Chapter Text
Tubbo’s breathing was the only sound that occupied the abnormally empty home. Dirt walls surrounded him on all sides before turning to smoothstone just beyond a second doorway. Tommy’s home.
Everything was exactly the way it was when Tommy was… exiled. By Tubbo’s own hand no less. The chests were disorganized, furnaces cold and abandoned, still remnants of coal from old use. The crafting table is covered in a thin layer of dust.
Tubbo carefully opened the door to Tommy’s bedroom, choking back a sob that started to build in his throat at the sight. His bed was still untouched and unmade, the red blanket halfway fallen from the mattress, as if Tommy had just rushed out of bed that morning.
His head spun miserably as he made his way towards it, gingerly laying down on the slightly uncomfortable mattress. Worn from use and cold from abandonment.
It wasn’t fair.
The sob that had been building suddenly tore itself from his throat, echoing around the smooth stone room, empty of all life aside from Tubbo, who lay sobbing on his best friend's mattress.
The sheets still faintly smelled unmistakably of Tommy. The smell of burnt wood and tree sap, faintly he could pick out gunpowder within the mix, like their days of war had never fully left them.
Tubbo hugged the blanket to his chest and nose, already soaking the fabric with his own tears as he cried. Everything felt so empty and cold, it couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be real.
He dug his fingernails into his arms as he clutched the blanket close to him. The familiar burning pain almost grounding him.
Tommy is dead. And Tubbo caused it .
He was the one who had Tommy’s life on his shoulders. He was the one that ultimately decided Tommy should be exiled over a silly argument. A dumb accusation and a dumb fucking prank gone wrong. It was his fault.
A president of nothing. He’s been time and time again called useless and powerless. A yes man and a follower. The first time he was given the chance to prove himself, he fucked it up. He abandoned his best friend.
Initially, he was angry- no- seething , when he saw that tower.
A tower of dirt, piled high into the sky, all the way towards block limit. There was no Tommy at the top. No bright eyes and brighter smile to greet him. Just the cold rain hitting his cheeks as he surveyed the remnants of what used to be what Tommy called Logstershire. Now nothing more than a crater in the earth, bits of wood and stone scattered about the land.
There was no body to be found. That wasn’t how their world worked.
When you died, your body vanished along with you. Something they learned when Wilbur lost his third life, the only proof he was ever there in the first place being the blood on Philza’s sword, and the crater that was once L'manburg.
Tommy was gone.
It started with a laugh of disbelief. A hand in his hair as he took a step back, two, three; neck craning as far as the tower leaned above him.
The laugh turned into a stream of no’s, repeating from his lips and pleading into the rain that showered gently around him.
It couldn’t be happening.
It wasn’t happening.
Tommy would be okay.
Tommy was okay.
He had to be.
His soft repetitious no’s turned louder, more angry. Starting to echo around him and over the ocean.
It couldn’t be!
Tommy was fine!
Tommy can’t die!
And finally the words ceased. For a moment- everything was so quiet, the world seemed to stop.
Then it all turned red.
A snap cracked through his heart, his soul, his fucking veins .
A world that used to look so green and bright, colors always bursting at the seams, suddenly turned a hundred different shades of red.
The urge to break everything around him appeared like a wildfire to a dry field. It flickered through his body, every instinct in his bones telling him that something had to break, crack, bleed, suffer . His hands shook violently with intent of murder.
He wanted to pull out his hair, snap his fingers, pound his fists into the dirt until they were broken and bruised and bleeding.
Instead, he did one of the safest options he could take.
He screamed .
His scream echoed across the plain for miles, scattering birds in the distance.
The blown up remnants of Logstershire were all too familiar to him, memories of fireworks and tnt haunting his brain relentlessly.
His own scars burned, as if they were still fresh and new, like they weren’t even healed.
Your best friend is gone; and it’s all your fault.
He screamed until his throat was hoarse, until he couldn’t produce more than a scratchy wail at best.
He screamed past that warning point; until his energy was gone, and he found himself on sunken knees with his head in his palms. Tear tracks staining his cheeks.
Even then, as his screams turned to scratchy yells; he pushed on until he could feel his throat so torn up he was sure it would bleed.
Tubbo shouted until there was absolutely nothing left, his very soul feeling empty and numb to the world around him.
The ocean lapped innocently at the shore, the normally calming sounds falling on deaf ears.
His screams died down to a point of sore whimpering, sobs racking through his body as he gave up on holding himself up off the ground.
He fell into the sand, the tiny rocks already digging into his arms and sticking to his cheeks.
The rain was relentless, soaking Tubbo through and through, but he couldn’t even process the fact that he was shivering.
He was cold.
Inside . He was cold.
It was his fault.
Your fault your fault your fault your fault.
Tubbo doesn’t know how long he lied in the sand. It was long enough for the sun to start to set, and he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the sunset without-
He pushed himself to his feet and dragged himself towards the portal, his mind pleasantly numb as he trekked through the nether.
By the time he emerged from the heated plane, the sun was gone, stars starting to show in the sky above him.
He didn’t pause to look.
Tubbo walked, not even trying to process where his feet were leading him.
And when he finally came back around, he was standing in front of Tommy’s home.
Now he’s here. Laying in his late best friend's bed as his body shook with sobs.
His hands found themselves tangled in his hair, pulling harshly at the strands in an attempt to ground himself. Bring him back to the present.
He didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to think. To breathe. To live.
Not without Tommy.
Spit strangled his throat, forcing him to cough as he choked for a moment. Heavy breaths echoing off of the cold stone that surrounded him.
You’re a president.
You’re the president.
Get your shit together!
The sudden feeling of a hand gently coming to rest on his shoulder had him whirling around to sit up, his fist automatically swinging for whatever decided to disturb him.
His fist met something soft. Or wait- someone.
A soft “oof” filled the silence, and Tubbo was able to think semi clearly for the first time that evening.
Ranboo stood hunched in front of him, arms held around his stomach as he curled into himself in pain.
Tubbo stood, hands awkwardly hovering around the man as he tried to help without knowing how. He settled for awkwardly settling one hand on Ranboo’s shoulder, the other still doing its awkward hovering thing.
“Ranboo! Holy shit, are you alright?” Tubbo fretted, his voice so much more hoarse than he thought it would be. It hurt like hell too, but he found he didn’t mind the sting all too much.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t care for Ranboo, even if the guy was pretty quiet all the time, only ever scribbling things down in his book and nodding along to whatever conversation was currently happening.
They were friends, and Tubbo definitely didn’t want to punch the guy. Nor did he mean to.
Ranboo groaned, “you’ve-” he chuckled to himself, still clutching at his stomach as he grinned towards Tubbo, “you’ve got a strong punch.”
“I didn’t- it was- I’m so sorry-” Tubbo stumbled over his words, trying to form some sort of apology, but was stopped short by Ranboo raising a single hand.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ranboo smiled and straightened back up, Tubbo’s arm awkwardly sliding down the guy's arm since he was so much taller than Tubbo. “My fault for startling you.”
It was quiet for a moment, Tubbo taking his hand away and holding it to his chest. He didn’t know what to say. Words were- not his strong suit at the moment. Seeing that Ranboo had caught him in such a vulnerable state.
“Are you-” Ranboo caught his gaze, red and green eyes boring into his own. Well, Ranboo didn’t really do eye contact. It was much more likely that he was staring at Tubbo’s nose or forehead or eyebrow; but Tubbo appreciated the effort nonetheless.
“Are you okay? You seem… upset.” Ranboo settled on, his eyes filled with concern.
Tubbo stilled.
Was he okay?
Absolutely not.
Was he about to tell Ranboo that?
Hell no!
Not in a mil-
“I am…” Tubbo found himself saying instead, a wet laugh forcing itself past his lips.
His eyes uncontrollably welled with tears once more, his vision becoming blurry as he refused to blink. Not letting the tears fall.
“What happened?” Ranboo asked softly, his voice oddly calming. So foreign, yet so rumbling and calming in the end. Like thunder washing over the plains, hushing the world in its quiet reverberation.
Tubbo’s breathing hitched, another sob shredding his already destroyed voice. He crossed his arms in front of him, fingers finding that red bandana he never took off his wrist.
He almost forgot about their bandana trade. Tommy wore Tubbo’s green bandana around his neck, he never took it off either. He vowed to wear it for all time when Tubbo initially offered it to him.
The memory brought another sob, his eyes shutting tightly and letting the tears finally spill over eyelashes and drip down his face.
Warm arms embraced him, holding him tightly as Tubbo cried. He buried his face in Ranboo’s shirt, and for a moment, just a single second , he allowed himself to believe that it was Tommy holding him.
Tommy was hugging him, and whispering, “everything’s okay big man. I’m here.”
Tubbo clutched Tommy’s shirt, burying his face further into his chest and allowing himself to be held and comforted.
The harsh recollection that he was hugging Ranboo and not Tommy hit him harder than the time he was shot by Techno’s firework launcher.
He shoved the taller away, wiping his nose on his sleeve and refusing to make eye contact. He mumbled an apology before making his way to the door.
He can’t sit here anymore. He can’t be surrounded by things that were so definitely Tommy and not have his best friend by his side. There was work to do, a presidential cabinet to be run.
Elections were coming soon after all.
“Tubbo-” Ranboo started, following Tubbo out of the dirt shack, “are you sure you’re alright? Do you want me to stay?”
Tubbo stopped, back still towards Ranboo.
Primes.
He didn’t want to be alone right now.
But at the same time, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want anyone to see the state of vulnerability he was in right now.
“Write this down.” Tubbo started, his back straightening.
He forced the role of president over himself, like it was a second skin. No longer was he Tubbo who was mourning the death of his best friend. Right now, he is President Tubbo. The man who had a nation to run, people that relied on him, things that needed to be built and prepared in time for the election.
“Funeral preparations will be in progression by tomorrow morning, at the first light of dawn.” Tubbo spoke confidently, even though there was a lump starting to form in his dead throat. “I expect the cabinet to be ready for such, as this funeral is to honor…” his voice cracked, but he continued, “we will be honoring our comrade. Our friend. My brother .”
Behind him, there was a dull thump. The book Ranboo was scribbling in falling from shocked hands.
Tubbo couldn’t bear to face him.
“Funeral preparations for Tommy Innit will begin tomorrow.” Tubbo forced out, trying his absolute best to keep his voice from falling apart like it so desperately wanted to do, “I’ll see you in L'manburg.”
With that, Tubbo marched forward, his eyes only staring at the lanterns that floated lazily above his country.
The country he would protect.
He would protect it in the way he couldn’t protect Tommy.
Because Tommy was dead.
And it was all his fault.
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