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L'manberg is gone.
That's really all there is to it. Where his country once stood, bright and beautiful and proud with its glimmering lanterns, there is a deep, shattered hole full of dust and water and debris, cold and dark. This is the second time Tubbo has been the president of a crater. But there is no hope of saving it this time.
He finds himself sitting on top of the obsidian bars that hang in the sky, the thick stench of gunpowder and sulfur and smoke filling his nostrils. It's cold up here. Tubbo knows how easily he could fall. It makes him dizzy, sure it does, but it also makes him feel powerful - he's a hundred feet in the air and if he wanted, his last life could potentially be gone in seconds.
Tubbo knows from Wilbur and Schlatt that it's possible to simply choose not to respawn. He wouldn't do that, though, just because they had.
Tommy joins him after a little while, which is surprising; he hadn't thought the younger boy would know he was up here, or would have cared enough to come find him. "Hey," Tubbo says hoarsely. He's barely spoken in days. "What'cha up here for, big man?"
Tommy is dressed in a black jacket and jeans, a midnight outfit that blends him in with the obsidian he's standing on and the void of sky behind. It's unnatural for him. Tommy always dresses in bright colours. Tonight, his hair is held back with clips and a bobble and his once-blue eyes burn like lightning against a grey storm. There is still a fading bruise on one cheek, an ugly, dim purple. Bandages are wrapped tightly around his fingers, muddy shoes far too close to the edge of the platform.
"Came up to ask if you had a light," the boy mutters. He doesn't look at Tubbo. "I lost mine during - I lost mine."
Tubbo stiffens, fingers going white against the cracked edge of the obsidian. Lost during what, he wonders - during exile, during one of his and Techno's trips into L'manberg, during his stay in the Arctic, during their fight in the ruins of the community house, during the destruction of L'manberg? "I have a flint and steel," he says, instead of allowing himself to wallow in bad thoughts. "Sit down, I'll bring it out."
Tommy does as Tubbo says and pulls his knees to his chest, eyes fixed on some faraway point in the distance that the older boy can't quite register. Tubbo flicks open his inventory and finds his flint and steel, battered and well-used but albeit still functioning. He slides it over to Tommy without a word. The sharp, chilly air creeps up his sleeves and stings his skin and he shivers violently, resisting the sudden urge to tear at his hair or smack his thighs like he sometimes does when he's anxious. Dully, he recalls Schlatt's slurred tone calling him a freak and pushes the memory back, swallowing hard and feeling sick.
He's surprised when he turns to Tommy and the boy is holding a whole packet of pre-rolled soulfire blunts, struggling to tear the outer plastic off. "Where'd you get those?" he questions, unable to keep the shock out of his voice. "I didn't think people still made them."
Tommy finally opens the box and carefully removes one of the blue tubes, shrugging like it's nothing. "Wilbur kept a hidden stash of the shit," he mutters. "Ghostbur accidentally led me to them. Must have been a reeeal happy memory for him."
The bitterness drips off his tongue like sour honey.
Tommy's hands shake on the flint and steel so badly that he drops it once and then lets out a noise of pained frustration, blinking rapidly. Tubbo takes the lead. "Here," he says softly, and holds Tommy's hand as he lights the thing for him. Immediately, azure smoke begins to gently roll off the end. "There you go, bossman, I got you."
Tommy doesn't thank him, which Tubbo's immensely grateful for. The two of them shiver in silence. Tommy watches the light at the end of the blunt flicker and Tubbo taps a tune on his knee, flicking the flint and steel open and shut, watching the flame rise. His stomach is hollow and painfully empty after almost a full day without food, which could explain why he's such a mess right now. There is a headache building up behind his eyes, making his vision white. Tommy has not yet touched the blunt to his lips, instead opting to simply stare.
Eventually, Tubbo can't take it. "Pass," he says, and plucks the blue thing from Tommy's hands - the older boy protests slightly, but goes silent upon seeing Tubbo taking a deep drag and exhaling clouds of vibrant smoke into the sky. A smile spreads across his face at the taste - awful, of course, a shock to his system that he's been craving for weeks. "Disgusting. Can't believe Wilbur liked this shit."
He takes another drag.
"It's just like a normal weed blunt," he adds after a pause. "only it gets you high faster, and it tastes less shit."
"If you say so," Tommy mumbles. "'S kinda weird."
Tubbo sighs heavily. "Good shit."
He shuffles sideways and lays down on his back across the rough obsidian, the stone digging into his back through his thin, ragged suit, worn by smoke and debris and war. Tommy follows suit, laying the opposite way with his head touching Tubbo's. They're arranged like a long line of traumatized teenager, a sandwich with nothing but silence in the middle. Tommy's blonde curls tickle Tubbo's forehead. He doesn't move. Another long inhale of smoke into his lungs and he coughs this time, wincing at the harsh sourness. He hears Tommy hack behind him, sees his hand wave in the air. "What the fuck," the younger boy mutters, none of his usual loud enthusiasm in his voice. "Keep that shit out my eyes."
"Sorry," Tubbo says quietly. His next drag is slower, and he holds up a hand in front of his mouth to block the smoke from Tommy. He suddenly remembers that this was originally his blunt anyway, but the younger doesn't seem eager to ask for it back.
Tubbo isn't scared of heights. How could he be, when he used to have those beautiful hummingbird wings, emerald green that melted into a steel blue, flecked with white? No, Tubbo sees height as a challenge, and that's maybe why he's died to fall damage more than once in his life - a carelessness around cliffs and open edges, an undeniable desire to spread wings that aren't there anymore and fly.
He remembers a day when he was ten and broke the bunk bed that himself and Tommy shared. He'd slept on top and had accidentally shook it too hard while messing around, and the bars that kept him from falling snapped off. He'd insisted on sleeping there anyway. Later that night, he'd rolled over in his sleep and fallen off, five or so feet to the ground, waking up in a pained, swimming daze. It was the first time in his life that he'd fallen and been unable to save himself with his wings. It wasn't the last.
Tubbo thinks about rolling off the edge of this one block wide bar of stone and shivers.
Tommy seems to feel his sudden fear. "I don't like heights anymore," he whispers, like he's telling him a secret. "Makes bad thoughts appear in my brain, like little fucking - bugs in my 'ead or something. Feel like they're… crawling on me. I don't like to let them know I know they're there, even though it's in my own fucking brain. Does that make sense? I actually don't care if it makes sense. You know?"
Tommy talks rapidly and messily and doesn't explain anything he says, which is achingly familiar and so very Tommy that Tubbo laughs. "Yeah, I get you, bossman," he whispers back. "I feel like that too. Makes me feel sick."
Tommy shifts position, and Tubbo feels him twisting slightly to try and get a look at his face. His voice is scratchy and very close to Tubbo's ear. "What do your brain bugs talk about?" he says, in that tone of voice that he does when he's trying to sound like he's joking but isn't really.
Tubbo humors him. "Tell me to get up in the middle of the night and squirt a whole bottle of whipped cream into my mouth," he giggles. Tommy is silent. Tubbo tilts his head back, trying to peek at the blonde through his lashes to judge his reaction. "Tom? You alright?"
"Don't call me Tom anymore," comes the quiet response, and Tubbo's heart plunges to his stomach. "Nothing personal, just don't… like th'name anymore. And I meant that question seriously." He pauses, suddenly sounding slightly embarrassed. "Although I could also go for a bottle of whipped cream. Maybe something stronger."
Tommy doesn't drink. He barely even smokes, just did it because Wilbur did, because he taught them how and he wanted to impress him. Tubbo tries not to let the joke get into his head. "What, you want an honest answer?" he says, brain scrambling to think of something safe to say, anything safe to say. "I don't… I dunno."
He sucks on the end of the blunt to fill the silence. His brain is starting to feel like mush, warm mush, thick and gooey. He doesn't know if it's pleasant or not. Light blue wafts into the sky and melts into the black void above, something for Tubbo to focus on. He watches the smoke rise and disappear sleepily, ignoring how his stomach rolls with hunger and a slight fear that never seems to go away.
"My brain bugs say some fucked up shit," Tommy suddenly says with a strained laugh, desperately trying to make a bad situation lighter. "Tellin' me to listen to whatever Dream tells me, tellin' me to stay somewhere safe like with Techno even though I - I know he hurt me, and you especially, especially you, and I shouldn't trust any adult anymore. And, uh." He goes quiet. "I can't make this funny. Sorry."
"That's ok," Tubbo says, "trauma isn't funny."
Tommy inhales sharply. "Don't use that word," he snaps loudly. "Makes me sound like some fucked up experiment or something, I don't like it."
Tubbo flinches.
The younger boy notices. "Sorry," he says, lowering his voice, instantly softening. "I won't yell. I keep forgetting."
Tubbo taps the end of the blunt and swallows, throat dry. "'S'ok."
The silence extends onwards.
"One of my brain bugs," Tubbo whispers, hands trembling above his chest. "is that I deserved everything bad that's happened. That if I had been a better spy, a better soldier, just better, then everything could have been different. Maybe Schlatt… maybe if I wasn't annoying, he - maybe I made him a bad person." Tommy makes a noise of protest, and Tubbo holds up a hand without even looking at him. "Don't talk. Sometimes I think it's my fault Wilbur died. I got caught by Schlatt, I got e-executed, and that was my fucking fault for being stupid and careless. If I hadn't, I - Wilbur wouldn't have done - he was so close to not blowing it up, he was so close and he did it because the festival was a last straw for him and that was my fault. It, uh. Keeps me up most nights. Thinking that I deserve everything that hurt because I didn't do well enough in stopping it."
He has to stop to take a few gulps of cold air before continuing, his chest tight. "I feel like I made Schlatt as bad as he was," he says, voice small. "He was a good friend of Wilbur's once. He wasn't always - bad - and - and sometimes he was nice to me. Really nice. He bought me and Q ice cream once and we all sat and watched a movie that night, and we m-made dinner, and he didn't yell once. And sometimes when he was sober he'd tell jokes and try to make me laugh, and he'd give me advice on life and dating and just… normal stuff. Sometimes we played chess. Sometimes he preened my wings when Q couldn't. He was so fucking lovely sometimes, Tommy, and it makes me think that maybe I made up all the bad times. Drives me fucking insane not being able to tell what was real and what wasn't. And even if it was… real… was it all that bad?" He blinks rapidly, shaking as he inhales too sharply on the end of the blunt and coughs, vision blurring. "I don't know. I genuinely don't know and it's scary."
There is a long pause.
"I wish he'd been worse," Tubbo whispers, so softly he can barely hear himself. He's trembling badly, heart racing. "I wish he'd been crueler and harsher and hit me more and screamed at me more just so I wouldn't be able to doubt I ever hated him."
He hears Tommy groan, dragging a hand down his face. "Holy shit, Tubbo," he murmurs, and the smaller boy's chest tightens in sudden, irrational fear.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly, breaths coming faster. "I'm - shit, I j-just dumped all tha-that on you, I'm really sorry -"
"Don't be!" Tommy interrupts. He suddenly rolls over onto his side, dangerously close to the edge, and Tubbo moves subconsciously to mirror him. Tommy's eyes are dark like stormclouds. Bags sag under them. A white arrowhead scar is barely visible on his forehead under his sandy hair. "Don't be sorry for any of that, I - Jesus, Tubbo. Don't be sorry for being fucking - abused."
The word makes Tubbo panic more. He clenches his fists to his chest tightly, feeling faint and far away. "Sorry," he squeaks out again. He forces a laugh, trying not to shake. "Sorry! I'm b-being stu-stupid, I'm - uh -"
Tommy reaches up and gently rests one hand on the crown of Tubbo's head. Tubbo freezes. The contact is fucking electrical.
"Is this alright?" Tommy asks, slightly awkwardly.
Tubbo thinks he's lost his words, now, and he's too scared to nod in case Tommy moves his hand away. Instead, he lifts a hand and makes a small knocking motion. Yes.
The blonde seems to catch on, and nods with satisfaction. "Alright," he murmurs, and slowly drags his fingers down Tubbo's scalp, lifting off at the end and then returning to his original position, pushing back his hair so gently with warm hands. Tears spring to Tubbo's eyes, but he'd rather die than let them fall. Maybe that's a bit dramatic. Maybe Tubbo shouldn't be so used to automatically thinking like that.
He wants to close his eyes and sleep. After everything that's happened today, after everything that's happened during the past six months, after fighting for freedom and being betrayed and dying and sparring and grinding and running and losing an entire election and being separated from his family and having his mind fucked with and hiding away in closets and drinking and crying and being hurt and being stressed and never knowing what he's feeling but understanding that he's afraid…
He wants to sleep forever.
"Me too," Tommy says, and Tubbo realizes he spoke that last part aloud. "Gods, Tubbo, me fucking too."
Tommy goes very quiet then.
"One of my brain bugs," he whispers, "is that… is… sometimes I…" He takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "Sometimes I'm a pussy and want to just jump from somewhere high and see what will happen."
Tubbo will not cry. He will not cry. Real men don't fucking cry.
"Your t-tower," he murmurs back. Eyes focused. Face dry. "In Lo-logstedshire."
Tommy's crying. "Mhm," he says, but doesn't seem to be able to speak much anymore either. His hands still in Tubbo's hair, and he mourns the loss of movement, of contact.
Tubbo wants to kiss the top of Tommy's head like they used to do for comfort, but he doesn't because he still doesn't know where he stands with the younger boy. If they're still friends. If they'll go separate ways after tonight. The thought genuinely makes Tubbo want to roll over and vomit off the side of the obsidian bar.
"C-can I say something?" he says, voice warbling and shaky, and - fuck, his vision's blurring and he can hear the tears in his voice. Don't let them fall. "Tommy, I - d-don't know if you're st-still gonna want to be friends with me after all this, but I need you t-t-to know how fucking s-sor-sorry I am f-for - fo-"
He's crying too. Hot, roiling humiliation bubbles in his stomach and up his throat and curls round his lungs like frayed rope. He turns away and hides his face, icy cold wind making every wet trail down his face a thousand times more obvious, chilling him to the bone. From this angle, he can see the ruins of his home much more obviously, much more prominently. The vertigo hits him without warning and suddenly he's scared he's already falling.
Then there is a hand in his own. Tommy bends his arm back to grip the other's hand tightly between them, and it's a slightly uncomfortable position for both boys but neither wants to let go. "Don't talk," Tommy says. "Especially not to put yourself down or apologize a million times when we - we both fucked up, Tubso, Christ. And… I dunno what's gonna happen after today. I really fucking don't. But I don't hate you and I never will." His eyes are piercingly bright despite being grey and dark, like a stormy sky. "You know that bit that me and Wilbur did? You're like a brother to me?"
Tubbo giggles, scrubbing at his face, a sudden warmth rising in him at the relief of the validation that Tommy doesn't hate him, Tommy still views him as a brother after all this time. "Tete, I will cry."
Tommy blinks, then laughs softly, cheeks going pink. "Wow, you really whipped out the "Tete" card, Christ. You fucking sap."
"Don't pretend you don't like it," Tubbo smiles. He shuts his eyes.
If anyone down below were to wander into the area of land where L'manberg used to be, they would see a crater. They would see a gaping hole in the universe a hundred feet deep, and they would see debris and rubble in dangerous piles, and they would see dirt slicked over the stone with rain and water sprung from piping leaks, and they would see various untouched ores peeking out from the layer of dust where everything had used to be. They would see manmade sculptures and walls and buildings and fences and signs and stalls and lampposts, reduced to shattered pieces of what they once were, just shattered brick and deformed iron and broken wood and torn paper. They would see a home blown into nothing, silence ringing through the rubble like an alarm signifying it's time to wake up and get away from this place where nothing was to be found anymore.
They might catch a glimpse of two Players atop the obsidian, laying with their heads touching, passing a blunt between them, vibrant blue smoke trailing into the black sky.