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Tommy has been attending Camp SMP since before he was technically old enough to. His dad has been the head of upper-age activities here since before Tommy came into this world, so this is where Tommy learned to talk and walk-- and water-ski, rock-climb, and horseback ride, among other things. He was there for the older campers to coo at and fawn over while Phil held him and explained that this is Tommy; he’s only a little over a year old. You can give him your finger to grab but be gentle, okay guys?
Next year, when he’s sixteen, he’ll be a CIT, and after that he’ll be a counselor like his older brother Wilbur. He’s grown up here. Seen it all, done it all.
Except for this.
“Alright, fellas.” Tubbo claps his hands together and stands up, just as Tommy was about to settle in for the night. “Tonight’s the night.”
Immediately, Tommy turns a questioning glare towards Ranboo to try and suss out if he’s somehow behind this. But Ranboo just looks startled.
“The night--” Ranboo stammers. “The night for--?”
“We are making--” Tubbo turns, grabbing two pillows from off his bed and plopping them onto the floor-- “a fort.”
This last part is said with a level of deviousness that does not match the context.
“No,” Tommy deadpans, rolling over.
“Tom-meee,” Tubbo whines.
“I want to dream,” Tommy insists.
“Tommy.”
Tubbo goes ignored.
“Tommy,” he sing-songs.
Suddenly Ranboo blurts, “Oh Tubbo I don’t think that’s a good idea--” and this is the only warning Tommy receives before a dirty sock is being thrown in his face.
Tommy screams, scrambling to sit up and get it off him. “Fuck you Tubbo I don’t want to make a fort!” he screeches. “Get your fuckin’ laundry--” he throws the sock at the wall. Tubbo is sitting on the floor and cackling.
Tubbo is Tommy’s best friend from home. They met when Tommy was in kindergarten and Tubbo was in first grade, and by the following summer, they’d managed to convince Tubbo’s parents to send him to camp alongside Tommy. Tommy was still only six at that point, and the starting age for campers is seven, but Tommy got to start a year early as a result of being such a big and cool man-- and like being Phil’s son and whatever.
He’s still not allowed to do his CIT year early, though. So he’s stuck behind Ranboo and Tubbo in that regard. He’s still allowed to share their bunk, though, because he is so flagrantly awesome. Plus, biggest brother Technoblade might’ve pulled a few strings in the office.
Sometimes he wonders if all the begging he and Tubbo did last spring was really worth it. All of the please, Tech, haven’t we earned this? We’ve been in the same bunk since we were babies, and the look, man, I’ll even do your taxes for you-- or whatever boring grown-up chores you have to do-- your laundry? Fine, sure, far be it from me to turn my nose up at your old man bloomers--
Sometimes, he wonders if he should’ve been begging to bunk with anyone but Tubbo and Ranboo. Tubbo, with his ludicrous ideas of staying up past midnight when they’ve got color wars tomorrow, and Ranboo, who objectively is not that bad, except for being a huge nerd. They met Ranboo when Tommy was twelve and Tubbo and Ranboo were thirteen-- it was a fluke, really; the only time Tommy and Tubbo weren’t in the same bunk, and suddenly Tubbo had started bringing some random tall kid to sit with them at meals, acting like they’d known each other for seven years, like they’d grown up together-- like Ranboo was the one who introduced him to the camp in the first place--
And then Ranboo took a bullet for Tommy. Like, not actually, literally a bullet, but it may as well have been. One of the older kids threw a raw egg at Tommy’s head during one of the camp-wide competition days, and before it could hit, Ranboo flung himself in front of it like his life had depended on it. Like a ninja. The egg splatter hit him flat in the chest and he’d cried a little bit, which was objectively super embarrassing for him, but it would’ve been a dick move for Tommy to make fun of him at that point. So he grabbed Ranboo’s hand, screamed and swore bloody murder at the perpetrator, and stormed off to help Ranboo clean himself off, Tubbo cheerily trailing behind the two of them.
The point is, Tommy’s friends are the best and worst in the world. One day he’ll be able to reconcile those two things. One day.
For now, he is on his last thread of patience with these two, and he is going to show it. He gets up and stalks menacingly towards Tubbo, dragging his firmest pillow in tow behind him--
“Hah!” Tubbo cries, rocking back onto his tailbone and pointing at Tommy, who falters where he stands. “You’re already up! You might as well help me now.”
Tommy… can’t argue with that logic. Still, he gets a good whack in with the pillow against the side of Tubbo’s head. Tubbo does not defend himself or flinch, taking the attack with a braces-lined grin, bangs sweeping over his eyes.
“Can I help?” Ranboo asks, peering over at them from where he sits cross-legged atop his own bed. Half his face is hidden by the pillow he’s hugging to his chest, and his eyes are wide with interest. Oftentimes, he reminds Tommy of a cat. Tommy imagines that if Ranboo had a tail, it would be flicking back and forth curiously right now.
“We need all your pillows and blankets,” Tubbo tells him, reaching back to drag the comforter off his own bed. Ranboo gets to work immediately. He’s the type-- the weird type-- to only sleep with one pillow and one blanket. And Tommy knows that it’s by choice, and not just because he’s poor or something, because he’s offered up one of his own pillows on more than one occasion and been refused every time.
Still, Ranboo crawls over with his meager offerings of one pillow and one blanket, and Tommy goes to collect more of his own pillows. By the time they finish, they’ve got sheets strung up and cubbies rearranged to create a cozy little nook in the center of the room.
“Now what?” Tommy grumbles, hunched over, holding one of the three flashlights Ranboo has provided them with. Why Ranboo came to summer camp prepared with three flashlights, Tommy does not know, nor does he care enough to ask.
Tubbo shrugs. “Does anyone want snacks?”
Tommy frowns as Tubbo pulls a bag of Takis out from behind him, and then he begins to splutter with indignant realization.
“Hey! I stole those from Wilbur!” he cries.
“And I stole them from you.”
Tubbo boops his nose. Tommy claws ferally at his hand.
“We all know he buys extra for you anyway,” Ranboo mumbles. “Wilbur doesn’t even like spicy food.”
“Give them back,” Tommy demands, snatching the bag away from Tubbo. He opens it up and begins to crunch angrily.
“We should tell ghost stories,” Tubbo suggests, waving the beam of his flashlight playfully under his nose and waggling his eyebrows.
Tommy falters. “Do you have any ghost stories?” he asks, skeptical.
“Mm.” Tubbo frowns thoughtfully, and the flashlight he’s holding goes limp to shine its beam onto the floor. “I guess I--”
“Well, I do,” Tommy boasts, interrupting him. Tubbo tries to punch him, then, but he ducks out of the way. “Do you all know about the first owner of this camp?”
“No,” says Ranboo.
“That’s because you haven’t been here as long as I have,” Tommy tells him patiently. “It’s an important story, though. I learned about it from Wilbur a long time ago.”
“Well, go on,” Tubbo urges him, nudging him with a foot.
“Back in, like, the nineteenth century,” Tommy begins, “back when Camp SMP was just getting started--”
“Camp SMP was founded in the nineties,” Ranboo supplies unhelpfully.
Tommy glares at him.
“Anyway,” he continues loudly, “back when Camp SMP was just getting started-- and I think I’d know more about that than you, boob boy-- the original owner was supposed to give his son the camp one day as inheritance. He-- wait.” Tommy clicks his flashlight on and holds it under his face for dramatic effect. “Okay, that’s better. Are you boys frightened yet?”
“So far, all you’ve explained is that Camp SMP used to be, like, a family business,” Ranboo says.
“I’m terrified,” Tubbo adds, clutching a plush bumblebee to his chest.
“Right. So,” Tommy continues, clicking the flashlight off and then on again. “He was going to give the camp to his son, but, one day, he overheard his son scheming over the phone-- he was talking about his plan to inherit the camp and then sell the land.”
“Spooky,” says Tubbo.
“The owner didn’t want the camp to be sold,” Tommy explains, “so he took his son’s name off the will.”
“Wait, like, full-stop?” Ranboo cuts in. “Like, he wasn't getting anything anymore?”
“Will you stop--” Tommy swats irritably in Ranboo’s direction. “No,” he continues, “I don’t know. He wasn’t getting the camp anymore. That’s the point. And he was really, really angry about it. So he rigged the place with explosives.”
“He what?” Ranboo cries.
“He rigged the place. With explosives. Keep up, boob-boy.” Tommy flickers the flashlight in Ranboo’s direction. “He was going to blow the place up.”
“Where did he get the explosives?” Tubbo inquires, leaning forward curiously.
Tommy shrugs. “At the explosives store, I guess.”
Tubbo nods. “I accept that answer.”
“Anyway,” says Tommy, “just as he was about the press the button that would detonate the whole thing--”
“Ah, yes, the infamous big red button,” Ranboo mutters--
“His dad-- the owner-- caught him, and— thinking on his feet— stabbed him to death.”
“What?” Ranboo and Tubbo both cry at the same time.
Tommy nods, like, I know, right? “He killed his own son.”
“Why would he do that.” Tubbo cuts in flatly.
“Well,” says Tommy, “to stop him from blowing up the camp.”
“Surely there must’ve been a better way!” Tubbo cries. “Than-- than murder!”
“Seriously,” Ranboo agrees. “He could’ve put him in a sleeper hold. Or just, like, knocked him over. Or stabbed him just once, maybe? Like, in the arm? I really don’t see the necessity of--”
“I’m just telling you what happened,” Tommy argues. “Anyway, the story isn’t finished--”
“Imagine,” Tubbo rolls on, “just-- it’s a little suspicious, honestly, like he was just waiting for that opportunity--”
“‘No, officer, I didn’t want to kill him, but I had no choice--’” Ranboo mimics.
“Anyway,” Tommy repeats loudly, “the son is a ghost now, and he haunts the camp. Looking for revenge.”
“I don’t blame him,” Tubbo states. “Is that the end of the story? It’s quite unsatisfying.”
“Well then you tell us a story,” Tommy retorts, his expression something sour, his arms crossed defensively.
“No, I still need to think about mine.” Tubbo swipes his flashlight over to shine in Ranboo’s direction. “Ranboo?”
“Uh, sure,” says Ranboo, squinting at the flashlight beam. “Could you--”
Tubbo turns the flashlight off.
Ranboo nods. “Thanks. Uh, okay, so. Uh--”
“This had better be good,” Tommy grumbles. “The pressure is on, Ranboo. You realize that, don’t you?”
“No. The pressure is fully off,” Tubbo says, laying a comforting hand on Ranboo’s knee. Ranboo, who is looking increasingly nervous. “At worst, it’ll be funny. And it’s not like it can be worse than Tommy’s.”
“Hey--”
Ranboo nods. “That’s true. Thank you, Tubbo.”
“Excuse me--”
Tubbo smiles. “Anytime.”
A Taki is launched in their general direction, courtesy of Tommy. Ranboo leans back and clears his throat.
“So,” begins Ranboo. “A while ago-- I don’t know exactly when--”
“The nineties,” Tubbo suggests.
“Sure. Okay. The nineties,” Ranboo agrees. “Back in the nineties, there used to be-- well, there was actually a twelfth boys cabin.”
“False, but okay,” says Tommy, neutral.
“Shut up,” Ranboo tells him, equally neutral. “Uh, there was also-- there was this really popular kid. One of the older campers. He was, like, really cool, and everyone liked him a lot--”
“And his name was Tommy, yes, thank you very much.”
Ranboo rejects this immediately. “No. I don’t-- I don’t know what his name was, but-- but not that,” he says. “Anyway, he slept in cabin twelve, with all his friends. And one day, some of the younger campers decided to pull a prank, so they-- they lit a fire. Like, in the cabin. They set the cabin on fire.”
“As-- as a joke?” Tommy asks, frowning. “I’m-- personally, I don’t see the punchline, but--”
“No, it makes sense,” says Tubbo, waving him off. “They were stupid little kids. I get it.”
“I don’t,” Tommy mumbles. “Why does Ranboo get to have plot holes but not me?”
“It’s-- so, anyway,” says Ranboo. “They, like-- they lit the fire, and then started calling for help-- like, ‘hey, there’s a fire, there’s someone in there!’ So the cool, older camper comes running, and he barges right in there to rescue whoever needs recusing, but then he gets trapped in there and dies.”
“As one does,” Tubbo agrees.
“And that’s it?” Tommy asks, knees drawn up to his chest, facials set into a blunt frown.
“No,” says Ranboo. “It’s a ghost story. He’s a ghost now. So like, sometimes at night, he possesses kids and makes them sleepwalk into the lake. To get water. To put out the fire.”
“Oh,” says Tommy. “That’s very--”
“Interesting,” says Tubbo. “And scary! Thank you, Ranboo.”
Ranboo nods shortly.
“Okay, Tubs,” Tommy urges, leaning forward. “Your turn. Hit us with your best shot.”
“Well.” Tubbo frowns, glancing between his two friends. “I don’t… hm.”
“Take your time,” Tommy tells him, settling back. He holds out one of his snacks to Ranboo, who accepts it quietly.
They end up waiting for, like, a full minute. Tubbo’s face is scrunched up in concentration the entire time, and his friends exchange a concerned glance.
“Don’t hurt yourself, now, Tubs,” Tommy says.
And then, focused and slowly, “Did you know that the previous owner of this camp died in the gaga pit?”
Tommy and Ranboo exchange another glance of concern.
“Yeah, from alcohol poisoning,” Tubbo continues. He blinks up at the other two, trance broken.
“Is that… it?” Ranboo asks.
“Yeah, no, look it up. ‘J. Schlatt incident at Camp SMP.’ It’s great, because there’s clearly a story there-- like, they found him face down, wearing a super expensive suit, the week before camp was supposed to start. But we’ll never know what actually went down that night.”
“I resent that,” Tommy states flatly.
“Is this the same gaga pit we were playing in earlier tonight?” Ranboo asks nervously.
"Yeah, that's the one!" Tubbo chirps.
“Okay.” Ranboo exhales, stretching his legs out and brushing them off. “I think,” he states, “that this has officially gotten out of hand.”
“Yeah, way to make it weird, Tubso,” Tommy complains. “I don’t even want snacks anymore.”
“Well I do,” Tubbo says, grabbing the bag back from him. “Hey, guys?”
Tommy hums.
“If I’m ever found dead in the gaga pit--”
“Okay,” Ranboo cuts in, “that’s--”
“Promise me you’ll honor me properly. Build, like, a second gaga pit next to the first one. Call it the Tubbo Underscore Memorial Gaga Pit.”
“He’s not dead,” Tommy adds quietly. “He just loves remembering gaga pits.”
“I don’t know how to build a gaga pit,” Ranboo utters, stressed.
“Promise me,” Tubbo urges, holding a pinky out, entirely earnest. His flashlight rolls and hits Tommy’s foot.
Begrudgingly, Tommy links their pinkies. “I promise, Tubbo.”
Ranboo awkwardly adds a third pinky. “Me too.”
Tubbo grins. “I love you guys.”
“I love you too!” Ranboo chirps.
“Yeah, whatever.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Same, I guess.”
Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo sit in a cabin in the woods and eat a bag of Takis.