Chapter Text
Exile has been a long, long time. Tommy could barely recall what day it was anymore, or remember the date of that day. Surely, it had to be a few months already, because every second just felt like an hour and—he's just going insane with nothing to do but collect. The boy scrounged for items nearby his tent—affectionately called "Tnret"—only to be taken away by his so-called friend. Dream, the owner of this Server, and the only friend he'll ever have, because those sons of a blood sack never came to look for him or visited him.
At least, Dream was still his friend. And so was.. Ghostbur.
Right, the blonde sighed, Ghostbur. The man had kept him company, talked to Tommy for hours when he was busy thinking "big man stuff" as he called it. The spirit talked about how things were back in Pogtopia, and how Christmas was. Never failed to give him daily check-ins about Tubbo, and.. Tommy appreciated his kind and earnest gestures. Just listening, not having to act or respond upon what was told.
Sometimes, Ghostbur brings him a little blue on a rainy day, or whatever that transparent crap was, and he keeps it, always kept them close too. Right in his pockets, smeared across his hands, and it dyes blue through time.
Tommy, being the big man he is, continued to think long and hard. Though, not long after, the sound of a little *' vwoop! '* alerts him of a presence. A faint giggle, a chirp of a "Hello, Tommy!"
Ghostbur.
He smiles, politely. "Hi, bossman."
"You look better! Did you sleep well in.. Tnret? " Ghostbur tilts his head to the right, standing beside the sitting blonde as he tries to pronounce the name properly. Tommy thinks he's just being nice, but it's better than being ridiculed for it anyway. Besides, Ghostbur wouldn't try and make fun of him for such a thing. The older understands better on what to do, and the blonde watched the way Ghostbur tried to read his face (although, maybe he wasn't as good as his other side was.)
"Sleep was okay, thank you for the blues, by the way." He shrugged, standing balanced on the ground as he brushed dust from his pants.
His pants were shaggy, he noticed quickly. He might need a new set, but he doesn't know where to find clothes or make one. Armour is.. different.
He hoped to learn how to make clothes, soon.
"Your welcome! See, I just have a lot to share, and—- Ooh, what's with the face, Toms?"
Suddenly, a face was right up in his space, curious and peering. Ghostbur was looking where he was, obviously, and man did the old guy need to learn space.
Not as old as Philza Minecraft (the ONLY man ever) but still older than Tommy was.
Tommy lightly shoved him off, mostly too hyperaware and cautious. But Ghostbur understood by then, he always does, and still managed a nice, little grin.
"I see! Are you maybe cold, Tommy?" He tilted his head, grey hands reaching to tug under a yellow sweater.
Tommy blinked, but Wilbur—Ghostbur, didn't.
He answered shortly, after much given thought about it. "No, I'm a cool guy. I like the cold and the chill," he huffed, prideful and youthful, pointing his thumb at his puffed chest. Oh, he wasn't cold, but he definitely was a bit self-conscious of his appearance. Hair all greasy and shit, and his clothes were teared at the seams.
He wanted to fix them, he liked his clothes a lot.
And Ghostbur laughed anyway at his antics, seeing right through them just as much.
"Tell you what, I'll give you my sweater to cover that up. Once we can get you back, in Pogtopia, maybe we can try and save your skin." He winked, childishly so, and pulled off his beloved piss-looking sweater. Now, like a tattered hand-me-down, Tommy wore it with the help of the friendly ghost.
Albeit, a bit too big, but it was snug.
Tommy wasn't aware of how he was gripping the cloth a bit too tight, too.
He peeked at Ghostbur, with the huge gash of blue right across his chest and he asks softly, "wouldn't you get cold, Will?"
But the brunet shook his head, honest, and responds, "I don't think ghosts get cold, so keep it until then."
And Tommy does, and he always did. Soft material in his scarred and rough hands, yellow that contrasted with the blue leftovers of Ghostbur's incident, and a reminder of his forever idol.
Suddenly.
He snaps back.
The Wilbur in front of him isn't kind-faced and open. The Wilbur in front of him didn't have any of his familiar blues, a white streak in brown, ashy curls that matches so painfully similar the one with Tommy's. This Wilbur wears that damned coat, brown leather with cigarettes in his pockets, and he is bold and so unkind.
The audacity of this bitch, Tommy glares, when that Wilbur demands a reply with a godawful smirk.
"Isn't that my cardigan that I gave you?"
Tommy almost bites back, with a snappy tone and blue eyes all too angry,
"It was never fucking yours."