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"I'm not even Tubbo's best friend anymore."
Tommy isn't exactly a stranger to jealousy.
It's not like it's a strange, foreign and festering feeling that he's never once had to suffer through, an emotion that he's never once had to stay impossibly strong through as it ran rampage along his pumping veins like a pack of charging racehorses.
Because it isn't, it really isn't.
He's been through it on many, many occasions now. Been through it enough that sometimes it doesn't even feel like a proper sensation anymore – truly closer towards a made-up thing, only there to tug at the strings of his aching heart and wrap a cold hand of dread around his churning stomach.
See, to the blonde, jealousy was just an old friend he couldn't seem to part with.
Tommy had stood back as his father had affectionately ruffled his brother's hair, pulling a pink-coded piglin hybrid close and whispering about how proud he was as the two clutched onto each other – a hefty sack of seeds set next to them. The teen had held his tongue, bit his lip, and dropped the small lump of wheat he'd found.
He'd never been as good as his older brother.
Tommy had stood back as Wilbur moved on with his raging life, losing himself in his own insanity and siding with Dream at whatever chance he got – siding with somebody who had taken Tommy's canon lives twice now, and with little to no remorse for it. Tommy had looked away after a while, averted his gaze, and held back any strongly spoken words that he wanted to hurl.
He'd never been enough for his older brother.
Tommy had stood back as his friends turned away from him, shifting to the side and taking pacing steps from his shaking body. They didn't care; they didn't care at all as Dream wrapped a cold, calloused hand around his wrist and dragged him far, far away from them. From L'Manburg. From home. They hadn't cared.
He'd never been important in his friends' eyes.
Jealousy had festered the worst during those moments, building up and up and up inside of Tommy's cracking chest, wrapping looping, green vines around his heart and doing its best to crawl up the burning confines of his throat.
He'd been jealous of his brothers and their talent, jealous of the people who got to be close to Wilbur in his final moments, jealous of the friends that the others had – ones that he craved for so desperately.
Tommyinnit was a jealous, quivering sixteen-year-old.
But never to Tubbo. Never for Tubbo.
Tubbo was a constant in his life, a heavy boulder placed directly within Tommy's twirling path, a never-ending reminder of something warm and reassuring, of something comforting and snug that Tommy wanted to tightly grip onto and never let go.
Tubbo was Tommy's best friend. They were a duo, partners in crime, completely inseparable in their soulmate-esque partnership that left the two tied in more ways than just one. Two blondes against the world, shaky hands clutched tightly in similar grasps as the looping melody of 'Cat' sounded out behind them through wavering symphonies.
They were everything to each other.
Tommy had never felt the need to be jealous of something revolving around Tubbo.
Not until Ranboo had shown up, at least.
Ranboo was everything that Tommy wasn't.
He was gentle and kind, soft-spoken with sickeningly sweet morals that made Tommy's stomach churn. He was taller too, stretching upwards with his gangly limbs and clumsily placed smile pulled across his lips.
Ranboo was selfless and sympathetic; he was tolerant and tender.
He was somebody that Tommy hated and yet somebody that Tubbo almost immediately latched onto. Because, of course, in every logical scenario available, who wouldn't want a new, perfect best friend when your old one was just following in his older brother's self-destructive (and otherwise) footsteps and had finally lost his mind to trauma?
Tommy didn't blame Tubbo, not at all.
He didn't blame him, not even when Tommy was nearly blown up by one of the hybrid's nukes, and it was brushed off like nothing; he didn't blame him, not even when Tommy was thrown into prison with Dream, locked up with nobody attempting to help him; he didn't blame him, not even when Tommy stumbled along the prime path, only having been days since he was beaten to death by his very abuser, just to see Tubbo having moved on.
Tubbo had a family now. He had an inn and a husband. He had a mansion and a son. He was happy, if a little shocked at Tommy's sudden, unsettling return, but it wasn't a hugely significant thing anymore. Tommy's 'death' had already happened once, Tubbo had shuffled and cried through his grief, and that was that.
He was growing up, after all. He couldn't mourn over a seemingly 'immortal' best friend too many times now. Not when he had so much to do with his own life.
His own life that had somehow split apart from Tommy's, their track shifting and jerking into different, opposed directions, such opposite directions that Tommy almost wanted to throw up at just the mere, curdling thought of it.
They were no longer one and the same. They were no longer, 'Tommy and Tubbo!' Or, 'Tubbo and Tommy!'
It was Tubbo and Ranboo and Michael.
It was Tubbo and Ranboo.
It was Ranboo.
And then Tommy.
Then he was there, left wind-bitten and shaking, red-cheeked and sobbing, frustration leaking from his pores, and his scarred hands were clenched into distressed fists as he stared up towards the very man that had taken it all from him.
"I hate you."
Ranboo didn't even flinch at the unkindness, at the harrowing and deep hate that was embedded within Tommy's words. He just nodded, a flash of sympathy running through his shifting gaze.
"I know you do."
Tommy took a breath.
There was rage splashed over his clenched features, a blossoming field of fury and rampage that had made a sweet home within Tommy's tormented heart.
"I hate you."
"I know you do, Tommy."
Their words were repetitive and unneeded, having gone on for a good few overlapping minutes now – the two a mess of clashing, waging emotions. Sympathy and hatred, concern and resentment. They were yin and yang in the most differing of ways.
But Ranboo wouldn't comment on it. Couldn’t comment on it.
If this was how Tommy needed to work through everything? Then so be it.
"You took everything from me," Tommy whispered, nails digging into vulnerable palms.
The pain was horrible, stinging and gut-wrenching; it was tugging at his feelings and hastily sending him barreling into looping flashbacks of death, death, death - of fists and boot prints, of cackling laughter and manic gazes.
But it was oddly grounding, too. Eerily reminding Tommy that he was real and there, he was okay and not surrounded by encompassing obsidian walls once more threatening to swallow him whole. Swallow him down until there was absolutely nothing left.
A void not so dissimilar to a taunting afterlife.
Tommy could still hear Wilbur's echoing, saccharine-dripping words hurtling around his mind.
"You took my people. You took my best friend. You took my family."
Tommy would never forget the moment he'd chanced a glance outside, watching as Techno, Phil, and Ranboo strolled around, matching outfits donning their close bodies and heavy capes were laced over their broad shoulders.
That disastrous green beast had reared its ugly head right into the upper heavens, letting out a piercing, though vengeful, shriek and inevitably leading to Tommy bent over within his crumbling home, vomiting desperately amongst empty buckets.
(He'd never really wanted to venture too far from his dark house after that distressing scene.)
"You've taken everything from me, and I- and I don't know what to do. You've taken my life, my- my people. You have everything that you could have ever wanted- Nobody even cares that I was gone. They don't care. You don't care. Tubbo doesn’t care-”
Tommy's hands had drifted to his hair, blood-smeared palms curling up once more as he began to tug at the blonde, delicate strands.
"I was left there. I was left there alone, alone, alone. Nobody was there. Nobody bothered to look, and nobody bothered to help me. To save me. They just left me there, screaming and screaming and screaming."
His gaze shifted upwards, matching against a two-toned one.
"Phil wasn't there; Sam wasn't there; Puffy wasn't there. I only had Dream. Just Dream, Dream, Dream. We had to sit there for hours and hours, speaking about everything or nothing at all but I- but I didn't care because I only actually wanted to get out, to get home, and- and he kept on talking about how he was going to escape but I didn't believe him – didn't believe a word he'd said-"
"The revive book isn't real, Dream."
"Schlatt? He's fuckin' dead.”
"Why don't you go see him then?”
"No, no, no, no! Stop it, stop it, stop-"
Tommy was scratching at his scalp, red, bloody flakes breaking underneath his nails and dripping down his ashen skin.
"You did this." He swallowed roughly, mouth like sandpaper and tongue resting heavily in his mouth. A finger went to press against Ranboo's chest, despite it being a little more than just 'shaky and trembling.' "You did this. You ruined me; you ruined everything! You took it all!"
Ranboo, despite everything, just nodded in agreement.
"You took Tubbo away from me."
Tommy's voice was smaller then, quieter and more reserved despite him having the open opportunity to scream as loud as he might want - as loud as he might need.
"You took him away. You took my best friend, and now he's- now he's not my best friend anymore, and I-"
The Enderman's cool façade seemed to crack then. "Oh, Tommy-"
"It was always you, wasn't it!" Tommy's voice broke, shattering into thousands of jagged pieces that lodged themselves deep within his burning throat. "Even from the start, from- from the day you joined, you wanted Tubbo, didn't you? You were out to get me, weren't you? You wanted me to go to exile! You wanted Dream to hurt me!"
"I didn't-"
"You wanted Tubbo, and now you have him, so why can't you just let it be!? Why can't you just leave me alone now!? You can go back to your stupid, perfect family and keep me out of it! I don't care anymore! I don't-!"
Tommy's words were ripped right from his viper-like, spitting tongue as Ranboo pulled him into a crushing hug, long arms circling a frail waist, and the hybrid tucked Tommy's shaking head against his beating chest.
There were a few moments of pause, the wind whipping violently around them; sprays of ice and snow clinging to ripped clothes; hands shaking and yet still clutching onto one another as if they were one another's very lifelines.
The shorter let out a choked breath, cheek smushed against Ranboo, and his body was practically sandwiched against the older boy's. They were almost inseparable at that point in time, stuck together with tightening glue and unable to move away even an inch.
Tommy couldn't tell if it was good or not - couldn't tell if he felt warm solace in the human contact or an overwhelming fear made up of flashbacks and memories of his brutal, terrorizing death – of being beaten and hurt, hurt, hurt until nothing hurt at all.
Until he couldn't feel anything at all.
But...
It was different now; it was different because Tommy could feel.
He could feel the way that Ranboo's large hands rubbed soothing circles into his pale skin every few seconds; feel the way the hybrid's slinking tail wrapped securely around his thigh, holding on and keeping close; feel the way that if Tommy even swayed slightly to the side, Ranboo would tighten his protective hold.
Tommy felt warm and loved, assured and safe.
Ranboo wasn't going to hurt him; Ranboo wasn't going to do anything to him that was initially soaked in malicious intent and nasty emotions. The hybrid was firm and grounding - keeping Tommy's feet forcibly clutched against the ground.
He was a welcoming embrace that Tommy didn't know how he'd be able to leave from. (Not that he wanted to.)
The teen let out a breath.
It wasn't exactly like hugging Tubbo – Tubbo was home. He was a reminder of happier times and memories that made Tommy's heart fill with golden glee and bright success.
No, hugging Ranboo was different.
It was different in the sense that it offered calmness and kindness, offered the whispering chance at a better future without wars or fighting, death and anger. His hugs made Tommy feel as if he was human again, and not some simple ghost - not some science experiment that everyone could poke and prod at.
That wasn't Tommy.
"Thank you." He whispered, voice choked and barely audible.
A slight, hesitant smile drew across Ranbooo's lips. "No problem, Tommy."
There, in Ranboo's arms, Tommy was Tommy. Just that.
He wasn't jealous or angry, he wasn't dead or alive. He wasn't the shell of his old self or the sickening reincarnation of a dead older brother. Tommy wasn't the next Wilbur Soot, nor was he Dream's little plaything. He was anything but, and at the same time, anything similar all at once - he was an enigma that even the stars above wouldn't be able to explain.
He was himself again.