Archive of Our Own

It’s the calm before the storm, people like to say, but it’s the explosions that are heard first. Then, the smoke is seen spreading it’s suffocating form across the land as buildings come down, cobblestone and wood tumbling in a cacophony of shards, shrapnel and flames into the depths of Hell it seems.

It took hours for the smoke to clear compared to the mere seconds it took for all of Tommy’s hard work to crumble to dust. Speaking of Tommy, where is he? No one has seen the blonde since the first flames erupted. Was he able to escape safely? Worse yet, was he able to escape at all? Was Tommy still inside? 

Was he even alive?

It is Tubbo who finds him first, seeing his friend's body covered in thick red blood that poured from several large wounds the blonde had on him like a leaking faucet. Barely moving as the brunette kneeled and hoisted Tommy’s head onto his thigh, and gently whispers to him. Both to comfort Tommy and to prevent himself from crying because Big Man Tommyinnit wouldn’t want to see him so glum, would he? Tubbo wonders as he tries to calm himself. Opting instead to close the blonde’s eyelids with his own fingers, shaking and stained with red from their previous resting spot on his temple.

A crowd has started to form, voices whispering and yelling about survivors and potential casualties and who could have possibly done this? because that was the main question after all wasn’t it? Even as it becomes harder to differentiate the reds of splattered blood and scarlet dyed wool, and the flames are spreading in tendrils of tangerine peel orange and dandelion yellow across the terrain.

Tubbo allows himself to let one tear fall. That hurt more than the goodbye he murmured into his friend’s ear, slowly feeling Tommy’s chest rise up and down, each inhale and exhale more laboured then the last. Until eventually, as all things do, it comes to a bitter end. The finality of Tommy’s last breath cutting through Tubbo like a knife. Severing something the brunette doesn’t believe can ever be fixed, no matter how long it takes.

Tubbo realizes that out of all the times he was never there for Tommy, at least he was here for his death. 

At least Tommy got to die in his arms instead of by Tubbo’s hand. At least there was that.

⚞🎕⚟

The Angel of Death and the Blood God stand in the midst of the wreckage. Eyeing the damage done to Tommy’s creation-- the Traitor’s creation, burning in hell alongside it’s creator probably , Technoblade crows, knowing the other (former) citizens of L’manburg were too busy trying to quell the flames and scavenge what they could to save the hotel rather than acknowledge the presence of the duo. Phil wants to laugh as Technoblade is, but he can’t bring himself to do so. The wind, even as the flames are growing and spreading and warming the earth, sends a chill up his robes and settles in his spine. Making the blonde shiver unexpectedly.

Phil wishes that was the only thing making him shiver, but the sight his eyes are trained upon makes the blonde give up trying to convince himself he was just chilly.

Tubbo holds the Traitor’s face gently as blood spills, and Phil knows it will stain. Crimson pools into the earth, on Tubbo’s hands, on the Traitor’s skin. The gentleness in which the brunette holds his estranged son, as if to preserve his last moments of life with him, tugs Phil’s heart with bitter remembrance, knowing how Wilbur’s blood stained his hands and his clothes months ago. While the broken expression he wore; how at peace his son looked as Phil created a bridge through Wilbur’s innards with his sword. How quietly he said I love you, Dad as his father’s body racked with shaky sobs and aches from taking the brunt of the impact the explosives triggered. Fragmenting his wings and burning his memory.

Technoblade snaps him from his thoughts, yet Phil still finds himself shifting his attention to Tubbo still every so slightly. Knowing just from his body language that he had lost another son. It would have been easier to have said that he didn’t care enough to mourn for the Traitor, but he feels another presence settle next to him. Cold, yet inviting. Phil knows exactly who it is without having to look.

“Hi, Phil,” Ghostbur’s voice sounds low and fragile, and Phil knows that he’s not really saying hello to him, “The fire just keeps burning on doesn’t it? It’s such a shame what happened.” The blonde immortal can only nod slightly, training his unwavering gaze onto Tubbo once more. His heart breaks more as he hears a shrill, strangled sob erupt from the former President of L’manburg.

One thing was certain, though: Phil would get no sleep tonight.

“Tommy didn’t make it, did he?” Ghostbur looks at the green clad man, a little startled at the sudden tone of his voice (indicated by his jump), but he answers with a quiet No, I’m so sorry Phil. All the older man could really do was look down at a barren dirt circle as he nodded solemnly. Feeling the burn that usually comes with unshed tears across his cornea as he does so.

That’s when Phil feels that he is pushed out of the way, roughly cast aside as the sprinter leaves dust in his wake, carrying the remnants of his urgency with him. Catching golden armor glistening with the light of the blaze still burning as the figure--he recognizes now that the “figure” is Sam, the warden of the prison that currently houses Dream-- rushes to where Tubbo was. Hearing broken, chapped words akin to My boy! That’s my son! pierce through the sky, though the immortal is unsure if his ears are playing tricks on him. 

So he stands there, even as Technoblade is looking at him with a look laced with concern as Phil barely glanced at him and shook his head.

“I’m guessin’ we should go down. There’s nowhere else to go anyways.” Phil can’t help but agree with his piglin companion as he goes on ahead. Hearing Techno grumble about how steep the hill was and trying not to smile at his companion’s clumsiness. The older man finds it easier to choke out a half-laugh then to let the dam behind his eyes crumble. Not yet , Phil reassures himself, yet he knows deep down he will never get the chance to grieve. Deep down, Phil knows he doesn’t deserve to. 

For what kind of father can’t even utter his own son’s name, if not aloud, to himself?

⚞🎕⚟

“Out of the way!” Sam frantically pushes bystanders aside to get to where Tubbo was, “Out of the-” His hands immediately rush to cover his mouth, but he instead pulls off his mask. Revealing the horror evident in his eyes. His skin, though olive-toned, has started to pale in comparison to the scars over his eyes and nose. His breath is ragged and rough. Sam’s cheeks are covered in tears.

“My... My Boy!” The elder humanoid notices Tubbo look away as he collapses to the ground. Not knowing what force of nature compelled the agonizing howl of sorrow to erupt from his own throat. Raw and visceral and hurt . Slamming his fists against the ground again and again as Sam thinks that he could have been faster. He could have told Tommy to move the opening of the hotel to tomorrow or three days from today. Sam could have. Sam could have. He could have done something . 

And yet, Sam kneels in front of Tommy’s grey corpse. Gently shifting and lifting it as he gently brushes the stray strands away and whispers how he thinks that the young boy should wake up and release a string of curses the gods would be scared of. Halfheartedly hoping for a second or five that Tommy would regain his rosy, fearless composure and that the sky wouldn’t be so suffocating.

He hears footsteps two times that day. The first time is when Tubbo leaves (probably not wanting to linger around the dead for any longer than he had to), and Sam finds he doesn’t blame him. He’s a kid, after all, just like Tommy is-- was.

Sam will never get used to having to correct himself when speaking about Tommy. And he knows that no one will, either.

But, the second time he hears footsteps, they come towards him instead of away. Even as he holds his gaze to the ground and his knees buckle as the weight of the world sets in, he hears them tip tap tip across the field. Unsure of what to make of it, but knowing who it is. Knowing that he doesn’t want to hear or see what Phil has to say or do, Sam cradles Tommy’s body gently towards his chest protectively. The footsteps come to a halt shortly after, and Sam bites back the urge to say a million vile things by focusing on running his fingers through his boy’s golden curls. 

He thinks he hears Phil take a sharp intake of breath, but Sam doesn’t care. He hopes it hurts, as harsh and terrible as it sounds. He can pin the blame on Phil all he wants right now. But he won’t yell. Phil doesn’t deserve to see him break, if Dream hadn’t been able to. 

Sam asks, voice hoarse from his anguished screaming earlier, "What was it like? Killing Wilbur? Seeing your whole world die in a single second."

Phil answers, coldly, brokenly, "I wished that I had been the one with the sword pierced through my back. I wished it was my blood on Wilbur's hands instead of my son's blood staining mine red. Some nights, I still wonder if he forgave me. If he would forgive me. I would give anything to take his place, Sam. To be able to stop him from pressing the button, because I lost so much more than my wings that day, you have to understand. I lost the ability to see him alive. The price of being the Angel of Death was my mortality, yet the price of being a father," Phil looks at Sam now, really looks at him, and Sam sees Phil is grieving too, his regrets showing themselves in wet eyes and a taught jaw quivering shortly. "Was knowing I would, one day, lose them as swiftly and as quickly as I loved them."

"I've seen men like you fall, Sam. You will not be the last." and Sam blinks once. twice. Until he sees only a feather and a disc on the ground in front of him. Surrounded by the imprints of his own fallen tears.

⚞🎕⚟