Work Text:
It hurts.
Something does.
Wilbur is here - he's hunched over, whispering to himself, so fast he can't understand what. The same sounds, though.
Shaking.
Is Wilbur supposed to be here? Aren't they apart?
No - they were going to see each other again.
He found him - here he is.
Here is Wilbur.
His Wilbur, he's decided. Wilby.
Is this…
Is this right?
Wilbur makes a noise that's so high pitched he'd make fun of him if his mouth felt right.
And then he - he -
Too close too fast pain and half a heart half a heart -
He sets his head on his chest.
Like he's listening - like he's twelve years old again, and he's lying on the ground and listening for something to go ba-bump in the cavern somewhere below him.
There was something he needed.
Does Wilbur need something? Something from his chest?
What's in his chest?
He feels so light there might not be anything.
Ba-bump.
Listening for things that go ba-bump like a thief in the night.
But it's supposed to be in his chest. It's not a thief, it's meant to be there.
What if he missed the ba-bump? What if he missed the thief, and now he'll have to go looking for what they stole?
He hopes it wasn't valuable.
If it was, he'll chase them down.
Revenge!
Bitch!
I'm on half a heart, stop, stop -
His discs?
No. In an ender chest. His chest. His music, his rhythms, his songs, his little symphonies.
They can't take those.
Forever his.
Something else that is his.
His…
His…
Tubbo?
His Tubbo.
But Tubbo isn't in his chest. Tubbo is too big to fit in his chest, too alive, all consuming, staccato, loud, rhythmic.
He could take Tubbo's hand and he would feel the rhythm in the space between their palms.
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.
Like music. Like drums.
Alive. Beating.
Beating.
He...
Tubbo is alive and well. He… is building. He's building himself a home. He's alive.
The thing Tommy thinks he might be missing in his chest goes ba-bump in Tubbo's. He could set his head on Tubbo's chest and hear it.
Ba-bump.
He's being clingy.
Their compasses are spinning and spinning - he tells Tubbo it's the only reason he hasn't gotten up, is because it's funny to watch them go.
Wilbur is listening for it. For a ba-bump.
His Tubbo is alive.
Is…
Stop!
Is he alive?
He doesn't stop .
He didn't want to die.
Wilbur's here.
He listens for the ba-bump.
Tommy listens for it too.
He wouldn't shut up.
He wouldn't stop screaming, and Tommy just wanted him to shut up.
But it's so quiet.
No ba-bump.
"Tommy - Tommy…"
It's not small.
There's no obsidian.
No lava.
It's tinged with blue and white.
Like the overworld - his world, wasn't it?
Tommy, Tommy c'mere, look - I can fit the world in my hands!
Don't you fucking dare, you fucker! I know you! I knoooow you! Don't you do it! Don't you fucking try it, bitch!
Open space.
Room to fly, if he wanted.
Room to do anything, anything he ever said he could but thought he couldn't-
Room for breathing, shouting
Living.
"You weren't supposed to die."
He didn't want to, Wilbur.
He promises.