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The first time it happens after the prison it’s—an accident.
More or less, really.
It’s an accident in that he doesn’t mean to find himself in the middle of a meadow at midnight, the moon shining softly over him. He has a rusty iron sword strapped to his side, a helmet tipped over his head and nothing else. He doesn’t remember getting here. He knows he was doing— something, with Tubbo and Ranboo, and then one of them made a comment or did something that settled wrong underneath Tommy’s skin, and now he’s here. Wherever here is, alone and disoriented.
He turns in a circle, slowly. Before, he would have freaked out, alone and lost and far away from home, but now he just feels a deep exhaustion spread. His limbs are heavy, and he fights the urge to slip down and curl up in the dirt.
In the end, he doesn’t have to fight it for very long. There’s a rattling sound coming from below the trees, and Tommy barely blinks as an arrow flies past him and embeds itself on the ground next to him. Tommy looks down at his sword, and his lack of armor or shield, and lets the blade clatter to the ground.
The next arrow hits him in the leg, and he stumbles, falling to one knee.
It’s not glorious, or easy or slow. He takes an arrow to the gut, and another one in his clavicle, and he lies in the ground, slowly bleeding out for over ten minutes. He wishes there was someone else with him; all the times he's died before, at least he wasn't alone.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says when he opens his eyes again, and when Tommy twists his head he looks conflicted, mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Hey, big man,” Tommy rasps out, and then rolls over, because standing is too much effort. He’s laying on top of Wilbur’s legs, a hand carding through his hair, and he closes his eyes, the nearest thing to content he thinks he can be anymore.
“You shouldn’t be back here,” Wilbur says, and sweeps his hand over Tommy’s forehead, smoothing back the hair.
Tommy shrugs.
“Won’t matter much, will it? He’ll just bring me back.” Wilbur stiffens and his hand clenches for a moment.
"When I get my hands on him," he grits out, and Tommy sighs.
"Sorry to tell you, but you're dead, dipshit. Not much you can do about it." He lifts one lead heavy arm and pats Wilbur's hand reassuringly. The anger drains from Wilbur and he stares at Tommy with sad eyes.
"You shouldn't want to be here, Tommy," he says softly, and Tommy can't even muster up any surprise or denial.
"It's quiet, though," he mumbles. "Dream can't reach me here, or Technoblade, or Philza. I'm just—I'm tired, Wilbur."
"I know, bud," Wilbur murmurs back, voice tremulous, and goes back to petting his hair until Tommy drifts back to sleep.
He wakes up in the same spot he died in, lying in a pool of his own blood, with a blinding headache and sore body. The sun shines high in the sky, and Tommy has no way of telling how long it's been. Days, weeks? Has anyone even noticed he's been gone?
Dream knew, somehow, he thinks, and shudders.
He can't claim it's a mistake the second time.
He's been trying, he really has, but nothing works out. Henry's dead, again. Tubbo is quickly replacing him with someone else, and Tommy can't even be mad at Ranboo because he's sweet and nicer to Tommy than he even needs to be. And neither of them had even noticed he was dead.
Tommy doesn't really have the energy to be angry like that anymore, though.
He sits, legs dangling over the edge, and the netherrack digs into his hands as he clutches at his sides. He curls up one leg and rests his chin on it, wrapping his arms around himself.
"I'm tired," he says out loud. His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and he laughs.
They probably won't notice he's been gone this time, either. Maybe Dream will even take his time bringing him back. Maybe he won't, at all. Tommy snorts. A man can dream.
The lava goes quick. Tommy is dead before he can feel any pain, and he wakes up with a start in Wilbur's arms again. When he looks up, his face is pained.
"Toms," he whispers, and pulls Tommy closer, curling a hand across the nape of his neck and wrapping his other arm around Tommy's waist. "What are you doing?"
Tommy lets his head fall on top of Wilbur's shoulder and he closes his eyes.
"Tommy," Wilbur says again, and cradles his cheek with one hand. He leans down and presses a kiss to Tommy's forehead, and then tucks him underneath his chin. Tommy's breath hitches first, as he grabs the lapels of Wilbur's coat, and then he starts hiccuping until he's sobbing and shaking.
Wilbur rubs his back and pulls him closer, trying to get him to match the rhythm of his breathing. He hums something underneath his breath, and the sound is familiar as Tommy inhales and then exhales, slow.
Things really start to fall apart by the third time.
Tommy thinks Tubbo and Ranboo knew it would come to this, eventually, but he's still startled by the sight of Technoblade, sword in hand, mask off, his face twisted in anger and something that looks like betrayal.
"You hid this from me," he says. Ranboo is visibly shaking, but beside him Tubbo is holding Technoblade's gaze with eyes of steel.
"He hid nothing from you," Tubbo says. "He owes you nothing. He doesn't have anything to do with the government or—or anything! Leave him and Michael alone." Techno grits his teeth, and his eyes glint.
"You've been lying to me!" He yells, and Tommy is almost fascinated by the hurt that bleeds into his tone. Ranboo bristles, though.
"Well, maybe you should consider why I didn't tell you! Maybe there's a reason, Techno!" He yells, and then he falters. "Please, I don't—we can work this out, just talking, no one has to get hurt."
Technoblade looks even angrier now, and the grasp on his sword tightens. Tubbo glares at him and stalks forward.
"You don't touch him," he says at the same time that Techno stalks forward, and then Ranboo makes a warped sound and Tubbo is suddenly standing meters and meters away, and Ranboo is clutching his own sword with determination all scribbled over his face.
Here's the thing, right.
Tommy doesn’t think Techno is really going to kill Ranboo. He wants to believe that, at least, even if he can't be sure. He actually likes Ranboo, unlike he did with Tommy, who was at best a charity case and at worst an annoying pest that wouldn't leave his house and kept eating his food. Old Tommy would have been sure of this, would have had some faith in him.
Right now, though. Tommy doesn't even need to close his eyes to remember the explosions, the screeching of the Withers. It's not a risk he's willing to take. And Ranboo has all of his lives left, but Tommy knows how awful dying feels, even if you know you’ll come back. And Technoblade will feel guilty if he kills Ranboo, he thinks, so he might as well spare him the emotional struggle. Maybe he'll even be happy that he finally got to enact his revenge directly on Tommy. He always comes back, after all.
The other thing is: Tommy is faster than anyone gives him credit for.
He jumps as Techno raises his sword and Ranboo fumbles with his, too slow, and he throws himself in between the two.
Techno’s swing was going wide from the start; Tommy feels faintly relieved as he confirms he wasn't going to hit Ranboo, but the downside of it is that it brings the blade closer to Tommy, and cleaves him right in the chest. He drops to the ground, unceremoniously. The snow bleeds red. Tubbo, somewhere on the far left, screams.
There's a flurry of sounds around him, and he blinks as his vision blurs and he's turned gently, a pair of hands desperately trying to press down on the wound, but it's too long and too deep.
When he looks up, Technoblade is there, eyes wide, hair disheveled, and the most scared expression on his face Tommy has ever seen. It makes him look young.
"Tommy," he says, and takes back a hand to rummage through his bag. Tommy wants to tell him not to waste potions on him; he can already tell it's too late, but his mouth won't work. "Fuck, fuck. Tommy, what the fuck." He sounds panicked now, and Tommy manages to fumble one of his hands over the one keeping the wound closed, and he squeezes with minimal strength.
It's okay, he thinks. I'll come back.
Wilbur is crying when he wakes up.
Tommy shoots upwards, stumbling out of his grasp, and then leans back forward to touch his arm gently.
"Hey, uh, you alright man?" His voice is creaky and jagged, and Tommy watches in alarm as Wilbur bursts into a fresh wave of tears as he speaks. "Whoa, whoa, okay. I— come on, big man, it's okay." He puts his other hand on Wilbur's shoulder, and startles when Wilbur tugs him closer and grabs him like he's going to vanish into thin air if he's not holding onto him.
"Tommy," Wilbur says, eyes wet and voice cracked, and cradles his face in his hand so that Tommy has to look at him. "Darling, you can't keep doing this." Tommy lowers his eyes, only for Wilbur to tilt his head higher. “Please. You’re going to get stuck here, if you keep coming back.”
Tommy laughs, the noise jarring like broken glass.
“I wish, Wilbur.” He closes his eyes and lets Wilbur cradle his face and hold him close. “I’m just—I’m so tired. This one wasn’t really my fault, though.”
“Bullshit,” says Wilbur, which is fair. He’s never been able to get anything past him. “Please, just—talk to someone, Tommy. Tubbo, Ranboo. Niki. Phil, even. People care about you, yeah?”
Tommy shakes his head wordlessly and clutches at Wilbur’s coat. Wilbur sighs.
“Come on, I’ll show you how to play solitaire again before you go.”
Tommy wakes up, yet again. This is starting to feel like a joke.
His chest hurts like hell, but he still struggles to sit. He's lying on a hard surface, with a blanket tossed over his whole body, and he shudders. He really hopes they weren't about to bury him.
When he manages to get himself standing steady on two feet, he shuffles towards the door, and blinks at the blinding white snow outside.
So he's still in Snowchester, then. No way of telling how long it's been, but he probably should go say something to Tubbo and Ranboo before leaving. He doubts they're too sad; after all, they didn't seem that upset last time. He presses a hand to his own chest, breathes in. Turns around and goes to find Tubbo and Ranboo's house.
As it turns out, locating them is harder than previously thought. Tommy thinks it's a little funny. Did they leave his body there, as an annoyance to deal with later? He supposes he's grateful they didn't leave him laying around. In any case, they aren't at their house, or any other building in Snowchester.
In his little search, he runs into Jack Manifold, who stumbles into him and then stares like he's seen a ghost.
"You died," he says, and presses a hand to his eyes underneath the glasses.
"Old news," Tommy says, and shrugs. "Thought you'd be glad, anyway." And he almost turns around before remembering. "Have you seen Tubbo and Ranboo?"
Jack stares at him for a long, long moment, teeth pressed together and hands clenched.
"They're at the prison," he says after a moment. "Something about talking to Dream."
Tommy feels like ice is trickling down his spine, and he nods and turns around.
"Hey! Stay alive, for fuck’s sake!” Tommy gives a two-fingered salute without turning around, and starts running.
The prison towers over him, and it almost feels comforting, deep down beneath the layers of terror and anxiety and go back go back go back go back. He shakes his head and walks into the portal.
When he steps into the first room of the prison, the first person he spots is Sam, standing tall beneath the desk, hands on the pommel of his sword in front of him. He looks heartbroken and grim and determined, and Tommy swallows back down the swirl of mixed feelings that come at his sight.
In front of him stand Tubbo and Ranboo, expressions hostile and voices raised. Behind them are Technoblade and, most surprising of all, Philza. Tommy tilts his head.
They're all arguing, that much is clear, and Tommy stands there, catching glimpses of conversation, until Sam raises his head and sees him. He pales, then, and stutters.
"Tommy," he gets out, and everyone else startles and turns. Tommy almost feels bashful at the sudden scrutiny. Mostly, he's still numb.
“Hey, guys,” he gets out, and then Tubbo is practically tackling him to the ground, Ranboo following after and curling himself around Tommy’s side, lanky and warm. Tubbo is crying and hiccuping, and Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulders, a bit confused.
"Jesus, Tubbo—” He starts, and then blinks when something wet lands on his cheek. Above him, Ranboo is shaking, clawed hands curling around his arm. Tears are running down his face, and Tommy frowns.
“Hey, stop that,” he says, and presses a hand to the underside of Ranboo’s eyes. Ranboo startles.
“What—stop what?” He asks, voice strained, and Tommy sighs. He digs through his pockets for his old frayed bandana and roughly presses it to Ranboo’s face.
“Stop crying, dipshit. You’re just going to get more scars.” Ranboo touches a claw to the fabric and stares, and then lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“Stop crying—you died, Tommy! What—” He stutters, almost outraged now, and Tommy rolls his eyes.
“Well, no need to get so worked up about it, big man,” he says, and shrugs when Tubbo and Ranboo both stare at him. “What? It’s not like—you didn’t really seem upset any of the other times, so, what’s changed, y’know?” He laughs, but Ranboo blanches and Tubbo stiffens next to him.
“What do you mean, ‘the other times’?” Tommy twists his head so fast he gets whiplash. Technoblade is standing in front of them, boar mask on, heavy cloak cutting an intimidating shape. Phil is next to him, face twisted in concern, and Tommy snorts. Ranboo’s claws tighten on his shoulder, and Tubbo clutches his hand fiercely.
“Dream always brings me back,” he shrugs, and pushes back his bangs the same way Wilbur did. A shock of white hair falls in front of his eyes. Techno’s hand twitches, like he wants to reach for his sword, and Tommy eyes it. Was once not enough?
“This has happened before?” Phil speaks, voice soft, and Tommy is suddenly very tired and very angry.
“What do you care?” He says, and he stands up, stumbling away from Tubbo and Ranboo’s grasp. “What do you all fucking care, huh? I know—I know you don’t, so you can all stop pretending,” he spits out, and then shivers. He clutches at his own arms. He wants—he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to curl up and sleep and never wake up. He wants Wilbur.
“Tommy,” Ranboo starts, and takes a step towards him. He’s crying again, tears sizzling over his skin. “That’s not true, you know that, right? We all—” He looks back at Technoblade and Phil for a split second, and his mouth twists. “I care about you, Tommy, and so does Tubbo.” Ranboo looks at him with wide eyes, and Tommy wants to shrink underneath his gaze. Tubbo is looking too, angry and upset, and he can’t decipher Techno, Phil or Sam’s expressions.
“Sure,” he says, and he knows Ranboo knows he doesn’t believe it. Ranboo’s expression cracks further, and Tommy hates himself for putting it there.
“Why don’t we go somewhere warmer for this,” Phil says, voice soft and conciliatory, and Tommy gives him a look.
Tubbo and Ranboo agree, though, and that’s how he finds himself outside of their house, back at Snowchester. He and Techno are the last ones out. He really, really doesn’t want to go in.
"You told me to die like a hero," Tommy blurts out, and Technoblade visibly startles, staring at him through the empty eyes of his mask. "Didn't really happen that last time with Dream, though." Tommy kicks his feet against the snow. "I asked him to stop, y'know? Pleaded and shit. He just kept beating me."
"Tommy," Techno starts, and stops. Tommy clutches his coat closer, and watches Techno with half lidded eyes.
“I thought you’d be happier,” he blurts out. “That you got to, you know,” he traces a line over his throat with his finger and clicks his tongue. “Does Philza want a turn, too? Because I’m sure Dream’s loving getting to use his fucking stupid book,” he says, and almost expects Technoblade to yell, to leave. To kill Tommy again. He just stands there, though. Tommy fidgets. “Do you want another turn?” He asks, because he never can keep his fucking mouth shut. He presses the palms of his hands to the snow.
Techno looks at him for a long moment, silent. Then he opens his mouth, waits, and closes it again.
“... Do I want another turn,” he says, slowly, like he’s tasting the words. “At killing you.” His voice doesn’t waver. Tommy scoffs.
“Need me to spell it out for you, big man?” Techno ignores him, and keeps staring. Tommy gets to his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. “Great. Good talk. Let me know if you change your mind on that, or don’t, I don’t give a shit,” he blabbers, and practically runs inside.
Inside turns out to be a terrible idea. There’s just—there’s too many people. Everyone looks all concerned now, and sympathetic and shit, and Tommy is tired of it. He doesn’t want Ranboo’s panicked looks, Tubbo’s anger, Phil’s pity. Even Jack and Niki are loitering around, looking at him like he’s a half-dead animal. Tommy wants out.
He sits on the couch, the sound of low voiced conversations a buzz around him, and eyes Ranboo’s sword where it’s lying discarded next to the wall. He rubs his hands together. He’s probably fast enough to get to it before anyone can stop him, but it doesn’t feel right to make everyone watch. He lets his gaze drift back until he makes eye contact with Ranboo, who is looking directly at him, eyes wide and face pale. Tommy winces.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Ranboo says, and stands up, cutting off the conversation between Phil and Tubbo. “This is—we need to talk about this, Tommy.”
Tommy curls in on himself defensively.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, and Ranboo splutters.
“You died because of me!” He yells, and Tommy looks up at him. He’s crying again, and his hands are shaking. “Why, Tommy?” Tommy looks away from him, and picks at a hole in his pants.
“I didn’t really think he’d kill you.” He shoots a glance to Technoblade, who is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “But I knew I’d come back,” he shrugs. “And you haven’t died before, it’s shit. Might as well spare you from it.” Ranboo looks, if anything, more upset. So does Tubbo, who is clenching his fists.
“How many times?” Tubbo steps forward and looks Tommy in the eyes. “How many more times before, Tommy?” Tommy looks away, and then it’s Phil who comes closer and sits next to him on the couch, his healthy wing fluffing up around him. Tommy leans against the warmth, despite himself.
“Tommy, mate,” he says, voice gentle, and tears are suddenly pricking at the corners of his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” he chokes out. Not enough times, he thinks, and then looks around and realizes he’s said it aloud. “I just—” He starts again, because he can fix this, he can make them believe he’s fine and then they’ll leave him alone. “He won’t let me stay dead,” he chokes out instead, and makes a high pitched whine as his breathing quickens. “I just want some fucking—some peace and quiet, but he keeps bringing me back.”
There’s a hand in the middle of his back, warm and grounding, and Phil’s wing fluffs up where it’s wrapped around him. Tommy hiccups and slaps a hand against his mouth as he keeps making noise. Phil, next to him, makes a soft shushing sound and then trills. The sound is soothing, and Tommy’s shoulders drop as he sobs.
There’s soft pressure and warmth in his hands then, and he looks up at Ranboo’s concerned face. He takes one of Tommy’s hands, scarred and cold, and holds it softly. He makes a soft vroop as Tommy chokes and cries harder, and then just tightens his hold.
“We want you here, Tommy,” he says, softly, and Tommy shakes his head. He can’t do this, can’t sit here while they lie to him and hold him and pet his hair, as much as he desperately wants it.
“Alright, everyone,” he says as he shoots up, plastering his most TommyInnit smile on his face and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He claps his hands together. “This has been nice, but I got shit to do, so I’ll—I’ll see you all soon, or something.”
Ranboo stares, and Philza tilts his head at him. Tubbo looks at him angry, and disappointed, and Tommy swallows back bile.
“No,” he says, and grabs Tommy’s wrist. “No, you don’t—you don’t get to die again, in front of me, then admit you’ve died before, and just leave!”
“Tubbo—” He starts, but Tubbo tugs on his arm.
“No! Do you just not care? What’s going on, Tommy?”
Tommy stands there, mind going fuzzy around the edges, and flinches as Tubbo tries to pull his arm closer. Then he makes up his mind and wrenches his hand free.
“Maybe I don’t,” he says, and takes two steps back, clutching at his wrist. “It’s fine, okay? It’s fucking fine. And none of you fucking care either! So it’s even!”
Ranboo and Phil open their mouths, surely to spew off some lies about how of course we care, Tommy, you’re being silly, so Tommy turns around and runs into the cold.
It doesn’t get better.
Everyone treats him like he’s made of spun glass, and the wrong move will shatter him irreparably.
Tubbo barely lets him out of his sight, more paranoid than he’s ever seen him, but he won’t talk to him. Ranboo is much the same, staring at Tommy with his big sad eyes. They make for a pretty pathetic pair, but they never react when Tommy tells them this.
Phil starts showing up. His company is the most bearable one, actually, but that’s not saying much. He mostly sits around, on the roof of Tommy’s house or one of Snowchester’s cabins, feeding his flock and telling them stupid stories, always making sure to be on Tommy’s earsight. It’s fucking annoying.
Technoblade disappeared after their conversation in the snow, and Tommy hasn’t seen him again. It makes something icy cold in his chest hurt.
It doesn’t last long, of course. Tommy barely eats, and he sleeps even less. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him, but everything he eats tastes like ash, and he wakes up from nightmares more often than not. One night, he falls asleep while Phil is still around, lying on the couch Phil brought into his house, and he wakes up to gentle hands pushing back his hair from his forehead.
“W’lbur?” He mumbles, and the hands go still. He makes a disgruntled sound and the hands begin to comb back through his hair.
“Tommy,” comes a hushed voice above him. “It’s Phil. You okay, mate?”
Tommy closes his eyes, for a moment, and debates pretending to go back to sleep.
“Yeah,” he says instead, voice low. He stays on Phil’s lap, too tired to feel embarrassed or angry or anything else. Phil’s hands keep running through his hair, softly. “Sorry.”
Phil laughs a bit.
“It’s okay.” They sit in the dark, and Tommy thinks he might even be able to go back to sleep for once. Then Phil speaks, again. “Were you dreaming? Of him, I mean.”
Oh. Tommy shifts, and Phil lifts his hand a bit, unsure.
“Nah,” he says, and fidgets for a few moments. “It’s just—when I’ve, y’know, kicked it before, he’s always there when I wake up, petting my hair and shit like you’re doing now. Reminded me of it, I guess.”
Phil is silent above him for a long, long moment, and Tommy almost wishes he could see his face.
“Is he… Is he alright, there?” His voice is quiet when he speaks, and Tommy sucks air through his teeth.
“I don’t really know. I didn't get to talk to him much, I was back pretty quick every time. Maybe I'll ask him, next time I see him," he jokes, but Phil stiffens underneath him.
“Tommy,” he says, and then he’s slipping one hand underneath Tommy’s back and pulling him up so that he’s sitting upright. He lights a torch, and it illuminates the room with a dull glow. In the dim light, Phil’s wings surround him like a wretched halo, and he looks tired, and scared. “I know I’ve—I’ve wronged you before, a lot, and I’m sorry about that.”
Tommy blinks, twice. Then shrugs and looks away.
“Doesn’t really matter anymore, I guess,” he says, and Phil frowns.
“I think it does, bud,” he tilts Tommy’s face so that he’s looking back at him, and smiles tentatively. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Talking to more people. It’s—I know sorry is not enough, but I am, for what it’s worth. For hurting you, and everybody else. It wasn’t the right way to go about it.” Tommy shakes his head.
“I don’t—did someone fucking put you up to this? Because it’s not funny, Philza, I—I don’t—” He stutters, stops. Tries to breathe in normally. Phil makes a soft wounded sound, and his wings flutter closer, not quite touching but at reach. Tommy shudders.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, and Tommy can’t stop himself from leaning into him, closing his eyes and shaking as Phil rubs circles into his back. “It’s not a joke, yeah? I’ve owed you an apology for a long time. I’m sorry, mate, you didn’t deserve any of what I helped put you through, or the rest of it.”
Tommy cracks, and then splits open.
He cries silently, clutching at fistfuls of Phil’s clothes, and Phil sits with him through it, humming and trilling and softly chirping at him. When Tommy pulls back, he wipes his face gently, and smiles at him. Tommy curls back into his side and sleeps, restful for once.
It doesn’t fix things, of course.
Phil is—Phil’s fucking great, don’t get him wrong. And Tommy knows he’s trying to make amends, or whatever. But there’s some days when he can’t look at Phil without hearing TNT sizzling, and his head feels stuffed and his hands itch.
It’s not all that bad, though, he thinks. Maybe he can get better, even if he’s not really sure he wants to.
It all goes to shit again, of course.
The news spread slowly; by the time Tommy hears about it, it’s probably been hours. He doesn’t hear the whole thing, because as soon as Ranboo says prison break and Dream he’s spiraling, head loud and hands shaking. He nods to Ranboo’s concerned face and sprints away as soon as he can.
He’s fine, he knows he is. Dream couldn’t possibly actually get out, he probably won’t ever, and Tommy isn’t going anywhere close anytime soon, but still . He rubs his arms, shivering, and touches two fingers to the scar that still shows in his throat, from where Dream grabbed him while he was beating him. He bites back a sob.
He wanders back into the Nether, barely seeing where he steps. Boring and repetitive, he thinks to himself, and then laughs. His voice cracks as he does.
He’s sitting there again, legs dangling over the lava, when he hears steps behind him. Tommy curls one leg against his chest and leans his face on his knee. He really doesn’t want to hear the bullshit whoever this is has to say. The person doesn’t say anything, though. They just sit down next to him, not touching but close enough that he can feel the heat of someone else’s body.
When he looks, Technoblade is sitting there, mask in his hands. His sword is sheathed away, on his back, and he looks back at Tommy with a blank face.
Tommy balks, a little. He can count with one hand the amount of times he’s seen Techno’s full face, and none of them have been because Techno took his mask off in front of him, on purpose. He has a new scar since the last time Tommy saw him, a little line over his nose.
Tommy looks away, and back into the lava. From the corner of his eye, he sees Techno shift, like he’s getting ready to go after Tommy if he jumps. Tommy scoffs.
“I’m not gonna jump, so you can chill the fuck out,” he says, and kicks his legs out. Besides him, Techno twists the mask in his hands. The boar face stares at Tommy, its eyes empty. He scowls.
“Not gonna lie, Tommy, that’s not very convincing with you sitting here and starin’ at the lava like that.” Technoblade’s voice is carefully level, and Tommy hates it.
“What do you care, Techno? Oh, that’s right, you fucking don’t. So stop acting like you give a shit whether or not I’ll off myself and go—I don’t know, destroy some nations or kill some more teenagers, I don’t know. I don’t care.” Tommy wraps his arms around himself, suddenly cold even with the lava bubbling underneath him. It would be so quick, he thinks. “I’m not gonna, okay? I know Phil and Tubbo and Ranboo would get fucking weird about it, and I’ve caused them enough problems, so—it’s whatever. You can go.”
Techno is very, very quiet during Tommy’s whole outburst, and then some more. Tommy braces himself: for Techno to get up and leave, for Techno to get angry and—to push him into the lava. Cleave him with his sword, again. Something.
Technoblade doesn’t do any of that. He sits there, his face still as water, and then he shifts to look Tommy in the eyes.
“Tommy,” he says, and he sort of—deflates. His shoulders sag, and his face twists. “Tommy, I’m sorry,” he says, and Tommy has to take a moment. He looks to his right, and then to his left, in case someone is playing a practical joke on him. Then he stares back at Techno, and he laughs. It’s ugly and strained, and Techno winces.
“That’s a good one, Blade. Just—really good, yeah, fucking hilarious. Why don’t you get the fuck out of my face and go bother someone else, huh?” He digs his nails into his arms and drags them down, relishing the sting. And Technoblade does not leave.
“Tommy,” he says again, and this time it’s gentle, and Tommy hates it. “I know—I know I’ve done some stuff, okay, and you probably won’t believe anything I say, but I really am. Sorry.” His breath hitches, for a moment, and Tommy shifts, unsettled by this display of emotions. And then, when he looks at him, Techno is looking back looking heartbroken, long eyelashes damp. Holy shit, is he crying? Did Tommy make him cry? He is so going to die.
“Hey, uh, man, you alright?” Is what he says, because sure, this is Technoblade, but he’s tearing up. Techno scoffs.
“Tommy, I killed you,” he says, and Tommy exhales. So they’re doing this, huh. Tommy was kinda hoping they just wouldn’t address it, ever.
“Yeah, well, you know. Water under the bridge, or whatever it is they say, am I right,” he laughs, and then grimaces. Techno huffs out a breath. “Okay, listen, I just—I kinda thought you’d be like, happy about it, because you hate me now, which I totally get, so I really don’t know what all the fuss is about. It was an accident. You got your revenge or whatever, I’m tragically still here, it’s all good.”
“Stop talking like that,” Techno snaps, and Tommy flinches. “Fuck, sorry, I don’t—” Techno makes a frustrated noise and rakes a hand through his hair, pushing it back and tugging on the strands. He breathes in, and out. “Tommy, I don’t—I don’t hate you.” Tommy snorts, because that’s rich. “No, listen, I don’t. You—yeah, you hurt me, and it fucked me up, but I don’t—I don’t want you to die. I would do anything to not have your blood in my hands.”
“That’s funny,” Tommy says. He brings up his other leg and curls his arms around them. He’s suddenly very, very tired. “I wish you would have killed me, back in Doomsday, instead of blowing up the place with—with Dream. You teamed up with him, Techno.” Techno flinches like he’s been struck.
“I—I didn’t know, Tommy. You’d just left me for Tubbo, Dream was a good ally at the time.”
Tommy looks at the lava.
“I didn’t fucking abandon you. You were going to blow up L’Manburg, what—in what world, Techno, would I have helped you with that? I was fucking scared, and you dangled that fucking favour you had with Dream right in front of me, and then you teamed up with him, what was I supposed to—” He chokes on a breath, and tries to wipe the tears that have started falling. Techno is looking at him with wide eyes.
“... I really am sorry, Tommy. I know it doesn’t fix it, but I really, really didn’t mean to kill you, or Ranboo for that matter. I was just—angry, I guess.” He rubs an eye. “I think I’m done with all this fighting stuff.” That startles a laugh out of Tommy.
“Yeah, right. You said that last time, big guy.” Techno gives him the side eye and shrugs.
“I’m tired,” is all he says, and Tommy nods from where he’s resting his chin on his knees. “And I—I miss you. Or whatever.” Tommy startles, and turns to face Technoblade fully. The man gives him a shrug, but his face is flushed, and his ears are drooping. Fuck, this is sappy. Tommy tries not to cry more.
Tommy instantly bursts into sobs.
Techno startles, gets out half an apology, before Tommy tackles him. It’s not a smart move, seeing as they’re sitting hundreds of meters above lava, but Techno just goes oof and leans back a little, catching Tommy in his arms.
Tommy burrows in, curling around Techno and letting him drape his arms around him, awkward. Techno, after a few indecisive moments, runs a hand through Tommy’s hair, softly.
“I still haven’t forgiven you,” he whispers, because it’s true. Technoblade’s past actions sit in a pit deep in his stomach, acrid and black, and he hates it. “I don’t know if I can.”
Techno pets his hair again and hums. “You don’t have to. I still have—I’m still hurt, too.” Tommy knows.
“I’m sorry, too,” he whispers, because it seems fair. Techno doesn’t say anything, just holds Tommy and pets him like a fucking cat until he relaxes and goes boneless in his arms. Then, he gets up, carrying Tommy like he’s made of straw, and starts walking.
“I can fucking walk,” Tommy says, but it lacks conviction, and Techno just goes uh-huh, and keeps carrying him to the Overworld.
Tommy shoots one last look to the lava, before disappearing through the portal. Maybe, just maybe, it will become less appealing as time goes by.