Chapter Text
Dinner. It’s dinner.
He doesn’t know why the thought of it makes him nervous.
Dinner with his best friend, his favorite person in the whole world.
He doesn’t know why the idea of sitting there and smiling over plates and forks and knives makes his stomach swim with bitter nausea.
Who he’s known his whole life, and his whole second.
He doesn’t know why the nice button-up he’s put on makes his skin itch, makes him want to burn his body away until he’s a pile of ash in the snow.
Who he knows like the inside of his own mind.
He doesn’t know why dinner feels like such a fucking challenge. He can be normal, right? For one night he can be normal for Tubbo. Surely he’s capable of that. Even if Tubbo won’t meet his eyes. Even if fucking Ranboo is there with their stupid son.
It’s just dinner.
Wilbur’s old coat is warm on his shoulders as he treks through the snow, as he reaches the cozy little cabin. The ice crunches beneath his boots.
Snowchester is chilly. The wind swirls around the wooden structures of the town, ice slicks over the windows. It’s sort of a given, he supposes. It is called Snowchester after all. But Tommy doesn’t like the way the icy air bites at his skin, almost like pain, but not quite. He doesn’t like the way the snow makes him remember.
(Another cabin, in the tundra. Another cabin and another snow and another time. Another life. The memories taste like betrayal. They taste like longing. He misses it and hates it all the same.)
He hesitates, just a moment, out in the cold, giving himself time to take a breath and compose himself, before knocking on the door.
After a few moments, it swings open, warm air hitting him like a blast. Ranboo smiles at him from inside, tail flicking in that nervous way he always seems to be. “Hey, Tommy.”
Tommy crosses his arms. (Dinner. Just dinner.)
“Ranboo.”
“Right. Well.” He pauses, just long enough for it to be awkward. “Come on in,” he steps aside.
The house is pretty. The furniture is all very fancy, but not too much so. It’s organized and nice to look at, it goes together. Tubbo’s always had an eye for design where Tommy fell short. There are little toys scattered around. A blanket. All Michael’s, he assumes. There’s a familiar cloak on a table, that Tommy quickly turns his eyes away from. (Blue and white, fur around the collar, just like Techno’s, just like Phil’s) It’s very... lived in, it’s homey. The air inside is warmer for the heat but also for the atmosphere. It’s well-loved, the little home. Tommy shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and tries to pretend they’re not shaking.
He’s fine. It’s dinner. He can be fine for dinner.
The wood creaks beneath their feet as Ranboo leads him up the ladder in silence. Tommy’s careful to avoid splintering his hands, the thought of the sting of something cutting through his skin making him want to puke.
When he makes it to the top floor the smell of food hits his nose. (He finds that despite it, he’s not very hungry. He lost his appetite in exile somewhere and never really found the time to try to bring it back. The food he ate at Techno’s always tasted a bit like nothing, like dust. He’d attributed it to Techno’s shit seasoning at the time, but even here, even home again, everything’s a little tasteless, a little dry. Eating makes him sick most days. But he won’t let that ruin tonight. He’s okay tonight, for Tubbo’s sake.)
When he peaks his head out he’s greeted with the sight of his best friend holding a spoon in one hand and a child against his hip with the other. Michael blinks at him as he walks in, little ears flicking in curiosity.
Tommy’s always thought it’s funny how piglin ears so easily give them away. He remembers that as a kid, Techno would scowl at his and Wilbur’s little bits, call them children, tell them to grow up. But his ears would always flick and that’s how Tommy knew he thought it was funny too. It felt like a secret. He liked knowing he could make his brother laugh. (No, that’s not right. Not brother. Techno was never his brother, and he never will be. Because he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Tommy.)
“Hey!” Tubbo smiles at him, hands the spoon off to Ranboo, and walks over, Michael still staring.
Tommy tries to remember how he’s supposed to respond. “‘Ow do?”
“I’m good, we’re good.” He looks at his son. “Michael, say hello to Tommy.”
Michael keeps staring at him, and there’s a brief silence before the boy says “Baa,” with the confidence of an adult who’s saying a real word. Tommy laughs. He’s a charming one, Tubbo’s little Michael.
“He’s your uncle,” Tubbo says, his voice all pitched up and funny. Tommy’s heart stutters at the declaration. He didn’t know he was allowed to be a part of his life.
Tommy sticks out his hand on instinct, and once it’s out he’s not going to back down, so he grips the kid’s hand in his and gives it a gentle little shake, all business-like, careful not to pull too hard. “Hello, Michael.”
Tubbo giggles and Ranboo comes up from behind, puts a hand on his shoulder in a practiced movement. It’s all perfectly domestic, the scene before him like they’re posing for a family portrait. Tommy tries not to choke on the sweetness, he tries not to bristle with jealousy. He has no right to feel that.
“Um, food’s ready.”
“Great.” Tubbo plops Michael down in a chair and gestures for Tommy to sit as well. Tommy ignores the gesture and helps them carry over plates as Michael claps at nothing.
As they sit there’s a near-painful moment of silence that no one really knows how to fill. Tommy’s always been good at small-talk. He used to be.
“So.” He says.
“So.” Ranboo echos.
“Your country is...” Tommy tries to find the right word for it, the way it makes him sick, a little. He searches for the rhythm they used to have.
(“Do you like me less?”)
“Nice.” He settles on, not too strong, not too harsh. “It’s nice.”
Tubbo nods around a wince. “Thanks, but it’s not a country.”
“No?” He glances out the window at the flag flapping in the wind.
“No.” Tubbo says and doesn’t elaborate.
There’s another stretch of quiet, Tommy fiddles with his fingers. The only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, and even it’s swallowed up by the room.
“How have you been?” Says Ranboo, an olive branch of sorts.
Tommy bites down hard on his lip, because he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Because if he does he’s gonna ruin things. “Fine,” he says, clipped. His eyes are locked on his plate, and Michael begins to babble beside him.
He feels wrong, for some reason. He feels off. And that’s not rare these days, but more so than usual. The silence of the room is suffocating, empty air a clear reminder that no, nothing’s fine at all, that he and his best friend have a chasm of distance between them that Tommy doesn’t even know how to begin crossing. It’s achingly familiar, the quiet. Like the void all over again.
He feels like the walls of the cabin are closing in on him, he feels like he’s gonna be squeezed to death. He feels their gazes in him, swirling with concern and pity and awe like he’s some carnival attraction.
( “The clown circus,” says Techno, laughter in his voice. “It’s redundant, I’ll admit.” )
“Can you stop doing that?” He says suddenly, and his stomach sinks into his toes.
“W-what?” Ranboo glances at Tubbo and they have a quick little conversation with their eyes that makes Tommy feel entirely stupid and isolated in a way that he shouldn’t because he’s fine, he needs to be fine.
They turn back to him and their gazes burn in a funny way (it isn’t really all that funny.) Tommy finds that he sort of can’t breathe.
“Just,” he huffs, looking at the table, looking at Michael who just chews on his thumb. “ Just fucking stop it. ”
“Tommy, what’s wrong?” Says Tubbo, a worried lilt in his voice, but all Tommy can hear is pity and a vague disgust. He tries to bat the thoughts away. It’s dinner, he promised he’d be okay for dinner.
“I’m fine.” He snaps, smiles tightly.
“Tommy-“ says Ranboo, and Tommy says “Can you shut the fuck up?” And he shrinks back in his chair.
(“Let’s be the bad guys.”)
“Woah, what the hell, man?”
(“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”)
“What’s wrong with you?”
(“Well, it's not like they want you anyway, Tommy.”)
“You’re being a dick, Tommy.”
“He’s being a dick.” It’s heat from his tongue, he spits bullshit because it tastes better than his own blood.
“I haven’t said anything-“
“Shut up, Ranboo.” They say together because apparently, they’re only in sync when they’re angry.
“Tommy, please.”
“Tubbo...”
“What?” (“I’m sorry, Tommy.”) “What? ” (“I am so sorry.”)
“I should leave. This isn’t-I can’t be here.”
“What?” He sounds hurt and Tommy wants to cry.
“This is too much, I don’t want to impose on you and your family.”
“You’re a part of my family, Toms,” Tubbo says, softly.
“You don’t have to do that.” Tommy shakes his head, wraps his arms around himself. “You don’t have to include me. I don’t need your pity.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tubbo’s squints at him like he’s stupid. “Not everything is about pity, Tommy, you’re my best friend, I wanted to spend time with you because I miss you.”
“Tubbo, you have your husband and your son and your life. You can just leave me out of it, I’m-“ he doesn’t finish.
“I just wanted to have dinner, Tommy, you couldn’t manage that, really?”
“I thought. I...” he trails off.
“What?”
And it’s the look in Tubbo’s eyes. Tubbo who used to look at him with a sparkle in his gaze. He turns his eyes to Tommy, really looks at him for the first time in what feels like forever. And he’s angry. Demanding and hostile and tired. He’s tired of Tommy and his bullshit. Tired of Tommy ruining things.
(Tommy will admit, he is too.)
He wanted to make this work, he wanted it so badly. He swore to himself, up and down, that he would, that things would be different now. But he couldn’t. When it came down to it he failed again.
Because he’s weak, because this town makes his skin crawl and he doesn’t quite know why, because there’s something in his brain that’s fucked, something that doesn’t fit right. And no matter how hard he tries to jog it back into place it stays jammed, and he stays awful.
“I couldn’t, okay?” Shame burns in his chest, “I can’t.”
He’s a fool, really. For all the shit that he’s gone through, he’s as naive as he’s ever been. He’s a fool. For thinking he could be normal. For trying to act like everything is fine. Because it isn’t, not for him. Ranboo and Tubbo are done with the fighting, they’re done with the war, they’re sat here in their perfect little house with their perfect little family, and what does Tommy have? After all this time, after all this fighting, what does Tommy have?
“Why not?”
“I just. It’s just-“ Talk, Tommy, talk. He’s good at that, he used to be.
(“You’re like an annoying little bug I can’t flick off.” )
“I hate it here, I think.” He tastes blood in his mouth. “I know it’s selfish or something-“
“It is selfish,” Tubbo speaks and Tommy’s silent immediately.
(“Selfish.” Tubbo’s voice is cold and his eyes are empty as he looks at him. Tubbo’s never looked at Tommy like that before, never used that tone of voice. He stands on obsidian and stares down at him. Suddenly the situation feels much less funny, it feels likes something is beginning to shift and once it has it won’t be able to go back.)
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t-“ his voice gets caught. His throat is empty.
“Really,” Tubbo pushes, irritated. “I wanna know. What’s so goddamn wrong with my home.”
“It’s not L-I just-“ he looks out the window, “I hate this stupid town! I hate-“ he stops himself.
“What?” It’s flat, the way his voice carries. Void of anything resembling care. Tommy can’t say he blames him for that.
He backpedals. “Nothing.”
Ranboo stands and scoops Michael up, carries him out of the room.
“What?” He leans back in his chair, drops his hands on the table. “Stop speaking in fragments, Tommy, talk to me.” He reaches for his hand.
But Tommy doesn’t want to talk anymore, he stubbornly shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s fine.”
Tubbo lets out a humorless laugh. “It clearly isn’t.”
“Just leave it, Tubbo.” He shakes his head, squeezes his hands into fists to stop them trembling. “I’m fi-it’s fine.”
“No, I want to know.” He goes on, “Why do you hate it here? Why’s it so awful?”
“It’s cold.” His nails dig into the flesh of his hand a little too sharply and the pain nearly makes him jump. “It’s cold and it’s ugly-“
Tubbo begins speaking above him “oh real mature. You’re being ridiculous.” He looks away like he’s dealing with a child, tugging on his last nerve.
“-All the buildings are too homey and empty. My fuckin' memorial is here. It’s not my home.”
Tubbo snaps. He slams his hand down on the table. Tommy does everything in his power not to flinch away.
(There’s a sick little part of him that wants this though. Because anger is normal, anger is better than whatever Tubbo’s got towards him now, Tommy can handle anger.
And if you drive someone away, they can’t walk on you first.)
“Then don’t come here! Leave.”
“This is where you are,” he says carefully, his voice is hoarse with unshed tears he’s desperately trying to blink away because Tubbo’s TommyInnit doesn’t cry. “I’m not gonna leave you, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you! I don’t know what you want.”
Tommy closes his eyes, a little fire stirring up in him. Because that’s not fair, it’s not fair to ask that of him. “You don’t know anything about me! Not anymore! You couldn’t possibly understand half of what’s happened to me, Tubbo. You don’t know me.”
“Then tell me!” He screams. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what happened to you. Tell me what you want, Tommy, for fucks sake I’m not a mind reader!”
“I don’t know!” He heaves, sob escaping his lips. “I don’t-“ he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, tries to level his breathing (for some reason all he can think about is fucking Technoblade’s voice, when they found the final control room under L’manburg, when they were scouting and collecting dogs and still on speaking terms. When Tommy saw the buttons and he lost it, a little, tunnel vision and hyperventilation. When Techno put a hand on his shoulder, gently told him to follow his breathing. In and out and in and out. ) “I want everything to stop being so fucked up. I want Dream dead. I want my family back, I want Wilbur.
I want you to stop looking at me like that!” He drops his arms, rests them against the table, a weariness suddenly slamming into him. “Like I’m invisible or something. I want you to stop staring through me. I’m not dead anymore, I’m real, I’m real. I’m not broken, Tubbo, don’t step around me like I’m fragile, I’m not fucking broken. I’m alive, I’m alive. I want to go back to when it was okay. I want my best friend back.”
“Tommy, I’m right here,” Tubbo reaches out, grips his hands, exasperated, “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“But you have. Can’t you see that you have? I mean, you just stare at me. You stare and me like I’m a fucking freak of nature, like I’m a miracle. I don’t want to be that, I don’t wanna be some science experiment. I wanna be Tommy, treat me like Tommy.”
“I don’t think we have the luxury of that, anymore, Toms! It is a miracle that you’re back! It’s fucking incredible. You can’t be upset at me for thinking it’s strange. You’ve died twice now and come back. I think I’m allowed to stare.”
“It’s dehumanizing, Tubbo! I feel like a monster.”
“You’re not a monster, Tommy, don’t be stupid.”
Tommy tries not to wince.
“Really? Because I feel like right fucking Frankenstein, pulled back to life by a crazy bastard on a power trip.”
“I’ve lost you twice Tommy, I-“
“No, you left me twice!” The silence come back full force. Ranboo walks back in the room and hesitates in his steps, glances between the two of them and stays by the door. The air is thick with that deafening silence again. And it’s like he’s in exile, like he’s in the void. Waking up dead.
Tommy keeps his voice as level as he can manage, but it’s still raw with emotion. “I was in there for three weeks, Tubbo. Did you even try to get me out? Did you even ask?” He looks away from Tubbo’s eyes because he can’t handle that level of intimacy. “Did you even notice I was gone?”
And there it is, he supposes. The little bombshell. The question that’s been eating at him, that kept him awake in that suffocating cell. That festering insecurity, that fear.
Because the thing about Tommy, is that he would do anything for Tubbo. Anything in the world. He would sacrifice his life, his discs, his freedom, his nation, his relationship with his father and his brother. He’d abandon his home and his cause and his everything. He’d give it all and give it again. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep him safe, to keep him happy.
And there’s a part of him that reminds him that he loves too hard, comes on too strong. That if he holds onto someone too tight they’ll choke.
But he can’t help it. He’s just always so afraid of the moment he’ll realize who Tommy is and walk away. Everyone has one. People who swear to the sky that they’ll never go, that family is forever and their love isn’t easily broken. At the end of the day it’s all the same. They all leave. And Tommy never sees it coming. Ever blind-sided.
He’s helplessly torn between the desire to shut people out before they leave on their own accord, and being so attached he drives them away on his own.
Phil left him, knelt in the rubble of his nation, blood in his throat, a desperate and deep sort of sadness swimming in his chest, a sorrow. Techno left him too, with a hat and an axe that meant nothing at all. Tubbo left him to a beach and a white mask and endless holes in the ground. Ranboo left him to empty mailboxes and a friendship built on debt. (He didn’t lie for Ranboo to gain a favor. He thought it was the right thing to do, protect someone who was kind and innocent. Tommy doesn’t do things for a price, he hates that that’s the way their world functions. Finding out the only reason he visited was because he thought he owed Tommy a debt? It all suddenly felt so horribly disingenuous, so fake, a friendship forged in cheap paper.) Jack left him for murder, for business and nuclear bombs.
And Wilbur left him. His brother, who practically raised him, who taught him everything he knew, taught him to be better than that. He left Tommy for blood. For petty revenge and paranoia. For righteous fire and TNT and taking the place down with him.
Tommy doesn’t know what to do. He feels a scary sort of desperation under his skin. To cling to things so tight he blacks out. To slam the door in the face of everyone who’s ever cared about him. He just doesn’t want people to keep leaving, but he can’t figure out how to get them to stick around. He can’t figure out what’s wrong with him.
When it’s all said and done, Tommy loves others more than they’ll ever love him. He’s never gonna be someone’s first choice, there will always be an adventure, or a presidency, or a duty, or a husband.
He knows that. He gets that. And he’s dumb for charging forward anyway, knowing that when he stops it’ll feel like dying all over again, but he understands. He’s annoying, he’s a handful, he’s loud and clingy and reckless.
Tommy would give up the world for Tubbo. Tommy would burn it to the ground.
But Tubbo wouldn’t do the same. Because he has some goddamn self-respect. Because he’s got a brain in his skull, he’s got a spine, he’s got his wits and his heart is steady. And because Tommy isn’t worth all that, is he? Tommy doesn’t deserve it.
“Tommy, I-“
“I died. He-Dream killed me, I was dead, for months. It was-God, Tubbo it was so dark, and it hurt. I thought it’d stop hurting if I died, but I was wrong, I was wrong, it didn’t. I was dead.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t grieve. I had to bury a casket with no body, Tommy. Again.”
“Oh well I’m so sorry me dying is such an inconvenience to you. Next time I’ll do it somewhere that my body will be easier to collect.”
“That’s not what I meant.” But Tommy’s chest burns with acid. He spits vitriol.
“Isn’t it?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t just sit there and mourn forever, Tommy! I thought you were gone, I couldn’t just sit there and hope you’d come back.”
“You got married. You didn’t even wait. I would’ve torn that prison apart brick by brick if I knew you were trapped in there. I would’ve broken in my damn self, I would’ve raised hell, but no. TommyInnit’s not worth all that is he? Thank God he’s finally fucking gone.” He sighs. “Married. You got married, Tubbo. To fucking Ranboo of all people.”
Ranboo stares at his shoes like they’re very interesting at the mention of his name. Tommy just tries to pretend he isn’t there. Tubbo crosses his arms, defensive and angrier, all of a sudden. It’s almost sweet, the way he defends his husband. With fire in his eyes. Tommy misses when they had that. When he still had that. “That’s not fair, it’s not his fault.”
“I know it’s not but I can’t fucking help it. I know I’m replaceable, okay?” He looks at Tubbo, a helpless feeling growing in him like a virus, like vines, infecting his ribs and turning his insides to rot. “But did it have to be him? He already has everyone I’ve lost. And it’s not his fault, I know that, I know that. It’s not his fault he’s better, it’s not hard. It’s not his fault they left, it’s mine, for being so... the way I am, I guess. But it still stings, okay? That he can just slide in where I fell out. That I never really fit in the first place.”
Because Ranboo gets along with Phil. He’s seen them speak to each other, about each other. It’s fond. It’s familial. It’s fatherly in a way Phil never was with him or Wilbur. He saw the way they bantered. Just briefly, snagging golden apples for the fight against Dream. The way they’re comfortable around each other. And sometimes Ranboo has Techno’s cape over his shoulders, and it’s on the table in their living room, the gold clip at the front, padded collar. Puffy told him the way Techno immediately threw his trident to Ranboo in his time of need, not a second thought, not an instance of distrust. And Tubbo, gods Tubbo, Tubbo looks at him like he hung the moon. Like every word he’s ever said is important and deserves to be heard. Like every breath needs to be documented.
And now Phil won’t even look at him. And when Techno sees him he’s bitter and cold. And Tubbo doesn’t really see him at all. Just a ghost.
“Tommy,” Tubbo softens, “you’re not-“
“I have to go.” Tommy stands abruptly, wipes his tears. “He’s a great guy, okay Tubbo? I love you. I’m glad he makes you happy. I have to go.”
("They’re lying to us. Tubbo?! He's lying to you, man!” Wilbur’s words are scattered, his eyes wide. “He would drop us at the second he realizes we're not in the lead anymore!” )
“Tommy wait-“
He grabs Wilbur’s jacket off the back of his chair and slides down the ladder, pushing past Ranboo on his way. He hears Tubbo and Ranboo speaking behind him, but he just keeps going. He shuts his eyes as if to will away the oncoming tears. His breath is unsteady and he stops for a moment at the bottom, sits down and holds his face in his hands, trying a little hopelessly to hold himself together.
He takes a shaky gulp of air, tugs the ends of his hair.
It’s stupid. This whole thing is stupid. Tommy is stupi-
Something pokes his shoulder and he throws himself away from it.
It’s Michael, big sweater bunching around his little hands. He’s a cute kid, Tommy’ll give him that. Shiny eyes, stupid little teeth. (He reminds him a bit of Techno. His heart pangs with hurt at that thought, but it’s a practiced sort. He’s used to the pain.)
“You,” He points at him, “are supposed to be in bed.”
Michael steps towards him cautiously, as if expecting him to flinch away again. When Tommy doesn’t, he tugs his sleeve, as if to pull him back up the ladder, towards the main room.
Tommy laughs wetly. “No bud, I have to go.”
Michael doesn’t seem to understand that, or at least, he doesn’t care. He tugs his sleeve again, more aggressively this time.
“I’m sorry kid, but I don’t think they wanna see me right now.”
Michael says nothing of course, because he’s a toddler.
“I said some stuff I-gods.” Tommy swipes away his tears with the heel of his hand. “It’s fucking stupid, I’m just overreacting.” He sniffs. “Don’t tell your dads I said fuck.”
This he apparently understands, nodding very solemnly in agreement. Tommy gives him a weak smile.
“Give 'em hell for me, okay? But don’t tell them I said hell.”
The kid blinks at him, tilts his head to the side. Tommy doesn’t like when people look at him normally, he feels like an attraction, something to gawk at, a lion in a cage, a thing. But Michael sort of just looks at him the way all kids look at everyone. It makes him feel exceptionally average.
Suddenly, Michael jumps forward into Tommy’s arms, gives him a big hug, warm and kind. It isn’t uncomfortable, but only just. Tommy’s not used to being touched, but he manages not to flinch, to pat the boy’s head and pull back. “Bye, Michael,” he nods to the boy, walks out the door, his head reeling from the argument and the panic and the guilt.
( “What am I without you?”
“Yourself .")
It doesn’t feel like enough.