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The only time that Tubbo actually feels comfortable in his own skin is when the sun goes down and the stars come up, because that's the only time that everyone else is asleep. The nighttime is the one time that Tubbo feels free, like he's actually alive and doesn't have to worry about everyone else trying to control him or use him or anything like that. Plus, it's the only time that he can't really see his horns. Even though they've bloomed into antlers. It's still the same feeling - horns, antlers, they're all the same. They're still an extension of Schlatt, even if everyone else says that they're not. Nighttime is the only time where Tubbo feels like he's allowed to breathe, like he's allowed to finally stop having to look over his shoulder all the time. It's freeing to not have to be terrified all the time, but he rarely gets to experience that. Moments of peace and serenity are far too rare for him, and he wishes that he could be a kid more often.
To be fair, Tubbo thinks to himself as he silently moves down a hill, he lost the privilege to be a kid the day that he joined Wilbur's army. He lost the privilege of being a kid the day he became the President of L'manberg. He lost the privilege of being a kid the day that Techno shot him with a rocket launcher. Tubbo sighs, looking up at the moon and at the stars, watching silently as they sparkle, twinkling and shining from up above him. Tubbo keeps moving, wandering down the hill, moving onto the pathway that's been worn into the ground only recently. He glances over his shoulder towards the ocean, glancing down at the moon that reflects in the water. Tubbo sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets, shifting uncomfortably in his coat. Snowchester is much colder than everywhere else, and Tubbo still isn't entirely used to the warmth outside of his home. He continues to walk, looking up at the trees that sway in the breeze, their leaves floating gently off of their branches, twirling in the sky. He looks over his shoulder, looking back up at the hill, wondering if it would be worth it to just leave this place and go back to Snowchester.
He sighs, tilting his head up and staring at the sky. Tubbo stops walking, pulling his coat over his head, holding it limply in one hand. He knows better than that - he has to come out here, he has to come and visit at least once. If he comes here once and never comes back, at least he got some final words in. He has to. If he didn't come out here at all, Tubbo doesn't think that he could ever forgive himself. He doesn't think that he could ever expect Tommy to forgive him if he didn't. Tubbo starts to move again, feeling his heart pound in his chest, flooding his ears with the rhythmic bump bump bump that just doesn't seem to end. He moves under the trees, keeping himself along the dirt trail that leads out into the middle of the forest, wandering into the clearing. Moonbeams shine down onto the two graves that lay side by side, highlighting the flowers that are scattered everywhere. Goldenrods and blue bells are the two main flowers that he spots, which he thinks is sort of ironic, all things considered.
Tubbo thinks that it's sort of funny that Wilbur's grave sprouted blue bells out of all flowers. He thinks it's sort of sad and telling and storybook-esque that Tommy's grave sprouted goldenrods. He's heard the comparison be made before, he's heard people talk about Tommy a lot more recently, and the one thing that seems to be universal is that Tommy was gold. Tommy was the gold in everyone's lives, even if they fucking hated him. A lot of people hated him, a lot of people still do hate him, and Tubbo just can't seem to understand that. Tommy was gold, he was the best thing that ever happened to this entire world, to everyone, and no one other than him seems to understand that. Tommy was far more than a menace, he was far more than the villain that everyone always tried to make him out to be.
Tommy was gold, and more than that. Tommy was a kid who stuck to his morals and stuck even closer to his friends and mentors, and he got so much shit for it. Tommy didn't deserve half of the things that happened to him, and he most certainly didn't deserve all the trauma that was pinned on him from the moment he stepped foot onto this world's soil. He didn't deserve the exile or the war or the second war, and he didn't deserve to be in that hole in the ground with Wilbur for months on end. Tommy deserved better, and he never got to have that. Tommy deserved the entire fucking world, and yet all he got was belittlement and bitterness from everyone around him. He got betrayed from all angles, he got hurt by everyone he ever tried to love, and then some.
It's not fair. It never was fair, but Tubbo thinks that he's realising now that it wasn't fair even back then. It wasn't fair for them to have to fight in another man's war, they were kids, they still are kids. Yet still, they seem to be more mature than almost all of the adults on this godforsaken world. Tubbo thinks it's sort of real fucking sad. Tubbo sits cross-legged at Tommy's grave, folding his hands over his lap as he looks at the headstone before him. He's been here a few times already, but back then, Tommy was still alive. Tubbo knows that there's not a body to go with his grave, and he thinks that that's the worst part of all of this. At least if Tommy's body were here, it wouldn't feel as fake to be here. Tubbo sighs, tilting his head back and looking up at the moon and the stars, wondering if it would be better to be in space than to be here on the ground. Probably not. Tubbo reaches up, running a hand through his hair, pretending like the doesn't feel the bottoms of his horns brush past his fingertips. Tubbo knows that it's useless wishing that he didn't have them, that it's useless that he tries to pretend like they still don't exist, but it's easier than facing the truth.
Denial, Tubbo thinks to himself, is so much easier than acceptance. He can deny everything for his entire life and live in blissful ignorance, and he'll be happier than he would be if he were to accept every bad thing that ever happened to him. It's dangerous and wrong and leads to far too many other bad things happening, but he can deny all of those things, too. It's a horrible spiral, and Tubbo doesn't think he's able to stop himself from slipping since he's already started to fall. At least he can deny that, too.
"Hi," Tubbo starts, not entirely sure what to say. What are you ever supposed to say to a dead person? What are you supposed to say to your dead best friend who died in the absolute worst possible way? Tubbo doesn't think that there's a right thing to say, and if there is, he's definitely not going to manage to figure it out. "It's..good to see you, I guess," he murmurs, reaching down and twirling his finger around a blade of grass, listening to the locusts and crickets chitter and chirp from all around him. "Sorry, that sounded bad. It's been really sort of shitty ever since you died, you know?" Tubbo pauses, biting down on his lip. No, Tommy doesn't know. Tommy doesn't know because he's dead. Right. "Sorry that I haven't visited. It was the same for you when Wilbur died, so I'm guessing that you understand."
He pauses, looking back up at the sky, feeling frustrated and pissed off and angry. What the fuck is he supposed to say? There's nothing to say. His words don't matter because Tommy is dead, Tommy is dead, and he's not going to hear anything that Tubbo says. There's no point in being here. There is absolutely no point in being at this graveyard. There's no point in talking to a stupid fucking headstone that doesn't understand a word he speaks. Wilbur once told him that graveyard were meant for the living, and Tubbo doesn't think that's true, because if it were true, then he wouldn't be here right now. He's doing this for Tommy, and Tommy only. Not for himself. Tubbo doesn't want to do this at all, so he has to be doing it for Tommy.
Tubbo sits in silence, shifting uncomfortably as he looks at the writing on Tommy's grave. It's fresh stone, entirely smooth. It isn't full of cracks and splits, not like Wilbur's grave is. Tubbo could have sworn that someone was coming out to this place and keeping it picked up, but it seems like they've stopped. Tubbo wonders if he should pick up where they left off, and he realises half a second later that he really doesn't want to do that at all, not even in the slightest. Tubbo feels so incredibly uncomfortable out here, he feels like he's dying, like there's a weight on his shoulders that's threatening to crush him if he even moves wrong. Tubbo hates it out here. Tubbo fucking hates it.
He doesn't want to be here.
He doesn't have to be here.
So Tubbo stands up, looking down at the headstone again. He sets his coat on the edge of it, figuring that he doesn't really need it. Tubbo turns away silently, moving away from the clearing, moving back to the worn down, beaten up pathway that takes him away from the graveyard. Tubbo walks away in silence, not feeling the urge to look back, not even once. There's no point in being there, no point in talking to a place that doesn't even have the ability to listen. He's just talking to fucking air, and he isn't going to waste his words if they're not going to matter. That's something Tommy always told him - Tommy used to tell him that he talked way too much, and Tubbo thinks that he was right. Tommy wouldn't appreciate him wasting his words. Tommy wouldn't appreciate him faking it just so Tommy's grave, that doesn't even have a body to match it, can feel better.
There's no point in a graveyard.
Tubbo keeps walking, and although he thinks that he should feel bad about leaving so suddenly, he can't manage to make himself feel like that. All he feels is numb, he feels entirely dull, void of emotion. Maybe this is what it feels like to grieve, maybe this is what it's like to finally be exhausted of life, to finally be drained of everything. Tubbo moves and he doesn't stop, and somewhere deep inside of his chest, he feels a part of him break in half, a part that's oddly Tommy shaped. There's a hole in his heart that should be making him scream and cry and break down and die, but all he feels is numb. Tubbo wonders if this is what it's like to break. He thought it would be a lot more obvious, that it would hurt and be painful, that it would make him break down sobbing, but apparently, not. It's just numb.
Just numbness. Just nothing.
Maybe this is what it's like to be broken, Tubbo thinks to himself as he walks past the ocean. The night is supposed to be freeing to him. Nighttime is supposed to be the only time where he feels like he can breathe.
And yet, somehow, Tubbo feels like he's suffocating.