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Tubbo didn’t know what he was missing. He was staring down into the crater of L’manburg, and there was a gap of absence in his heart, something that was deeper than any of his scars. He missed L’manburg. Not L’manburg as it was when it died, already deserted as if everyone except his minutes man had already decided it wasn’t worth a fight. He didn’t miss the smell of smoke and alcohol in the president’s room, or the looming three portraits in the hall. And he most certainly didn’t miss being a spy.
The thing he was missing was buried deeper, farther than that. It was nights of camaraderie and dancing and potion brewing and sharing a bed with Tommy. Even the nights of war and tragedy, back when they really truly had something to fight for, alongside each other through blood, sweat, and tears. And something to fight towards .
Tubbo didn’t have a lot to look towards to, these days. These days, it was the cold, biting winds of Snowchester instead of the warm rains of old L’manburg. He would dutifully feed and play with Michael, because god dammit he was going to have a present parent figure if it was the last thing Tubbo did, and then he would wait for hours into the night for his husband to come home. There wasn’t a lot these days but the present, and being in the present only made Tubbo think about the past. And the past was all he thought about, when he didn’t have a machine to tinker with or Tommy to talk his ear off.
Maybe Wilbur had been right, about L’manburg. It never was truly the same after Schlatt. Not that there was any one person who was to blame for everything that went wrong, but there were certain moments Tubbo could pinpoint where it started to unravel, just a little, then all at once.
Wilbur had apologized. Tubbo wasn’t sure what to make of that, either. He didn’t doubt that Wilbur was sorry, but weren’t they all sorry for something? They all had guilts that chewed them up on the inside, even if Wilbur’s were nastier. Tubbo didn’t know how the sorry was any different than Michael running sobbing “ sowwy” into his arms because he broke a nice glass. And Tubbo forgave Michael, of course he did, but he made a mental note to put the glasses higher up next time. That was what it was like with Wilbur, only Tubbo himself was the glass, and he had to keep out of arm’s reach.
And yet still, inexplicably, his eyes were sore and puffy from crying. He didn’t even know why the fuck he’d cried. Tubbo looked down at the lucky rabbit’s foot in his hand. It was light and furry and dead.
Then he looked down the crater again, and felt fear shoot through him. Not of anyone else, of Schlatt or Wilbur or fucking Dream, but of himself. Here he was, standing alone at a cliff at midnight in an ill-fitting president’s suit. It was an eerie, haunting scene, to be so high up and have no one to catch you. Surely not, he thought, and those were the words that jerked him out of his haze as he violently scrambled away from the edge of the crater.
“I don’t want to die. I don’t wanna die, I don’t! ” He exclaimed, to no one in particular. His voice echoed around the crater, and it was a jarring reminder of how alone he was here.
It was hard, Tubbo found, to admit that he didn’t want to be alone. It was easier, it had always been easier, to push people away than it was to let them sit with him while he cried. Wasn’t that why he’d exiled Tommy, in the first place? It was easier to shut him out completely than it was to talk through their misunderstandings. Tubbo was afraid, continuously, deeply, of someone understanding and seeing too much of him. It was some sort of self preservation, like he’d never truly grown out of L’manburg’s old black and yellow walls that kept them safe.
The war wasn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t be over. Tubbo wasn’t ready to let his guard down.
There was a ruffling of leaves to his side, and Tubbo bolted up, dropping the lucky rabbit’s foot. He squared his shoulders in an effort to make himself look more intimidating than he felt. He curled his fists by his sides, ready to swing even if he had no sword or shield to bear.
The person in the bush made themselves known with a yawn, walking around the greenery and coming into the moonlight where Tubbo could see them.
“ Tommy ?” He asked, incredulously, shoulders dropping. “What are you doing awake?” It must have been well past 3 A.M.
Tommy just squinted down at him, crossing his arms. “I can be awake if I fuckin’ want to. What are you doing awake?”
Tubbo, too exhausted to argue with Tommy uselessly, kneeled back down to grab his ukulele. “I was singing. To L’manburg.”
“What’s that gonna do? It’s gone,” said Tommy bitterly, kicking a block of dirt into the crater. It was not something a fully awake Tommyinnit would say, considering that he was one of the most sentimental people on the server, and one of the founders of L’manburg. This cranky, tired Tommyinnit held bitterness for what L’manburg did to them both.
“You’re gonna call me stupid for this, but, I think the music is helping it heal over.” Tubbo pointed down at the flag in the center of the crater. There were moss and mushrooms that appeared to be growing out of the bedrock, and the beginnings of an ecosystem of ducks and fish. Nothing will ever grow here again , Tubbo recalled Dream saying as he rained TNT upon the nation, and yet, miraculously, here they were. Despite everything.
Tommy leaned over the edge of the crater in a way that made Tubbo want to pull him away, “Shit. It is growing back,” he affirmed, and then looked at the ukulele shaking in Tubbo’s hands. “But the music thing is fuckin’ stupid. I don’t think you believe it either.”
“What do you mean?” Tubbo asked, voice cracking.
“You don’t have to play music for L’manburg, Tubso. It can just be for you.”
Tubbo swallowed hard over a lump in his throat and avoided Tommy’s eyes. He had always been jealous of the way Tommy seemed to just move on from L’manburg, like it hadn’t been an integral part of his identity, like it hadn’t ever been his only purpose. Tubbo wondered what that was like.
“It’s not that easy for me,” is what he said instead.
“You think it’s easy for me?”
“You’ve always had a home outside of L’manburg,” tears started to prick at his eyes, “every time I had a home it exploded or was burned or destroyed.” And he felt like a child now, crying about how unfair it all was, selfishly throwing a tantrum at the top of a hill.
“You’ve always had a home with me !” Tommy fired back, arms raised incredulously.
“But it was never safe,” insisted Tubbo.
“I would have kept you safe.” Tommy declared, with all the boldness of an idiot. A hush fell over the two of them then, as they both evaluated the implications of that statement. Tubbo was convinced that safety had to be violence, was convinced that he had to have a purpose to matter at all, and yet here stood a boy telling him that camaraderie was safety, and implicitly, that love wasn’t something you had to work for.
Tubbo looked at L’manburg, and then back at Tommy, and wondered if he really missed L’manburg at all. How could you miss a nation that put you through hell and back? No, what he really missed, more than any country, were the people.
Tubbo burst into tears.
“Oh, shit, fuck, okay,” said Tommy, scrambling to pull him into his arms. Tubbo’s horns bonked firmly against his chest and they both flinched at the impact, but neither of them loosened their hold.
“I’m sorry for saying that stuff.” Tubbo forced out through sobs, “It’s just, Wilbur, and the nightmares, and…”
Tommy shushed him, aggressively. When he spoke next, it was much gentler, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Anything.”
“I had a nightmare tonight,” he paused for Tubbo to say something and was met with silence, “About being dead, I guess. It was just darkness, but I knew I was dead. I thought it would be permanent this time. I was too freaked out to go back to sleep so I went for a walk, and… I heard you yelling.”
“You heard that?” Tubbo asked.
“I’m sorry,” said Tommy, and buried his face in Tubbo’s hair. It was unclear what, exactly, he was apologizing for. Maybe everything. Tubbo had heard enough apologies for a lifetime after this night.
Tubbo knew why he was crying now, as he fisted his hands in Tommy’s shirt and let his ukulele fall by the wayside. He was crying - they were both crying - because home, a peaceful home, a paranoia-less home, was something that always would be unattainable. And the people he loved were never going to be exactly the same. Tubbo himself was never going to be the same. Tommy, Wilbur, Jack had all died and been reborn and it still remained to be seen if that meant they were the same people he knew before at all. He was never going to get it back, and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to let go.
Despite all of that, despite all of the facts and the lessons they’d been taught, Tommy clung to normalcy in this bare, raw way. He never wore armour, always used his fists in fights, and lived in a dirt shack, and somehow he had everything Tubbo wanted. Simply, he was everything Tubbo wanted. Tubbo wore netherite armour and sheltered his son behind guns and nuclear weapons. Tubbo was pathetic, and paranoid, and he just wanted to fucking go home.
“Tommy?” he asked, interrupting the silent embrace.
“Mm?” Tommy responded, face still buried in Tubbo’s hair, and Tubbo wondered if he was falling asleep just standing here and hugging. The thought tugged vaguely at Tubbo’s heartstrings, something about the familiarity and comfort being enough to put him to sleep, despite the nightmares, despite the cold night air biting at their skin. Love cut through everything, Tubbo was learning.
“Can we go home?”
Tommy finally pushed Tubbo out of his arms and held him by the shoulders. They looked at each other for a moment in the moonlight, and Tubbo was suddenly aware of what a mess he looked, cheeks tracked with tears under his bangs, in his ill-fitting president suit. “Of course,” said Tommy, and he didn’t ask which home he meant.
Tubbo went to gather his ukulele and alongside it found the lucky rabbit’s foot that Wilbur had given him. “Tommy gave it to me, man,” he’d said, and suddenly Tubbo’s eyes were watering, lip quivering. It was such a little thing that broke him to think about, Tommy (and, by extension, himself) young with hope and holding onto luck still. After everything, there was some luck, and destiny was not written in stone.
They headed to Tommy’s dirt shack hand in hand, Tubbo’s ukulele and rabbit’s foot tucked away in his inventory.
That night, Tubbo slept in clothes that Tommy had grown out of months ago, and they shared a bed again (just to help with the nightmares. Not because they wanted to or anything). It rang reminiscent of when they had shared everything, from clothes to beds to secrets and the lines blurred from best friends to two halves of one whole. There was a rift now, a gap, a crater, whatever you wanted to call it, something that had forced it so they didn’t fit together quite as smoothly. It was never going to be as easy to love as it had been before, but that night Tubbo opened up his heart as if to say you have a home here, too . They fell asleep with their legs entangled.