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Tommy hated a lot of things. He hated the way his legs seemed fated to fall into every dirt hole they found, he hated the way he tossed and turned as he desperately tried to sleep, he hated the way his reflection looked so… shell-like, now. This was all common, all expected, because he's Tommy, and what is Tommy without anger, hatred? What is he if not loud, bitter, a force to be reckoned with, a being seemingly to only survive in spite of those who said he couldn't.
So, yes, Tommy hated things.
Yet, as he drags Wilbur's old guitar into his lap, he thinks, just for a moment, that maybe he doesn't hate as many things as he tries to say he does.
He's alone in the field he's sat in. The gloomy forest behind him taunting him vigorously. He pays it no mind, though. Simply sits, his hands on the strings.
Then, he plays. It's a slow rhythm at first. Just to get him back into the pattern of it all. He hadn't played in… a few months, now. Never had the time, really.
Well, that was a lie. He had time, after exile, but something was different, there. The in between period. He felt as if, when he touched the guitar again, who knows what would happen? Maybe he'd get that taken from him too, and he'd be left alone, truly alone. No trace of his brother to cling to, and another fucking 'coping skill ' down the drain.
He doesn't think of playing as a coping thing, maybe he should because, yeah, it does do what Puffy said was… good for him? To get all of those feelings out. Release that shit, or something. Still, it's both more and less than that. He's not Wilbur - he's not about to wax some poetic ass monologue about how it's him, nothing more nothing less, but he will say that it's… it's putting a part of himself into something, and maybe it's not talking about his problems, but his shoulders feel a bit lighter, every time he's finished with a song.
It's funny - in a fucked up way, but that was his humor anyway - how he had promised himself to play after his 'last' prison meeting with Dream. The goodbye, the close on the bastard who ruined him, and an opening on his new start.
That worked out just so well for him, didn't it?
The cords pick up into a familiar beat, one that he's played one too many times, and will play one too many more. One of the first he was proud of, it's siblings tossed and burnt when Tommy found them more tiring to work on then easy.
"I can feel it on my tongue, brick and mortar as thick as scripture," he hums, and something clicks in his body and he relaxes with the mindless movements. He had missed this, his body had missed this, and he supposes he gets what Wilbur used to talk about now. How he used to go on and on about how freeing it was, Toms! If I don't do it often, I feel like I'm going crazy, I swear!
He also supposes that's why he stopped using this guitar as time went on. Maybe there's a metaphor in all that, an irony, that the very thing that saved Wilbur, the same thing that may as well caused his destruction, is bringing the same comfort and cling to his brother.
"Drawing lines in the sand and laying borders as tall as towers, I babble on until my voice is gone,"
He thinks he hears something behind him, but he ignores it. He's quite far out for anyone to naturally find him, or hear him, and, well, if it's a hostile mob…
Would it be bad to say he wouldn't care, all that much? To say that he'd be more worried about a worn down old guitar than he'd be about himself? He wasn't even wearing armor, didn't have any fucking weapons. He didn't want to die, no, not again, but he… truly, didn't care if he did.
Whew, he almost laughs, Puffy would have a fucking field day with that train of thought.
"This hill I'll die on is about 90 meters of bricks, colored indigo, inscribed with my name, and lined with cedar. But the words fall flat like cymbals crashing, like molars gnashing," he continues, shaking his hand out before going back to strumming.
He had played around with the concept of the song far before he ever got it down on paper, or even thought of playing it. Even thought of playing the guitar in general, he guesses. Weird, the time when he didn't play the instrument feels like so long ago in his mind. As if it never really was Wilburs.
The song was about perceptions being shattered. Concepts being ruined and being tossed into the bin. He probably got the idea for the first time around when he was finally realizing his brother was a little off his goddamn rocker. Though, again, he wouldn't write any of it down for… years.
"'Cause like constellations a million years away. Every good intention, every good intention, is interpolation, a line we drew in the array,"
He's startled by a small - such a fucking small - hoof gently falling onto his leg. He jumps, wildly clutching at the guitar as he shuffles away from the -
… Toddler?
He blinks at the baby piglin, who tilts their own head at him, stepping back at his shock. What the fuck was a piglin doing out here? A baby one, at that matter?
"Um," he starts, barely holding in a nervous laugh as he desperately tries to calm his heart. "... Hi?" He offers. The piglin brightens, waddling closer again as Tommy readjusts himself. He notices that they have a collection of flowers in their arms, and he also notices that they look quite familiar to the flowers that were once in the field with him.
" Hi! Hi! Pretty!" The toddler chirps, staring at him with wide, amazed eyes. Tommy laughs at how rushed the speech is.
"I assume you mean the music, so, uh, thank you? What's your name, kid?" Tommy asks, and the toddler suddenly pauses. The soft back and forth rocking that they had been doing pausing as they continue to stare at Tommy. This time not with amazement, but with confusion.
Oh, shit. The kid might not understand common, Tommy should've said it in piglin, shit, uh oh.
" You can understand me?" The toddler asks, a few of their flowers falling from their clutches. Tommy blinks.
"Yeah?"
All nether breaks loose.
Okay, okay, bit of an exaggeration, but still. The kid lets out a squeak, dropping all of their flowers as they climb into Tommy's lap, what the fuck, man.
" I'm Michael! My dad's took me out near here, told me to go play, 'nd that they'd be back soon, but I kinda wandered off, and I heard your pretty noise! Is it finished? Can you play more?" The kid - Michael, babbles, and Tommy wishes he did not find it endearing. Truly, he does. Alas, the pure innocence melts off of the toddler, and seeps into his bones. Fucked up if true, and it is. Goddamnit.
"Hi, Michael," he says, pushing his hand out for the toddler to shake. "I'm Tommy."
" Tom'y!" Michael repeats, grabbing at Tommy's hand with his hooves. His name is a little bit fucked in piglin, he already knew this because, well, there was a reason Techno only called him Theseus , alright. Still, he lets out a soft aw at the attempt.
"You want me to keep playing?" He asks, and stifles a laugh at Michael's rapid nodding. He almost asks the kid to move out of his lap, but he gently adjusts the guitar to fit over them both, without crushing the toddler.
"Looking for the faces, looking for the shapes in the silence," Tommy continues, and Ender, if this was what he was missing from an audience - claps, babbles and little oh s, maybe he should've played for others ages ago. Michael is nodding his head back and forth, as he grabs for his flowers to do… something with them. Who knows. Maybe eat them? He used to see Techno eat flowers, but Technoblade is also… Technoblade.
"All that's left for me to climb to the heavens is the chasm of the night, and a matter of time,"
"But I hear the rumble," and there's a gasp! To that lyric, Tommy almost can't stop himself from cooing. Who's fucking kid was this? Listen, he may be freshly seventeen, but he can handle a toddler. Maybe. Probably. He could probably handle a toddler. He looks down at Michael as he strums another cord, and a vivid memory flashes before he can stop it. Wilbur playing his guitar, Tommy in his lap, amazed by the noises and babbling at every lyric. Singing along to I hate to say it, but your sister was right! In his squeaky little five year old voice, his wings puffing out with magnificent flare, even as a baby, to match along with the lyrics. He remembers the way that Wilburs laugh would shake his entire body and how he'd grin right back up at his big brother.
Yet, just as quickly as it was there, it's gone.
"As the tectonic plates start to shake, and I feel my blood pounding like the beat of a drum,"
Michael shifts, causing Tommy to let out a soft oof as he nudges into the teens ribs. He's reaching for Tommy's wings. There are two options here, and Tommy really, really hopes that Michael isn't about to rip his feathers out.
He leans his right wing down all the same, letting Michael play with the white and brown feathers. He watches for a moment, just to make sure, and oh, oh,
Michael was putting flowers in his wings. Delicately - or, as delicate as a toddler can be, - putting little flowers and leaves amongst his feathers.
"'Cause like constellations a million years away. Every good intention, every good intention, is interpolation, a line we drew in the array," Tommy sings, voice softer than before as he watches. After a few seconds, Michael seems to nod at his own handy work, and leans back, before turning to look at Tommy dead on.
Tommy did not like eye-contact, never had, but he holds it nonetheless. Not to show dominance, but to study the child just as he seemed to study Tommy. Michael's fur seemed longer on the top of his head, a bit of it tipping over and covering some of the exposed skull. He was an undead, that was obvious, but he seemed to not be over aware of it. Not like the other undead Tommy had met. They usually protected the open areas of the skull with gold, or, if they were in the overworld, other metals.
Michael suddenly reaches up, trying to grab at Tommy's face. He gently lowers it, letting Michael's small hooves cup his cheeks, before grabbing more flowers and messing with his hair.
Well. Tommy guesses that he's just this kids little garden now. He doesn't mind it all that much as he continues to hum the tune he was playing, pausing his singing to wait until Michael was done making him a pretty boy.
When Michael decides that he is flowered up enough on his head, he pushes himself out of Tommy's lap, walking over to his left wing. Tommy takes that as his cue to keep singing, and who was he to disappoint his audience?
"Clinging to the faces, clinging to the shapes in the silence,"
Michael finishes up placing flowers into his wing, and stands in front of Tommy, almost awkward, now. Tommy only tilts his head and taps his lap again, welcoming the piglin to sit back down. Michael nods, and, much more gently, sits on Tommy's lap. Letting Tommy adjust the guitar over him. Michael's eyes are still wide as he stares at the guitar, worn and loved. It makes sense, with how young he is, he probably hadn't seen an instrument, not in this server's goddamn economy. A flare of pride shoots up through him when he realizes that this is the first real music he's probably heard, and it's Tommy's.
Good. Tommy's a damn good musician.
"Like constellations imploding in the night, everything is turning, everything is turning,"
He wonders, distantly, if Wilbur would've thought this was any good. If he would've, at one point, too many moons ago to count, said holy shit, Toms! Or right behind your older brother, huh?
He won't ever know, because all that's left of him is Ghostbur, and Tommy loves Ghostbur, he does, but he's not Wilbur. For better or for worse. He didn't even recognize the guitar.
He didn't even recognize the fucking guitar.
"And the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light," if his voice is shaky, Michael doesn't notice. Entranced by the cords and the thrum and the vibration of his voice as he lays against Tommy's chest.
"And everything you thought you knew will fall apart, but you'll be all right," he finishes, laying the guitar back into his lap. Michael claps, giggling with little cheers. Tommy blinks, though, when the clapping grows, and he turns his head to see two figures.
"Hey, Tommy." Tubbo waves, Ranboo beside him, and Tommy watches as Michael clammers up and out of Tommy's lap, running over to the duo.
Ranboo picks Michael up with a small spin, cooing over the toddler and Tommy doesn't like assuming, but he did know that the two were platonically married - which, still, what the fuck, what the fuck, - and Michael did mention his father's, earlier…
Listen. He's surprised, sure, but also, no he isn't.
The family of three walks over, and Michael continues to excitedly babble, pointing to Tommy, then at his dad's, then back at Tommy.
" Tom'y!" He chitters brightly, bouncing over while holding Ranboos hand, causing for an amusing view as the tall enderman hunches over. " These are my dad's!" And, yeah, there it is, confirmation. He hums in acknowledgement at the toddler, who seems quite content with that, and goes back to babbling to his dad.
Tubbo comes closer than Ranboo does, practically standing over his shoulder. A smile plastered on his face. It almost looks convincing, if you didn't know Tubbo inside fucking out, which Tommy does. Mainly. So, he can pinpoint the stiffness in his shoulders, the slight confusion in his eyes. The way he keeps looking at the guitar.
Ranboo tries to say something to Tommy, but he's quickly dragged off by Michael. The toddler pointing at a small collection of flowers in the distance as he babbles on about the nice noise Tom'y made! Do you know Tom'y, Dada? He's nice! His wings are very pretty! Ranboo gives Tommy and Tubbo a small mouthed sorry! As he quickly follows.
"I didn't know you played." Tubbo says after a minute. He's still stiff above him, as if it's a boundary he can't cross. Something that should've been left unsaid. Never touched by either of them, unacknowledged until the end of time. Or, until they fight again, and they use it against the other to make the dig hurt and sting. To let it fester as another unspoken conversation filled with unspoken apologies because they're both too stubborn to admit their own faults, when it comes to the other.
Maybe it should've been left unsaid, but Ender, Tommy is fucking tired of leaving words unspoken. Tired of the cat and mouse game he plays with every fucking person on the server, he's not about to reopen it with Tubbo.
Dying made him turn over a new leaf, a voice says, teasing and light, Tommy pushes the thought of how it sounds oh-so-familiar away, focusing back on Tubbo.
"I didn't know you had a son." Tubbo pauses at that, before a small smile creeps up his face and he lets out a laugh, staring at Ranboo and Michael in the distance.
"Fair enough." He says, turning back to Tommy and sitting next to him. He's staring at the guitar, tracing the carvings and scars with his eyes. He seems to get stuck on the TnT's favorite! Carving, and his smile sombers.
"It really is Wilburs then, huh?" He asks.
"Yeah," Tommy replies, hands still wrapped around it, almost protectively. This is out of his comfort zone, he had never shown Tubbo that he'd kept Wilbur's guitar, and maybe he should feel guilty over that. He doesn't, though. They both had their own secrets, even from each other, and… this was his. Following in Wilbur's footsteps was his deep dark little secret. For good reason, granted, but nonetheless.
"... He's your nephew, you know." Tubbo hums, and Tommy's eyes snap to look at his best friend. He's looking at Ranboo and Michael again, who are coming back over to the two of them. Tommy feels his mouth dry, his brain go into overdrive, because, uh, huh.
"What?"
"Michael," Tubbo says slowly, teasingly, just to be an asshole. "Is your nephew, Toms."
He only laughs as Tommy tries to punch him in the arm.
Speak of the devil and he may appear, Tommy guesses, as the piglin runs back into his lap. Ranboo let's out a panicked yelp as Tommy leans back at the force, but he holds both the toddler and the guitar steady.
"You're uncle Tom'y?" Michael gasps, and Tommy blinks, looking up and Ranboo and Tubbo. Ranboo misses the silent question, Tubbo does not.
"... Did he say something?" Tubbo says, a little worriedly, looking at Michael before looking back up at Tommy. It clicks, then. Right, they don't know piglin.
"You told him about me?" He asks, voice soft. Because, the concept of them telling their kid - his nephew (???) - about him is… he has feelings about that.
"Oh!" Ranboo lights up, "yes, uh, yeah. You're his favorite."
Michael is quick to nod in agreement, mumbling about what Tommy can only assume are the stories Tubbo had told about him.
"Favorite would be a bit of an understatement -" Tubbo snorts, turning to look at Tommy. "- he doesn't fucking go to bed unless I tell him about L'manburg or some shit!"
"Tubbo!" Ranboo hisses, leaning over to cover Michael's ears. "Language!"
"Oh, c'mon, he's heard it all before." Tubbo waves him off, ignoring his platonic husband as he squawks in the background about it.
"I'll cry," he says half-heartedly. He won't - he's a big man with big walls around his emotions and he won't cry over that.
He might write a song about it, though. Who knows.
His attention gets dragged to Ranboo when his comm goes off with a little trill, and he makes a small noise when he reads it.
"Foolish needs us for the mansion, shit," he mumbles, getting up as he types back a message.
Oh. Hm. Tommy supposes that yeah, they'd have to leave eventually, but they just got here, and he was more desperate for interaction than he thought he was. Especially interaction with Tubbo, shit, he missed Tubbo.
He doesn't really notice Michael climbing out of his lap, letting out a quick okay, bye uncle Tom'y! He doesn't really notice the way that Ranboo takes the toddlers hand and starts to walk away. He doesn't notice that it's just him and Tubbo, sat alone in a field, and he could make a joke, if it didn't make him feel so fucking alone.
Tubbo gets up, dusting the dirt off of his knees. He lets out an old man groan that Wither, Tommy was holding himself back from making fun of.
Actually. No, no he will make fun of it. He loves Tubbo, but not enough to not let that shit go. Who was he, Philza Minecraft?
Fucking old man.
"Herobrine, Tubso, fuck happened to you?" He jokes, and Tubbo cracks an eye open at him, flipping him off as he cracks his joints.
"Fuck off." Yet, Tubbo gives him a hand to pull himself up with. He takes it, guitar now loosely in his other hand.
They seem to be at a standstill. Tommy can tell Tubbo wants to say something, but is holding himself back, or overthinking it, and he's sure Tubbo can do the same for him.
"Nice flowers." Tubbo eventually says, and Tommy flushes as his wings instinctively attempt to fold and hide.
"Your little menace put them on me." He says, turning his face away from Tubbo, making a show of not making eye-contact. He can't be soft. Not in front of Tubbo. Fucker is like a wolf, one sign of fear and he'll eat you whole.
That's wolves, right? Tommy's pretty sure that's wolves.
"Oh, menace? You seemed fond of him while he was in your lap, Toms." Shit.
"Michael is… a master at psychological manipulation, Tubbo. Surely you know this, as he had to have learned from his father." Tommy quickly explains, still not making eye-contact.
"You are a horrible person, and a horrible liar." Tubbo says, his voice is dripping with fondness and Tommy gags.
"Do not use your fond tone with me. Bitch."
"Dumbass."
"Fuckhead."
"Cunt!"
"Troglodyte!"
"Don't make me say it, don't make me fucking say it," Tubbo says, but his words only just barely stay comprehensive as he holds himself back from devolving into giggling.
" Say it, pussy," Tommy taunts, in the same boat as him. They're both grinning so hard it hurts. It reminds him of old times.
" Mumpsimus!" Tubbo says, and what the fuck, man. That's just - that's just fucking hurtful.
"What the fuck!" Tommy shrieks, batting at Tubbo's head as they both collapse into laughter.
"... Lickspittle." Tommy says ever so quietly, just to get the last laugh, last bit, it was a joke. A goof. A little bit, if you would.
"You're fucked in the head." Tubbo says, deadpan. "Ill. You are fucking ill." Tommy doesn't even notice Tubbo grab his guitar from him, he's too hunched into himself as he laughs.
"Okay, Tuberculosis." He finally says, giving Tubbo a smile. Tubbo gives him one back.
It's not a we just pranked that idiot so good, hell yeah, smile. It's not a how are you this stupid, how are we this stupid, I don't know but we didn't fucking die, pog, smile. It's not a we're being annoying and we know it and that makes it funnier, smile.
It's similar to the smile they had given each other when they made their first friendship bracelets. It's similar to the smile they had given to each other the night L'manburg was founded. It meant home.
They hadn't been home to each other for a while, had they?
"Theseus."
He had missed this. Ender, had he fucking missed this. The mindless bickering, the teasing. The comfort. They haven't been able to be like this in… ages. Years. Not since L'manburg.
He had missed his brother.
Yet, they still felt so goddamn far away. Tubbo was married, he had a kid! He had his own battles to face that Tommy wasn't there for. Sure, this moment was nice, sure, Tommy isn't sure that he wants Tubbo to leave right now, but they're so different .
Tubbo moved on - rightfully so, but Tommy is… ten steps back.
All of this is so fucking - bittersweet. He just wanted to sing. Alone. Herobrine.
"Seriously, though. Come on, let's go." Tubbo says, holding his hand out for Tommy to once again take. Tommy only makes a noise of confusion, though.
"What do you mean?" He asks. He tries to grab his guitar, but Tubbo only pulls it away. Tommy frowns at him.
"... Come on? We're going back to Snowchester?" Tubbo says, as if it's the most obvious thing.
In the great (quote unquote great. Quote unquote great.) Technoblades own words, uh, heh.
"... We?"
"Tommy," Tubbo sighs, shaking his head. "Did you think I was going to fucking leave you? I haven't seen you much at all since you've been revived - and now here you are, getting along with me, Ranboo and Michael. Without me even having to ask. Yes, 'we.'"
"Um."
" 'Um' your way to the nether, idiot." Tubbo sighs again, finally just grabbing Tommy's hand and yanking it along, the walk quickly turning into a speedy run as Tubbo attempts to catch up with Ranboo and Michael.
"What - hey - I didn't agree to this -" Tommy yelps, tripping over his own feet as Tubbo drags him along, holding his guitar.
"Kidnapping!" He replies cheerfully, letting out a cackle at Tommy's pained groan, and Ranboo's concerned… Ranboo noise. Enderman garble? Ranboo noise.
Well, he thinks, as his wings flutter out to balance him and Tubbo as Tubbo trips, falling into Tommy and almost causing them to crash into the soft green grass below. Maybe he could get used to this. This kindness.
Dare he fucking say it, family.