Chapter Text
Tommy really should’ve known. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how he didn’t realize what was happening, given how often he’d find himself not hearing someone call his name just a few times too many. How had he gotten there?
Well, first there were… god, three? Three explosions of L’manburg? Was it that many?
Guess they were too stubborn to take a damn hint.
Tommy didn’t really remember that far back in close detail, couldn’t recall that well the sweet summer nights where Wilbur let him stay up to catch fireflies, or the autumn mornings when there was always a cup of steaming hot chocolate left out, or the afternoons where the atmosphere was so quiet and safe that he’d fallen asleep among blankets and brotherly love.
He remembered feeling terrified, because back then he was young and naive, and- it wasn’t even a year ago. He remembered the rush of terror, or adrenaline, the shock at what had happened in the first explosions. He remembered feeling betrayed in the second, but he knew that he couldn’t do anything to stop the ground from shaking or the air from screaming in his ear. He could only shout trying to be heard, trying to find Tubbo, trying to find the one person who he could trust, at that moment.
He hadn’t recognized the effects of those two events, but looking back, he could tell that conversations had sounded duller. Not so noticeable. He hadn’t been too bad off.
Then, the third- or, no, that’s not right. There was another one before- oh, no, there was so…
Logstedshire. The daily blowing-up of his armor.
His third exile messed with more than his mind, huh?
Tommy supposed that as the days passed, the explosions had rung in his ears less and less, he was just too out of it to realize. He thought he was just blocking out Dream’s words as they wormed their way into his brain, and now that he thought about it, there were days that Dream had startled him, only to yell in his face. Maybe Dream thought Tommy was ignoring him? He would never ignore Dream.
Tommy shook his head as if to escape the thoughts that still plagued him.
And then- and then there was the main Logstedshire explosion. There was always that little voice in him that still tried to convince him that he deserved it, but he didn’t listen at all. He couldn’t really, the sadistic part of him mused. Not with his hearing all shot. Maybe the main Logstedshire explosion was why he couldn’t tell how loud he was being in Techno’s basement. He must’ve not realized how worse off he was because Techno’s voice was low, and the low sounds were really the only ones he could hear. That didn’t mean that Tommy could hear Techno perfectly, but he did his best. Tommy missed Techno.
No… He couldn’t miss Techno. Not when Techno had been the cause of the third L’manburg explosion- but three was the lucky number, Tommy supposed. Three exiles, three lives, three deaths, three decimations of Wilbur’s home that he’d wanted so desperately to be his, but it never was.
The third L’manburg explosion was the worst of them.
Tommy still remembered the blast of the TNT hitting the ground and throwing him backward, but the force of it didn’t ring in his ears anymore. There was barely anything left of his hope, of his home, of the place that had pushed him away when he’d fought against the tide to reach it. There wasn’t much to think about here. He certainly didn’t want to, either. The large black grid and the light of pure energy hitting his body haunted him in his sleeping hours; he didn’t need them while awake, too.
Oh.
Then there was the whole Snowchester one. The one where he’d seen, more than heard, Niki wanting him to follow her, so he had. He missed Niki. He missed her hugs, he missed her humming as she baked and the way that she let him eat off of the spatula once she had finished with it, but scolded him gently when he tried eating hot cookies fresh out the oven. Tommy wanted to spend more time with her.
Instead, all he’d gotten was another thing to add to his trauma list that only existed in his head.
The large black thing in the sky that he took to be a bird before it got just a little too close, the malicious and lost look in Niki’s eyes growing to frustration as she realized she’d missed her mark, the push that he’d felt in his chest, the pressure there, instead of hurting his ears. He’d crouched there, clutching his chest and panting, until Niki came over with her fake sympathy and asked if he was okay. She’d offered him some healing potions, but it was clear she was sorry to see them go. Rolling over on the ground onto his back to stare at the sky was fine, until Jack stood over him. He’d said something that Tommy couldn’t quite catch but looked suspiciously like, “Is he dead?”
At least the worry in Tubbo’s eyes had been genuine.
Tommy couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear for shit, unless the occasional word here or there got through, or however it was phrased. He didn’t want to know, really. Didn’t want to face that he desperately needed help.
He didn’t know what to do with this realization. There… wasn’t much he could do, was there? He couldn’t tell Tubbo, because although he had been more clingy since Tommy had been trapped in the prison, Tubbo was busy with Snowchester, he couldn’t tell Ranboo because that meant a journey up to the arctic (either one), he couldn’t tell Dream, because Dream was… and Wilbur was dead, Phil barely knew him (to Phil he was just words in an unopened letter), Techno hated him… Puffy? No, he’d barely even spoken to Puffy, that was a bad idea. She’d just assume he was lying.
That’s how Tommy ended up at the little grave he’d made for Wilbur, all alone, watching the sunrise. It was hardly even a grave, if you could call it that. It was a flat stone shoved into the ground under Wilbur’s favorite tree. Not the L’mantree, but the tree that they spent afternoons under together in the early days of the server. Was it a cherry tree? He wasn’t sure, but the sparse blossoms looked like cherry ones.
There were only good memories connected to this area that now, only he knew about. There was no memory of Pogtopia, no reminder of the lantern-lit cavern.
Maybe that’s why he put Wilbur’s grave there. There were no blemishes on the past there, he could sit alone and bask in the warmth that it gave him without the knowledge of whatever wars would spill blood on the ground that he sat on. He could pretend to only remember the Wilbur from before.
His back was against the tree trunk, watching as the birds hopped around. They looked happy, he thought, because they had no grasp on the horrors that he lived through. How unfair, he thought, that something should be able to live a life oblivious to the world that actually exists, full of pain, and heartache, and death.
No, he thought again, shaking out the negative presence. It wasn’t unfair. Maybe one would think that, but maybe it was fortunate that some beings of the world didn’t have to deal with what he did. Really, no one should have to go through everything that had happened in his life. It was just unfortunate that he had. Tragic, even.
Tommy watched the birds hopping in the trees or prancing on the ground, beaks opening in song. He tilted his head in confusion. Why couldn’t he hear it? He could remember what they sounded like, but he couldn’t hear the beautiful chorus that he’d once spent countless afternoons listening to.
It made him sad that he could no longer hear the birds singing at Wilbur’s grave.
“Hey, Wilbur,” he started, lowering the pitch of his voice. It made it clearer, less fuzzy, even if clearer it sounded like someone was whispering from the other end of a tunnel. “Things have been pretty rough since my last visit. I, uh, I’ve realized something. I can’t hear as well as I used to. It’s pretty shit, actually, and it’s been happening for a while now. I guess I didn’t want to face it, yet. I just… I wonder how many times people have called my name and I didn’t answer because of all of the stupid TNT. God, they must think I’m a dick.” His eyes filled with tears. There. He’d said it. Saying it made it real. “I hope you enjoy the birds today,” he sniffled, “Let me know what they sound like, okay? I can’t- I can’t hear them anymore. They’re too quiet. Or too high-pitched. I don’t know which one, really. I’m all alone in this, I suppose. It sucks. I miss you, Wil. The old you, not the Wil that you became.” He sat there a moment longer, before wiping his nose and standing up. He didn’t hear the crackling of leaves and grass under his feet. “I’ll be back soon.”
He hadn’t decided if that was a lie yet.
Tommy kicked rocks on the path all the way back to L’manburg, or what was left of it, anyway. He didn’t hear them skitter against the other rocks, but he didn’t care. It was something to do, anyway. His mind was plagued with thought, be it what he was going to do, or how he was going to hide it.
He had seen the pitying looks from everyone. They thought he was weak after all he had gone through, and he didn’t need to give them another reason to think that. Another reason as to why he was a child.
A child that had been through numerous wars, but they only cared about his age. When it let them exclude him. When it was convenient. When they didn’t want to be around him. They only acknowledged his age when they could blame something on him, or when they could belittle him.
Tommy was sick of it.
They hadn’t been the ones to kill Dream weeks-- months? ago, had they? No, he was the one who looked that little green bitch in the eyes and sacrificed any hope of his brother coming back for the safety of the server. Tommy didn’t regret it. He couldn’t, because if he regretted it, then he’d never sleep at night. Sure, the sight of the mostly-finished and abandoned prison still haunted him with the possibilities of what could have happened, but they never would. Dream was dead, and Wilbur was giving him hell. Or Mexican Dream would, at least, if Wilbur was too far gone.
He could hear a faint calling of his name, followed by what he thought was the word ‘up’...Wait up, maybe? What’s up? Look up?
His head turned and he stopped walking. “Hmm?” he asked, looking for who had been yelling, and nearly missed how he couldn’t hear his own little noise of wonder.
The compass he had tied around his neck and hidden under his sweatshirt burned cold against his skin.
Tubbo was running to catch up, and spoke animatedly about something. Tommy squinted a moment, before realizing that Tubbo had asked a question.
“Yeah, man. How, uh, How’s Snowchester?” He wasn’t sure if it answered Tubbo’s question, or dismissed it, but either way, it worked.
Tubbo went on cheerfully, but Tommy only heard snippets of it, like when Tubbo’s voice fell at the end of a sentence more than usual. He tried to read Tubbo’s lips, but shit, that was hard, and he was talking really quickly, so he stuck to nodding and smiling. Then, Tubbo stopped talking and looked at Tommy like he’d just asked another question. Fuck .
“Uh, I’m doing good?” he answered, although it seemed more like a query. He hoped that Tubbo had asked how he’d been. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true.
Tubbo laughed, so either he was right and he was just laughing at Tommy’s unsure voice, or he was completely wrong and Tubbo just assumed he did it to be funny.
As Tubbo turned, he waved, and Tommy figured he had said goodbye, or see you later. Tommy hummed in response and continued on his way.
It only hit him later that he’d never truly hear all of Tubbo’s rambling again.
No longer would he spend afternoons on their bench, listening to Tubbo go on and on about a new farm he was making, he couldn’t listen to Tubbo as he skipped ahead on the path that they always walked down, he wouldn’t be able to make fun of Tubbo’s singing even though they both knew he was kidding. He wouldn’t be able to hear the fond names that Ranboo and Tubbo called each other, and he realized he’d miss them, despite the fact that he always made it a point to gag when he heard them. Suddenly he wondered if the pet names were more common than he thought.
Tommy scowled. If they were gonna have their own jokes, he’d find someone to share his with.
He sighed as he realized there was no one to share with.
Suddenly, solitude in his house seemed a lot more appealing than he had thought. The idea didn’t last long, though. The dirt did nothing to retain warmth, and it just wasn’t welcoming, in general. The sheets on his bed were too thin, the walls weren’t decorated. The most homey thing about his shelter was the rose in a little pot in the corner. It was wilting, but Tommy didn’t have the heart to throw it out. Not when Hannah had been nice enough to give it to him.
The days passed by slowly, as if the air were made of water and Tommy had on cinderblock shoes as he tried to get through them. The only thing that comforted Tommy from the clouds in his mind was the fact that time would pass. There was nothing that could stop it.
Dream couldn’t stop time. Not when he was dead. No one could control time. Time would pass. Eventually, it would get better . Eventually.
Tommy tried to believe his lies. No-- they weren’t lies.
When he awoke, Tommy’s mind was hazy. He wanted-- what did he want? He curled up in his bed, shivering, shaking as the air still found its way through the fabric. He- Tommy wanted a hug .
Tommy wanted a hug so bad that he felt himself sob, before the tears began to fall. It was cold and he had no one to turn to, so what else was he going to do? If no one was going to love him then he’d stop pretending that there was a possibility to be loved. He just wanted to feel arms circle around him and tell him that it would be okay, but life wasn’t that kind to him, and it never would be.
It was still dark when he managed to stumble outside, so Tommy figured he could only have gotten an hour or two of sleep. But he didn’t mind. Going outside was one of his few joys nowadays, even if his bones felt like ice. There were ups and downs to being outside at night, and mobs were both of them.
The creepers snuck up on him, only giving him a warning in the low hiss that they gave off. Tommy’s instincts got much better in the nights he spent outside. He learned to whirl around and stab before leaping away, but the bottom of his sneakers were more than a little singed by the time a week went by.
Zombies, however?
Tommy found himself seeking out the stench of rotting flesh, just to hear the rumbling growl that the zombies were known for. He could hear them, he could hear it all. He searched for any remnant of himself that used to exist, and he often found it surrounded by the undead, beneath the twinkling stars that so resembled the shining of freshly fallen tears. If the universe was crying over him, he didn’t want it. It was its fault in the first place, he was just playing with the cards he’d been dealt.
He was considering going back in once the sun started to peek over the horizon, but a flash of light green caught his eyes, so he pedaled backward. Only when he looked up did he see that the green was not a creeper threatening his safety, but Sam.
“Hey, Sam,” Tommy rasped, and his throat felt like it was on fire.
Sam’s mouth opened, but damn , his mask made it nearly impossible to understand him. Tommy assumed it had something to do with the fact that he was fighting at night, and the fact that Sam’s voice was low with sleep made it so that he heard snippets of the question.
“Of course I’m fighting, big man. It’s still dark, you think I’m just gonna let the mobs get me?” His chest hurt with the sudden urge to do just that. It’d be so easy to just…
Sam’s look grew concerned, and he must’ve repeated his question. Tommy realized, then, that it had probably been ‘are you alright’.
“This is kinda awkward.” Tommy laughed, but the laughter tore through his throat and made him cough. “I completely misheard your question.” He couldn’t help the shame that grew its way up his veins. He couldn’t even figure out what people were asking. Why didn’t he just ask for their help?
Because. They won’t help you. They’ll leave you alone. They’ll abandon you. Eventually, they’ll forget. Then it will be just you .
Tommy did his best to shrug and act as if everything was fine. “I’m gonna head home, Sam. It was nice seeing you. Stop by any time!” His tongue felt heavy with the lie. He didn’t want Sam to stop by. He did, though. No, Sam would ask questions. But Sam would help him. Right? Wouldn’t he?
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Tommy strolled back to his shack. He kept an eye out, just in case Phil and Technoblade decided to pay a visit. He didn’t want to see them, at all. He’d rather fall off a cliff than interact with them.
Not much of a price.
Tommy winced.
He tried to get through the day. It was the ongoing mantra he repeated that he hoped would get him through the day, but words can only do so much. And as it was, words had failed Tommy over and over again. Each line, each speech that was supposed to motivate only broke him down and he was sick of it. He was sick of everyone using him and turning on him and telling him that he’d understand when he got older. He was sick of it, because he didn’t need to be older to understand everything that had happened to him. He already did.
War had stared him in the eyes and backed down, Tragedy loved him as much as he fought it, and Sorrow drowned him. Tommy had grown up with bombshells instead of fireworks and flames instead of birthday candles, he had been raised by guardian demons instead of angels, and his dreams whispered threats instead of lands that called to him.
He’d lived in those lands. They didn’t appeal to him anymore. It was just all a lie.
Tommy tried his best. Some days were better than others, some days were worse, but that day, after staying up during the night to fight the monsters, he didn’t want to continue.
It was days like that that he’d zone in to the reality of life and notice the tunnel stretching over water to the land of his best friend- and some days, he followed it. Others, like that day, he’d sit on the hill just out of view from anyone traveling, and he would watch. He’d watch the sun as it stood in the sky, he’d watch the grass as it swayed in the breeze, and he’d watch the people as they emerged from the tunnel.
Most of all, though, he’d watch the birds. There weren’t too many birds, but there were a good amount. There were little sparrows that chirped, their once beautiful voices now sounding like silence. There was the occasional crow or raven, and though Wilbur had always been better at telling the difference, Tommy liked their presence. They always just looked at him with their little beady eyes, and every so often he’d toss a piece of gold at them.
Crows and ravens thought of him as a friend, an ally. He’d see them follow him sometimes, but he never thought much of it. There was no point in it, they’d leave eventually.
Once, only once, Tommy had seen a truly spectacular bird- it had been an owl, a huge one, all grey and speckled, with fuzzy ears and piercing yellow eyes. When he’d looked it up in his ratty bird-watching book it had said Great Horned Owl, but Tommy wasn’t sure if he believed it.
That day, though, there weren’t any birds. Just Tommy, the sun that beamed weakly as the breeze blew and made him shiver, and the persistent itch on his back.
Roll in the grass.
Tommy nearly snorted at the thought. It was a random one, but he lingered on it longer than he hoped he would. It bit at the corners of his mind, poking at his subconscious until he acknowledged it.
I’m not rolling in the grass.
He reached back to scratch at the itch that still bothered him, ignoring how it only got worse when he touched it. It was fine, besides, he didn’t need to roll in the grass.
A small sparrow landed at his feet as he sat with them crossed, and opened its beak. Tommy assumed that it was singing, but he just tilted his head at it. The sparrow tilted its head right back.
Roll in the grass.
Tommy scowled, and the sparrow flew away. “I’m not… I’m not fuckin’ rolling in the grass like some chicken.”
It was even more silent, then. He wasn’t sure how he liked it, but he liked what came next even less.
There really wasn’t anything threatening about it, but Tommy had been slightly sleepy on the hill by Snowchester, when he felt a thunk of boots approach him. Of course, his first thought was Dream; his mind immediately flew to the times where he’d cower in his tent and pray that Dream would pass him by, or when he’d hide in his mine in the hopes that Dream wouldn’t bother. The slight, almost unnoticeable vibrations took him by the arm and pulled him to times of when he’d welcome the embrace of Dream, because there was no one else there.
A hand landed on his shoulder and Tommy flinched, however much he tried to hide it. Dream didn’t like when he fidgeted. Wasn’t Dream dead?
The silence persisted, and his heart sank. The longer Dream didn’t speak, the madder he was, and the worse the punishment would be. What had he done? Hadn’t he been good?
“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispered tearfully, pulling away to put his head between his knees. Maybe he’d be able to calm him down. “I’ve been good, I swear-”
His ears strained to pick up any hint that Dream wasn’t mad. “Please, Dream. Please, I swear I didn’t do anything-” his breathing got quicker, his body shook. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Faintly, he heard a soft bleating, and he scrunched up his eyebrows. Dream didn’t let him have any pets besides Mushroom Henry. What was a sheep doing here? The bleating continued, and Tommy realized that the hand had been removed. Gradually, he relaxed. The sheep sounded nice.
Once his breathing had calmed down completely, he lifted his head up. There, smiling worriedly, was Captain Puffy, watching him with concerned eyes. Her mouth moved slowly, in the form and shape of a question he really should’ve been familiar with by now.
“I’m fine,” Tommy snapped. “People don’t need to keep asking me that, just fuck off, will you?”
Puffy’s face twisted into a look of worry, but Tommy just rolled his eyes and stood up, trying to not show how the world turned and swayed under his feet.
“Bye, Puffy,” Tommy muttered as he walked away, pointedly not looking at her. His farewell turned to a grumble as the itch on his back got worse. “Fucking hell, why’s my back so itchy?”
The world looked down on Tommy and gave no answers, not even to the woman that watched as he strolled away after listening to him plead to the dead man she thought she knew wouldn’t hurt him.
_
(This is bitter's beautiful artwork for chapter one!! Remember to go back up and show support to the whole team)
