Work Text:
[Tommyinnit was slain by Dream]
Tubbo's breath hitched, his eyes widened, and his body came to a grating, halting stop. The message blaring through his communicator, blasting out in blinding light and holding steady for a few minutes as if to properly solidify what had happened, seemed almost fake.
He knew that it was there, he could see the message evidently flashing in his sight, and from the corner of his eye, it appeared as if Ranboo and Jack had received a similar one, but...
But Tommy couldn't be dead. Could he?
The boy's head lifted, wisps of blonde hair curling around and framing a pale face, just a few traces of baby fat clinging onto puffed-out cheeks. Tubbo let out a shaky breath, and then another, and another – he'd let free as many as it took until his lungs weren't gasping desperately whenever his body began to beg for oxygen.
Breathe in, breathe out. Keep steady. Make sure your hands don't shake, make sure your eyes don't water, make sure you keep calm. Breathe.
The rules that had kept Tubbo collected and sane whenever making speeches during his presidential era began to bubble forwards in lulling strokes, swaying and shifting around as if it was his brain's way of keeping him grounded to the situation at hand and not floating off into space.
Tubbo's eyes closed for a moment.
Serenity rang around him, gently coiling over the soft, thick clothing made precisely for the declining temperatures of Snowchester – drifting between slight tears in the cotton material and rubbing over exposed skin.
For a moment, Tubbo wasn't stood on the prime path, settled between two rivaling hotels with his husband and an old companion (or newly turned business competitor.) He wasn't the ex-president of a shattered nation, nor was he the traitorous teen who had exiled his best friend.
No, for now, for just that split-second of a pause in time itself, he was in his own little space, curled up amongst a wooden bench as the soft, looping melody of 'Mellohi' drifted through the open air.
A gentle hand settled on Tubbo's shoulder, giving the blonde a calming squeeze.
"It's okay now, Tubs. I'm okay now."
Tubbo shifted, his body feeling sluggish and slow as he tried to reach out for the transparent figure hovering beside him. It was as if somebody was there, but also not at the same time – a static form glitching in and out of existence.
"Tommy-"
"Tubbo? Are you okay?"
A hot flash of shock completely rocked the blonde's body, fluttering eyelids peeled open, and Tubbo leveled his husband with a blank stare – baby blue's staring, yet almost without seeing.
"Why wouldn't I be okay?"
Ranboo's gaze flickered down to his communicator; the blinking message stuck in a repetitive cycle as it stayed hovering for all to see. The writing was clear and stark, and Ranboo knew for sure that he didn't somehow imagine it. So...
"The... the chat... can't you see? Tubbo... Tommy's-"
"Tommy's fine."
Ranboo blinked. "What?"
"That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?" Tubbo's brows raised, a teasing smile tugging lightly at the corners of his pink, chapped lips. Ignorance was clear within his expression, even if it was false and put-on like a shining, encompassing mask.
"Tommy's fine. I wonder what he's been up to lately – the last time I saw him was around the nuke testing, I think. He should probably be somewhere around the hotel with Sam Nook, though... maybe we should visit him?"
Ranboo felt as if he'd been utterly drenched in buckets of cold dread and baffling confusion, his lanky legs forcing him to stumble somewhat as Tubbo turned and began to stride towards Tommy's (Jack's) hotel, and Ranboo followed after him.
"But, but Tubbo, you know that Tommy was locked up in the prison with Dream, you know that-"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ranboo. Tommy wasn't locked up there; he's just been busy lately, that's why we haven't seen him. But I'm sure if we ask Sam Nook, then he'll know."
The blonde wafted a dismissive hand through the air, the action almost signifying that he was done with the current conversation and was instead looking to move on from it. From Ranboo's perspective, it was as if Tubbo wanted to completely erase what had happened, to forget it and stay ignorant. Stay unaware.
But surely, that wasn't healthy. Was it?
"Tubbo-"
"Ranboo."
"Tubbo!"
“Ranboo-”
"Tubbo."
That's not Ranboo's voice, it's not Jack's voice, and it sure isn't Tubbo saying his own name. No, it's deeper, the tone far too timbre and solemn, and there's a familiar hiss towards the end of the syllables that just about resembles the warning call of a creeper.
Tubbo ripped his frantic gaze away from Ranboo's searching, mismatched eyes, instead having his stare land upon a hunched prison warden.
Sam was slowly stepping across the wooden planks of the prime path, streaks of crimson smeared across his shimmering netherite armour, and his face wore an expression of pure despair – an expression that would continue to haunt the three for years and years to come.
"Tubbo," Sam repeated slowly, as if he was struggling to process his own words, "Tubbo, I'm so sorry..."
The blonde's eyes carefully lowered down – down, down, down to the crumpled bundle that the warden was clutching close to his chest, in a hold both increasingly protective and intricately delicate.
"I was too late... I couldn't get to him in time."
Tommy's body was battered and bruised, his typically pale flesh marred by an array of blooming bruises – a battleground of red, blue, green poppies made up in the unnerving shapes of boot prints and hand marks. It was a sickly sight, one that had Ranboo doubling over from and had Jack averting his gaze.
Tubbo stepped closer.
A white shirt turned ripped and red, obvious tendrils of blood having slobbered their way over Tommy's frail body. He was thin, far thinner than Tubbo initially remembered him being – ribs sticking out and hip bones jutted uncomfortably from loose jeans.
"Tubbo-"
The boy's fingers gently traced along Tommy's prominent cheekbones, dancing over knitted cuts and brushing over weak scabs. His movements were light and airy, delicate in a way that clearly showed he didn't want to cause any more harm to the fallen teen.
"Tommy's not dead."
Tubbo spoke finally, voice clear and surprisingly unwavering like one might've expected it to. There was a confident tone to his voice, a brush of trust and belief, or perhaps blissful ignorance.
"He's not dead," The ex-president looked up to his husband, pulling away from Tommy's body as he did so. "Come on, Ranboo. We have things to do at the hotel."
There was a smile planted along Tubbo's lips as he gently clasped onto Ranboo's shaking hand, dragging him back along the prime path and towards their shared business.
He was pointedly ignoring the way that Tommy's dull, dull eyes hadn't shimmered with their usual sparkling blue, ignoring the way that Tommy hadn't flinched underneath Tubbo's grazing touches, ignoring the way that Tommy's chest hadn't shifted even once to signify another breath taken.
Tommy wasn't dead. He was still looking for wood or something, that was all. He'd be around soon enough, shouting about his hotel and whatever tasks Sam Nook wanted him to complete.
Tommy would be back, and until then, Tubbo would let the gentle lull of Mellohi continually drift through the air, and he'd keep an open spot on their bench.
Tubbo would wait.