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Isn’t it lovely? Tommy thinks. He hopes it is. He lays under an oak tree in a field of flowers, sheltering himself from the rain. He listens. There’s a peaceful lull in the air, the repetitive tapping soothing to his ears. Away from the violence and wreckage of the rest of the server. He listens. Comfort in repetition.
He sings.
None of the others would ever hear it, and he’d deny it if they claimed they had. But he does. He sings soft and sweet, as opposed to his usual temper, cradling the blossoms in the palms of his hands. Happy tunes, sad tunes, he doesn’t care. Occasionally, he hums the songs from his discs. He memorized them ages ago, thinking he would lose them forever. He almost did.
Sometimes, he borrows Wilbur’s old guitar, and although he never learned how to play it, he tries his best. Hours of watching his older brother pluck away at the strings led to him knowing at least a little, enough for him. He strums it, crooning gently to no one. He sings. The flowers listen. They always do.
A moment's peace, secluded from the disputes and drama, a home away from home. From the ruins of his home.
L’Manberg was long gone, lost to fire and smoke, but the memories, the ashes, the remains, they were what was left. The people. The people were left, however divided and diminished they had become. L’Manberg had been a symbol of freedom, a new era on the server. Freedom. Peril. Death. Dying. Fighting.
And Tommy had fought. Oh, how he’d fought. Led by Wilbur in battle, he had won wars, lost friends, and gained trust. In the end, he didn’t know if it was worth it. He lost a home. A brother.
When L’Manberg fell, Wilbur fell along with it. Ash. Flames. A blood-soaked coat. A lost soul, calling out for help. Ash. Smoke. Dying. Death.
Wilbur had spent thirteen and a half years rotting in hell, pacing a cold concrete train station, waiting for his salvation. Playing solitaire. Drinking. Sleeping, if he could. Solitaire. The cards fall into place again. The deck is shuffled. Sleeping. Keeping an eye open, always. Waiting. The trains passed by, but they never stopped for him.
Tommy had visited Wilbur, once. Not by choice. A month and eighteen days, trapped with him in hell. Dream had killed him in the prison, and sent him to join his brother, deep in the pits of limbo. Time didn’t pass there. Tommy’s not sure he ever left.
Tommy’s limbo was cold. Dark. He could barely see, but the glow of headlights in the distance sufficed. He didn’t need to see— there was nothing there. Tommy scratched tally marks into the walls, knowing that was the only way he’d be able to keep track of the days. He couldn’t see them, but he traced his fingers over the walls. He counted them in his mind. He lost track too many times over, having to start again. There was no sun. No water. Only polished stone, the stench of smoke, and the occasional light of a match.
Tommy despises smoke, but both Wilbur and Schlatt insisted on it. Schlatt spent most of his time sleeping, clearly used to being in the doldrum that was the afterlife. Wilbur’s cigarettes piled up by his feet, the ash spilling onto his shoes. Tommy had no clue where he was getting them from, but whenever he ran out, there always seemed to be another. Another. Lit, smoked, flicked away. Repeat. Tommy found comfort in repetition. He repeats things to himself. Death. Dying. Rot.
Wilbur used to demand Tommy stay away from cigarettes, firmly claiming they were horrid for his health. Wilbur struggled with an addiction, but he did his best to make sure Tommy would never go through the same.
But the Wilbur at the train station couldn’t have cared less, tossing them towards Tommy, exhaling the acrid smoke into his face, laughing when he coughed.
Tommy didn’t like the new Wilbur.
And then he was out. He was awake again, above water, no longer struggling for air. He was still stuck in prison with the one who had done all of this to him, but he was awake. Dream asked him questions. The light in his eyes was maniacal. Tommy wasn’t sure which was worse— limbo, or being back here with him. He would have even preferred Wilbur over the green-clad man who had caused him so much trauma and pain.
Sam let him go, and Tommy rejoiced, temporarily. Breathing in the air, touching the grass, staring up at the sky. The sun burned overhead. He didn’t realize how much he had missed it. Time passed again. He could see the stars.
Looking for his friends. Seeing how they reacted. Expressing their shock at him, standing there in front of them. Hugging him, telling him it’d be okay. Cringing away from their touch, blaming it on the heat. Looking down at his own hands, and not really believing it himself.
You’re not dead? Tubbo had asked. He was wary. Why not? Why wouldn’t he be?
Tommy had replied that no, he wasn’t. He said he was alive. He didn’t think he was.
Tubbo smiled. They walked together. They didn’t talk about much. Maybe they did. Tommy’s memory hadn’t been the best, lately. They talked. They listened.
But Tommy couldn’t get it out of his head. Dying. Being dead.
It was all he knew now. Molder. Dying. Dead.
And so he returns to the flower fields. The alliums are beautiful there. Ranboo had given him one, ages ago. Before everything. Tommy treasured it dearly, putting it in a chest to keep it safe. He didn’t know where it was now. He found another outside his house, right after waking up. (Leaving. Never leaving. Waking up. Dying.)
It was on his porch, slightly wilted, slightly dry. He didn’t know who had left it there. Was it a gift? Something to remember him by? A flower for the dead. The sick, and the dead.
He weaves sunflowers into his hair, makes necklaces of tulips, alliums, dandelions, anything he can find. He hides poppies in his pockets, and cornflowers in the bandana that loosely ties around his neck. Covering up the wounds and dirt. Concealing the stench of the rot.
The flowers die, wilting away, withering up until their petals crunch under his feet. He cleans them out, hurriedly replacing them. The old go in a vase, perhaps to make some sort of seasoning for the earth. He can’t bear to get rid of them. The new are put in their place, and his hair is once again full of color. His pockets are heavy with poppies and their seeds, always planting more than he takes. His clothes are stained with dye, from rolling around in those fields. Drenching himself in nectar and pollen. Hoping the scent of the blooms would heal him.
He goes to the fields. He pinches the stem of a sunflower, watching as it topples into his lap. Two. Three. He bundles them together, putting them in a stack next to him. Four. Six. He tucks them behind his ears, into his hair, anywhere he can. Seven. Nine. Fifteen. More flowers. As many as he can find. Never enough. They have to be enough. Comfort in his craft, in keeping up this illusion. Pluck a flower. Lace it through. Pull it tight. Comfort in repetition.
He shuns his friends. He can’t deal with their worried murmurs, their glances of concern. He blocks out the way they stare at him, as if he were some broken little thing . (He’s not. He’s strong, and he’s resilient, and he’s brave. So, so brave. He has to be.)
Their matching golden bands rest on drumming fingers; he notes the way they sparkle when the sun hits them just right. When the two of them hold hands, the little ‘clink’ the rings make.
Good for them, he muses. Marriage, at their age? Perhaps a bit hasty, but living in this world, you never knew which day would be your last. Best to take whatever chances you have.
They have a child. A son, Michael. He’s dead too. Undead. He was dead, but he’s alive. Sort of like Tommy. Tommy liked Michael. The piglin child didn’t talk much, but he listened. Tommy spoke, and he listened.
If he were alive, Tommy could have gotten a partner as well. A girlfriend. A wife. Maybe even had a child, eventually.
He was a wife-haver, Big Man TommyInnit. A wife-haver with no wives. Who would marry a corpse? Much less the corpse of a child? (No, not a child. A strong, big man.)
A big man who felt so small, who died too young. He feels small. He isn’t dead yet. But he is .
He decays. He falls apart.
He can smell it, the way it coils up inside of him, spilling out his mouth with every exhale. The miasma that surrounds him. Why don’t they wrinkle their noses at the smell? Why don’t they mind it? Do they mind him?
Tommy loves flowers. He rolls in flowers. He drinks them in. He drowns himself in them. They’re too pretty, too perfect to adorn a corpse like TommyInnit.
Tommy hates them. He resents them. He wears them. He hides.
Michael likes flowers too. Maybe he wants to get rid of his own decay.
The streak of white in his hair, matching that of his brother’s. Wilbur, in limbo, he had looked similar to what Tommy saw in himself now. Moody, distant. The white streak. It resembled mold, or fungi, or something. His body necrosed. It hadn’t stopped. He was rotting. Aging. Dying. Death. Rot.
Wilbur didn’t like flowers. He had scorned the idea, laughing when Tommy told him of old days spent in the fields. Mocking him when he spoke of the gift Ranboo gave him, of the alliums he so dearly loves. Tommy sighs. Wilbur isn’t here.
He decays.
Tommy can taste it, the acid welling up in his throat with every bite. The sour taste it leaves, reminding him vaguely of vinegar. The way his esophagus clenches, reluctantly allowing him to take in his nutrients. His organs rebel. He spews vomit. He spews acid. Phlegm. Sickness. Decomposing from the inside out.
He can feel it. Phantom pains strike through him, forcing him back through memories of darker times. The hollowness of his being— one strong gust of wind, and he just might cave in.
He can feel it in his shaking hands, his aches and pains, the bruises and cuts that adorn his small form. (He’s not small. He’s tall. He’s a big man, he is.)
But he feels small. He feels. He feels pain, sickness, cold. He’s so cold. Shivers. Aches. Falling apart at the seams.
He wonders when they’ll notice. When their gentle smiles will turn into wide eyes, mouths dropped with shock. Horror. Disgust. Disgust at him.
Tommy can’t help it. He does his best to make himself decent.
He wears crowns of sunflowers and alliums, rolls in their petals until their floral smell disguises his corpse-like stench. He washes himself in the rivers, cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails, scrubbing away at the rot until he feels okay.
He changes his clothes as often as possible, burning the old. Wraps himself in sweaters and blankets. Layers, layers, layers. Rinse. Repeat. Burn. Comfort in repetition.
They’re bound to notice eventually.
When his skin starts to tear, when his bones rattle in the wind. Then they’ll see. They’ll see him, they’ll hate him. They’ll be terrified of what their Tommy became. And why shouldn’t they? He’s a monster. Dead. Undead. Still dead. Halfway to becoming one of those zombies he loved to kill. Tommy was rotting, just like them.
His friends check in on him, sometimes. Ranboo and Tubbo. They insist on his health being the most important thing. Saying he has to take care of himself. Empty promises. Threats to send him away, to someone who will care for him. It means nothing to him.
Tommy nods. He grins, he agrees, but he doesn’t listen. He talks, he shouts. He screams.
(The walls close in around him. He’s back in prison. He never left.)
Tommy sleeps. He sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, never wanting to wake. He doesn’t eat. Corpses don’t eat. Everything tastes like dirt, no matter what. He tries. The acid burns. He sleeps.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, so he eats, and eats, and eats. He vomits, hacking until there’s nothing left. He tries again. He sleeps.
He’s freezing cold. The wind chills him to the bone, his paper skin not enough. His lips turn blue. They ask him what’s wrong, he says that he’s fine. Just chills, he says. He sends them away. He wishes he hadn’t.
His skin sags. He decays. He rots. He wraps himself in blankets and scarves. He holds himself together with a small will to live. He lives. He dies. He’s dead. He’s cold.
He’s sick. He sniffles, his head is burning up. He’s sick and dying, surely already dead. Tommy’s vision is clouded, his head feeling stuffed with cotton. He’s sick. He coughs, feeling the mucus in his throat. Feeling. Thinking. Dying. It hurts, it hurts so much. He’s miserably cold.
He cries. The tears don’t fall.
Tommy takes damage. He hates it— It brings back horrible, horrible memories. He screams. He tells them no, says to never do that again, yells until they listen. He shuts them out. He yells. He bargains. They listen.
They’re listening to a ghost. They listen. He speaks.
He can’t feel the damage, but he knows it’s there. If they hit him enough, and he doesn’t die, then they’d know. You can’t kill someone who’s already dead. He’s a corpse. A monster. He can’t let them know. He screams. He pretends. He screams.
None of it makes sense. The world around him twists, off color and far away. Tommy feels off balance, he doesn’t know which way is up. It’s not real. It always was.
He screams. He doesn’t know. He’s cold.
Tommy sleeps.
He’s deteriorating. He’s falling apart. Mirrors distort the truth, the words of others are lies. He’s dead. He’s dying, rotting away.
He feels paranoid, silly. But regardless, he can’t shake the clutches of death, of dying, looming over his shoulder, stealing his breaths. Death. Dead. Dying. Dead.
He can’t sleep now, there are monsters nearby. Tommy tries, regardless.
The flowers. He can trust the flowers. He weaves them into crowns. Wraps them around his wrists, his ankles, his chest, his neck. Pulls them tight, and sinks into the field. He sleeps. He wakes up. The stems break, the petals get crushed beneath his body. He tries again. Comfort. Repeat. Comfort.
Tommy sings to them, still. Any tunes he can think of. It always comes back to L’Manberg. He sits in that field, buried in alliums and dandelions. He strums his brother’s guitar.
The flowers listen.
They’re listening to a ghost. They listen.
He sings.