doesn’t work - Charlie just sniffs and rubs a hand over his face. There’s a grey streak in his hair, just a little to the left of Wilbur’s matching mark. His fucking eyes, man -

Tommy thinks his initial assessment was right: there is something wrong with Charlie.

“We’re glad you’re alright,” Wilbur says, squaring himself up enough for the big question. “Listen, uh, you - did you see it? When you went?”

Charlie’s face contorts. He thinks about it for a second, and then answers with another question. “Where’s the journal, Will?”

Wilbur digs for it in his coat pocket, handing it over complete with a pencil. Charlie shoves it into his bag, and then sighs, gaze drifting over to Tommy again. “And Phil?”

Wilbur tells him, shows him the portal, repeats the process Phil had explained and describes the Nether. Charlie offers interjections at the right times, questions the situation like a scientist should. His eyes don’t leave Tommy the whole time Wilbur speaks. Wilbur must sense it, because the more he looks at Charlie the more hesitant he sounds.

Tommy’s head hurts. He doesn’t participate in the discussion. With every minute that passes, he feels more and more paranoid.

“Listen, Charlie.” Wilbur clears his throat. “I’m sorry if you - I know it’s hard, but, please. Did the Beast say anything to you?”

Charlie’s jaw twitches. “Yeah. Yep. Yes, he did.”

He?

“What did it say?”

“He said I was lucky,” Charlie hums. He sits up a little straighter, leans a little bit forward. “Said - said I was the lucky one.”

“Lucky,” Wilbur repeats. “That’s nothing like what I heard.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow, swallowing hard. “He talked to you?”

“Well - I’ll explain later, but you understand why I didn’t tell anyone,” Wilbur scoffs, “right?”

“Depends on what he told you,” Charlie says, eerily calm. Tommy can feel his eyes burning through his skull. He wishes Charlie would stop acting like this.

“It said I wasn’t the one,” Wilbur dismisses, “but I don’t know what that has to do with being lucky.”

Charlie flies up, abrupt, digs his feet into the sand just in front of Tommy, and says, “I do.”

Before Tommy can react, Charlie’s hands meet his shoulders and shove him backwards, hard. He falls flat on his arse with a yelp, scrambling to get purchase again, pulls his legs to his chest, thrusts his hands out defensively. Charlie’s eyes zero in on him but he doesn’t make another move; he just ghosts his fingers over the hilt of his crossbow and breathes far too loudly.

He knows. He knows. He knows.

Wilbur’s voice rises in pitch and urgency as he scrambles upright. “Don’t touch him, Jesus!”

“Don’t be stupid, Wilbur!” Charlie’s voice cracks under his sudden hysteria. “I know you saw, I know you know it, you’re just - you just don’t want to fucking see it, you’re blinded -”

Wilbur jerks forward. “Stop, Charlie, you don’t understand -”

Charlie rips his weapon from his side. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Charlie, man,” Tommy squeaks, “we can talk about this!”

“Shut up!” Charlie’s attention is back on him. “You - you know how I really found you? I followed the trajectory of the fucking Black Hole, Tommy! It’s still headed for you, its path led me right to you, and who knows how much longer we’ve got before it finds you!”

It feels like someone’s punched him directly in the throat. He knew they weren’t safe, he’s known all week, but - some stupid, childish part of him had really fucking wanted it to be over. Charlie’s just slammed reality back into place. Tommy thinks he might be sick.

“We need to find Phil, come on, we need to leave.” Wilbur scampers towards Tommy, giving Charlie a wide berth.

“It wants him. You know it.”

“We have to move. It could be here any minute.”

Tommy sees Wilbur’s extended hand through the fog in his head and can’t bring himself to take it.

“Come on, Tommy,” Wilbur practically pleads.

Tommy just shakes his head, half-stunned, half-choked.

Charlie hisses, raising the crossbow slightly higher. “You’re not listening, Wilbur, I know the Beast told you! I know you know what’s happening here, if you would just think -”

Wilbur interrupts him with a frustrated yell. It’s not a word, it’s not aimed at anyone, he just threads his hands into his hair and screams, once. Loud. Tommy flinches further into his knees.

Because it is his fault. Has been from the start. Ever since they woke up, ever since the world started pulling apart at the seams, the constants have been the Black Hole and - and him. Tommy.

It’s following him. It’s meant to be following him.

“Will,” he croaks miserably. “It’s alright.”

“No,” Wilbur snaps, eyes blown wide in terrible understanding. Tommy doesn’t want to know how long he’s known. “I won’t let him.”

Tommy should have done this so long ago. “If it -”

“No!” Wilbur says again, this time lunging forward to grab him by the arm. He hauls Tommy up and away from Charlie and the crossbow he holds.

“You’d kill us all,” Charlie screams; he stays glitching in place, hands twitching. “Just for him?”

“You don’t know if killing him will fix anything!” Wilbur’s voice trembles. “You don’t know anything, Charlie!”

“So we just die over and over?” Charlie sounds so desperate Tommy wants to curl up and vanish. “While he runs fucking scot-free? While the world tears itself to pieces? It’s inevitable, we’d only be doing the - the right thing -”

“If, Charlie,” Wilbur shrills, yanking Tommy around him so that his chest is flush to Tommy’s back. “If you can put that fucking arrow between his eyes and pull the fucking trigger, then, then, then be my fucking guest! See what happens after you’ve fucking murdered him!”

Charlie moves in a flash, aiming the crossbow at Tommy’s forehead. His finger curls around the trigger. Tommy winces, but he’s frozen in place by Wilbur’s trembling hands.

Everything hangs in the air, just stuck there. Cold. Waiting.

Charlie laughs. His eyes unfocus. The crossbow drops from his hands.

“Fuck,” he practically giggles. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Will,” Tommy whispers in the silence that follows. “You’re hurting me.”

Wilbur inhales and stops clawing his fingers into Tommy’s shoulders. Still, he doesn’t let go.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Charlie chokes, finally meeting Tommy’s petrified stare. “God. I couldn’t. I never could. I’m sorry.”

“You damn well couldn’t,” Wilbur says, still primed with tension.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says again.

Tommy thinks that both of them are waiting on him to talk next. He doesn’t know what to say.

Sorry that I didn’t tell you? Sorry that you’ve seen literal Satan? Sorry that Wilbur cares about me and I took advantage of that?

“Come with us,” he says instead, weak. “We need you.”

Wilbur exhales, but doesn’t voice his displeasure. For some reason, this decision is Tommy’s to make.

Charlie’s posture falls, all the fight draining out of him. “Okay.”

“We’re going to find Phil,” Wilbur says tersely. “Pack up whatever you need. We need to move.”

Charlie nods. He looks exhausted and guilty. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. I don’t know what - I don’t know why I did that.”

“‘S alright,” Tommy says, feeling the tug in his gut worse than ever. “Really.”

It’s not like he’s wrong.

.VIII.

The Black Hole is following Tommy. Everybody knows this, by now.

It turns out they didn’t need to go find Phil - the man had stumbled out of the portal right before they were about to head in themselves, smoking but otherwise unharmed. He triumphantly held up the backpack full of green marbles and announced them good to go.

Just in time, too. The next time Tommy looks up at the sky, it shimmers with the awful size of the Black Hole, bearing down on them much, much larger than it had been before. Phil sees it too and curses, looking shaken at how close the timeframe had been. If he’d taken just a few minutes longer, the portal would have been destroyed, leaving him stuck in there.

They don’t waste time with gathering supplies, they just pick up whatever they had ready and start to run again. Phil leads them in the right direction with the weird marbles, barely stopping to rest, praying to whatever they can remember that the Black Hole’s pull won’t reach them.

Tommy gets worse abnormally fast. It catches them all by surprise. One minute he’s bitching about a headache and the next he’s paralyzed on the ground, feeling like his heart is going to explode out of his ribs.

It’s like someone’s taken a baseball bat to his immune system. He chokes down bread and water through roiling nausea, fighting to keep it all down. His chest hurts when he runs, but they can’t fucking stop running - he feels like his bones have turned radioactive and he’s rotting from the inside out. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. He curls up in Wilbur’s dirty jacket and shivers in the deserts. He sweats bullets in the chill of the plains.

Wilbur and Phil think he’s dying. Charlie keeps his mouth shut, but Tommy knows he feels the same. Charlie is also being annoyingly nice to him, probably to make up for threatening his life earlier. When it gets too much for Tommy to stay upright on his own, he takes turns with Wilbur carrying Tommy on his back. Tommy doesn’t want his fucking pity, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. The Black Hole never stops getting closer, gaining on them inch by painful inch.

When they have time, Wilbur and Charlie fill Phil in on the situation - the full situation, nothing omitted. Tommy listens to them talk about possible theories, about the Beast and Tommy, about making the End a safe place to live, about how they could potentially lose the Black Hole for good.

Nobody brings up leaving him behind. Nobody brings up just throwing him into it. Tommy would do it himself, but it takes too much out of him to raise his voice above a whisper, so he’s stuck marinating in his little pool of guilt and regret.

It’s a long journey to the stronghold. Tommy fluctuates between irritable and flat-out delirious. Sometimes he can keep pace with them all, sometimes he can barely move. It doesn’t follow any pattern. The only constant is the faint rumble of the Black Hole and the knowledge that they are running out of time.

Finally, after a whole day of this shit, Phil throws up an Ender Eye and it nosedives straight through the ground at their feet. Based on Phil’s excited squeal - that Tommy never wants to hear again, actually - this is good news.

Wilbur helps him dig out a tunnel downwards. Tommy stays clinging onto Charlie’s arm for support - it’s his breathing that’s rebelling this hour, clogging up his throat, forcing him to stay still and shallowly exhale out his nose.

“We’re almost there,” Charlie says quietly. His hand is pale over Tommy’s - a side effect of death. Tommy thinks wildly that he owes Charlie his life, in a weird sort of roundabout way.

“Sorry,” he says for maybe the first time. “Sorry.”

Charlie clicks his tongue and doesn’t answer, probably assuming Tommy doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“You’re good,” Tommy slurs insistently, “‘m sorry.”

Charlie looks at him. His eyes still aren’t right, but the edges have warmed a little, and Tommy thinks that he might as well have known Charlie forever, what with the pain tugging at his heart.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Charlie says, patting his head awkwardly. “We’re almost there.”

The stronghold is a dilapidated structure. The stone of the roof crumbles easily under Phil’s pickaxe, granting them access with no issue. The problem lies in finding the right room, Phil says, and is proven right fairly quickly - the place is a fucking labyrinth, all musty and gross and irritatingly similar.

By the time they stumble upon the portal room, they’ve wasted a good hour, and Tommy is so nervous his hands shake. They can’t see the Black Hole from here, but it has to be close. They’ve stayed in one place too long. They’re running down a timer they can no longer see. All he’s got is his breakfast threatening to come back up in warning.

Tommy stares at the way Wilbur’s hair starts to float away from his neck and wonders if he’s starting to hallucinate.

“Here, Will, hand me the bag,” Phil orders, sounding more stressed out than Tommy’s ever heard him. Can he feel it too? “Take some. Put them in the holes there, see? There’s already a few.”

More of the marbles slot perfectly into their places. Phil finishes his half, ushering Charlie and Tommy up the stairs to hover over the portal.

Wilbur joins them, last Eye in hand. When he places it in, the very air around them cracks in two. Charlie starts in surprise, the new starry void reflecting in his glasses. Tommy’s head stabs through with pain.

Wilbur turns at the whimper he gives, eyes narrowed in concern. “Tom-”

He pauses. Nobody talks.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, quiet.

Tommy reaches up to his nose. His hand comes back down red.

“Oh,” is all he has time to get out before the back wall rips away.

It’s loud. It’s terrifying. The Black Hole is here with no fucking warning, tearing systematically at the stairs below them. Phil shouts, shoving Wilbur away - he trips, hits the portal with a yell, vanishes. Phil is quick to follow, fingers reaching for Tommy’s sleeve. He misses, disappearing into the void before he can make sure Tommy follows him.

Tommy can’t move. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked at the Black Hole before, not like this. He’s looked at it, sure, but right now he’s looking at it, straight into the black nothing, where not even light can escape. He knows that it’s looking right back.

He’s frozen. He’s absolutely stuck.

He should have done this so long ago.

Something blonde flashes in his vision, then, a blur of green eyes and deathly pallor, hands clamping onto his shoulders and forcing him to breathe again.

“Go, Tommy,” Charlie screams over the sound of the wind and rubble clattering around them. “Please, move, go -”

Tommy thinks Charlie really should look behind him. The top stair crumbles away, pulling at Charlie’s clothes.

“It’s okay, Tommy,” Charlie says. The set of his jaw is something familiar. Tommy knows what he’s going to do before he does it.

Things aren’t okay, actually, he thinks as Charlie shoves him backwards, over the edge of the portal and into the chill of the void. Tommy closes his eyes, gasping at the intrusive sensation.

Things are so far from okay.

.IX.

Tommy comes back to reality hacking up a lung.

It’s dark. It smells like dust and rotten fruit. The ground is rough to the touch, digging into his knees and palms and he coughs. Someone’s hand is on his back, an attempt to ground him through his sick haze.

Tommy’s mind whirls, something sharp cutting away at his head, splitting the situation into perfect little pieces. It hurts, but he clings to it, slicing his hands open on the shards - but eventually he has the full picture.

Blood drips from his nose and onto the obsidian below him. The hand on his back trembles, lighting his nerves on fire. Tommy gasps for air and wrenches away from it.

It’s Wilbur. He looks wild and worried, towering over him in that stupid fucking coat Tommy had convinced himself he didn’t recognize -

“Where’s Charlie?” Tommy shrieks, something wet bubbling in his throat. Phil is here, taking inventory, splitting things from the pack into little piles of three, three - “Where the fuck is Charlie, Will?”

Wilbur gapes, reaching for him again, “Tommy -”

Tommy slaps his hand away, struggles to his feet. “Where - where -”

“Calm down,” Phil tries, “don’t overexert yourself, okay?”

“I’m not fucking dying,” Tommy growls. It’s true. He feels better than he has in days - isn’t that some sick irony? “I’m - I’m fine, I feel fine, we have to - we’ve gotta -”

“There’s no way back,” Phil says, apologetic, gesturing to the void around them. He stares at Tommy, reading his every fucking thought as easily as he breathes.

Tommy hates it, looking away, breathing hard as he comes to terms with it all. “Fuck. Fucking hell, f-fucking -”

Wilbur ventures another step forward, hands hesitantly splayed. Tommy stares at him and the curve of his arms, his calloused fingers, the square of his shoulders. Before he can tell himself how bad of an idea it is, he breaks and collapses into Wilbur’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur murmurs. Tommy clings to him and stalwartly doesn’t - can’t - cry. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Phil doesn’t interrupt them, just looks away and keeps preparing for whatever the fuck happens next. The noise of the End whispers around them. Tommy swallows the last vestiges of bile in his throat and breathes in deep.

Well.

At least he doesn’t feel sick anymore.

After he’s calmed down enough to listen, Phil lays it out grimly: there are two objectives they have to complete before they can truly be safe - they have to destroy the regeneration beacons (and not get killed in the process), then kill the flying monstrosity weaving around the pillars (and not get killed in the process).

Tall order. Tommy takes it all in feeling worryingly numb.

Tommy does what Phil instructs without complaint, for once. This is no time to fuck around, plus the guilty weight in his stomach stops him from thinking about much else. He stares down at the void as they cross to the main island and wonders what would happen if he fell.

The dragon senses them almost immediately; they jump into the familiar routine of combat without much of a thought. They duck and weave around the tall, gaping, purple-eyed mobs, shoot at the crystals, try not to get skyrocketed into the air by the dragon’s talons or killed by its poisonous breath.

Tommy gets caught up in the adrenaline, the thrill of the fight. His vision tunnels until he no longer pays attention to Phil or Wilbur’s own actions, focusing on fending off the stray Enderman and swinging at the dragon when it comes too close. It’s a dance, but one he knows well, and soon the dragon can no longer fly high enough to avoid their frantic swipes at it.

He almost deals the final blow, but he’s knocked to the side by the tail and settles for watching as Phil drives his sword into the exposed underbelly. The dragon roars in tandem with the blood rushing by in his ears.

Tommy’s forehead slowly drips crimson down his face, threatening to get in his eyes, but he couldn’t care less. He dares to let out a laugh, victorious, running towards Phil and grabbing him in a hug. The lightshow as the dragon burns up in the air blinds him, a thundercrack splitting through his ears. He distantly registers a familiar void opening up in the ground below where the dragon had died.

“Tommy,” Phil rasps. He doesn’t sound near as excited as Tommy thinks he should. This is an achievement, an accomplishment - something they’ve not had a lot of. Something to be happy about in this shitshow of a month.

“Good job,” Tommy grins, peeling away to stare the older man in the face. He - he’s - he looks sad, actually - pained. “Are - are you hurt?”

Phil shakes his head. “Tommy, Wilbur’s gone.”

Oh.

Tommy blinks, taking a staggering step back. The excitement drains out of him as quickly as it had come. “What?”

Phil presses a hand to his head, grimacing. “Jesus. It took him by surprise, pushed him off the edge, Tommy, I - there was nothing I could do.”

Ha, Tommy thinks. Dumbass, he thinks. Fucking shit fuck stupid-ass Wilbur Soot, he thinks, and then he collapses down on the ground, hard.

“If he could come back here, he would’ve, by now,” Phil mutters, rationalizing it out to himself. He looks distraught. “The portal up above is - it’s gotta be gone. Jesus Christ.”

Tommy claws his hands into his jeans, mind racing. “He wouldn’t die,” he says, weak.

Phil exhales. “Tommy.”

“It’s not - it’s meant to be following me,” Tommy insists, refusing to think about the fact that he can’t feel it anymore. “It wants me. It won’t take him, he’s somewhere up there, still, him and Charlie.”

Phil looks at him. Just stares. “Tommy, we - we’re safe here. Who knows what will happen to you if we try and go back, I mean - this was our one shot. This was it.”

“We didn’t do it well enough.” Tommy grits his teeth, pushing back up on shaking legs. “We failed. We lost them.”

He runs for the new portal, leaning on the edge. Phil starts for him. “Wait, don’t - Tommy, think about this, please!”

“What’s this?” Tommy asks, pointing to it. “What’ll this do to me?”

Phil shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, just hang on a second -”

“Wilbur and Charlie could be on the other side,” Tommy says. His heart pounds. He feels all floaty, something pricking at his eyes.

Phil opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Wilbur is alive,” Tommy says fiercely. “We have to find him. Them.”

“We’re safe here,” Phil pleads, but Tommy knows it, somehow - if he leaves, so will Phil. He’d never leave him behind like that.

“We can’t lose them,” Tommy says.

Phil’s hands drop to his sides. Tommy knows he’s won.

“Be careful,” Phil mumbles, stepping up to the edge with him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay,” Tommy says; he takes a deep breath, bends his knees, and jumps.

.X.

He keeps his eyes open wide, staring around the void in a mix of fear and awe. It’s cold. He hangs, alone, in the middle of nothing.

There are so, so many stars.

Wilbur? he thinks, desperately, wildly. Wilbur, where are you, please, what’s happening to us?

The stars laugh. The darkness expands until it is all he can see.

He never gets an answer.

.ad Infinitum.

.

.

.

(When he next wakes up, he’s surrounded by three strangers and missing his right arm.)