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Tommy grunted in frustration, throwing down the book he was writing. Phil had told him to write down his thoughts and feelings about his past and everything he remembered from it (which wasn’t much).
There was white.
A blizzard?
A cape around m
The splatter of ink finished off that sentence where, in his frustration, Tommy had smashed the feather into the parchment.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, accidentally knocking over his ink bottle in order to grab a cloth to wipe his hand on. “SHIT!”
He grabbed the towel and tried to sop up the stains, but only spread it over the bedsheets more. Luckily, he heard Phil walking around in the other room.
“Hey dad!” he called out, desperate for any sort of help with the ink everywhere. Then he froze, realizing what he had said.
Holy crap.
He had never called him that before, hadn’t meant to; the word had slipped out like butter, and he almost cried out, itching to take it back. He wanted to claw out his throat, he wanted to rip the word out of the air and shove it back into his mouth, to choke on it, hold it close to him where it could rip him apart from the inside and never ever leave and Phil would never hear it again, ever.
Phil was going to kick him out, but the word hung in the air, and no matter how hard Tommy bit his nails into his arms it wouldn’t come back.
He was so stupid. So, so stupid. He could never come back from this, he would never recover, and any second he would be shoved back into the cold and unforgiving tundra--
“Yeah, mate? What do you want?” Phil called from the other room, and the second passed.
“I, uh. Spilled some ink.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Tubbo screeched, immediately regretting his decision. He had only meant to look at the beehive, truly, but one wrong poke with his exploring stick he found on the ground and now a swarm was after him.
“HELP HELP HELP HELP TOMMYYYYYYYYYY” He continued, sprinting back towards the house. He saw it in the distance, slowly but steadily getting closer, but his lungs were burning and it only took one stumble to bring him flying to the ground. He looked up and saw a figure at the top of a hill, and cried out as the bees caught up to him.
“HEY! HEY! YOU, HELP!” He cried, but the figure didn’t seem to hear. The bees descended, and there was searing pain everywhere. The swelling started as more and more came, and there was no way out of the bodies upon him, and his throat was raw from screaming and what felt like poison beginning to run through his veins.
Phil looked up as he heard faint screams, full of pain, from a familiar voice. His eyes opened wide as he saw the bees swarm onto the small figure of Tubbo, and he dropped his staff, conjuring honey and racing down the hill.
“Tubbo!” He called, and Tubbo heard it through the haze of pain. The hope filtered into him, and he held onto it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Time seemed to whirl, stretching and slowing before barreling through itself as Phil sprinted down the hill and Tubbo waited, twitching.
Finally, FINALLY, Phil reached him, gathering him in his arms and spreading honey on the stings as he pulled them out. Tubbo was obviously allergic, by the sound of the screeches he had heard and the whimpers that now filled Phil’s ears, the tears coursing down his face now. Tubbo looked up and grinned.
“Hey, dad.”