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so I curse my stars for a fair game
while you nurse my scars and the old flame
i'm a fool for you, i'm a fool for
i'm a fool for you
---
It’s not that Tommy’s been deliberately avoiding looking in a mirror.
That’d be stupid. That’s- that’s not something a big man like himself does. Tommy is brave and strong and he’s not afraid of anything, least of all his own reflection. He knows what he looks like- blond, tall, scrawny. He doesn't need to look in a mirror.
And it’s just that, you know, it’s hard to hang a mirror on a dirt wall. So he hasn’t seen himself in a while. Purely coincidental.
Unforunt- ahem, not unfortunately, he means- Ranboo and Tubbo’s mansion doesn’t have dirt walls and is fully capable of having mirrors in all of their bathrooms. And it does. Which is fine! Which is fine.
It’s fine.
Tommy flushes the toilet and tries very, very hard not to look at the blond blur that he can see moving in his peripheral vision. Honestly, who needs a mirror that large? Curse stupid Ranboob and his stupid wealth.
He runs his hands under the ice-cold water from the faucet, spreads soap between his fingers, runs it under the water again, and then he reaches for a towel.
It’s not on the hook. Damn it. Tommy glances over to where it usually is, and then around the bathroom, trying to figure out who the hell would have moved it, and then his gaze drifts over the mirror.
It stops. Wide gray-blue eyes blink back at him.
Huh. They’re not as vibrant as he remembers.
When Tommy raises an arm, the reflection raises an arm as well. When he blinks, his eyes reopen to the sight of the reflection doing the same. He sticks his tongue out, and the reflection copies him.
It’s been… a long time since Tommy looked in a mirror. Not since… Pogtopia, maybe. He didn’t have any in exile, and… and afterwards, he didn’t really want to look at one. Techno had one in his bathroom, but when Tommy begged him to cover it with a bedsheet, he did so without complaint.
The face that stares back at him doesn’t look like the one in Pogtopia.
Tommy’s hair is longer now, long enough to brush against his shoulders. He knows this, ties it up himself in ponytails most days, but it’s different actually seeing the stringy blond curls that frame his face. He reaches up and plucks at the chunk of white that sits in the front, watching as it falls limply back into his eyes.
His eyes, which he remembers being a pretty sky blue, look more faded and gray, like someone sucked all the life out of them. His lips look hard-set, the perpetual smile lines he remembers having gone.
And then- and then there’s the other thing. The scars.
See, logically, he already knew they were there. He knows that scars stick around after death. He has the blade scars from the Final Control Room, and he has the discoloration on his chest where an arrow hole once was. He knows that his final death, his most violent death, wouldn’t have left him with smooth skin.
He just… he didn’t think that it was this bad.
He sets his trembling hand (when did it start trembling?) on his cheek, fingers gently scraping at the discolored skin. There’s scarcely an inch of his face that isn’t covered in faded purple splotches, remnants of the relentless bruising dealt by Dream’s fists.
Tommy’s not the kind of person to say that any type of scars are beautiful or anything. That kind of poetic shit was always more Wilbur’s deal. But at least his other scars are smaller, more simple, just white lines cutting across his back or a dark circle in the middle of his chest.
Not these. These scars are ugly. Every purple blotch is a reminder of a fist against skin, of a face slammed into obsidian walls, of pain and pain and the burning desperation that had torn through him. Every scar is a reminder of the way he screamed out for someone, anyone, and no one came.
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and turns away. He’ll just let his hands air-dry.
—
“Boo won’t shut up about this new project he wants to work on,” Tubbo says. “Something about a floating city in the sky? Sounds dumb to me, but I ‘spose it’s my martial duty to go along with it- no, Michael, don’t put that in your mouth, it’s filthy.”
Tommy hums, pulling his knees under his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. Tubbo gently pulls a wooden block toy out of Michael’s hands and replaces it with a soft blanket. Michael makes a few happy piglin chuffing noises, biting gently at a corner of the blanket.
“Where is Ranboo?” he asks.
Tubbo hums. “Don’t know. I think he had some business to take care of.”
Ah. Probably Technoblade-related, then, if Ranboo’s not telling Tubbo about it.
“All I know is that he keeps talking about making his sky city. Wants to make it out of cobblestone, if you’d believe it. I don’t know where the hell he intends to get enough.”
Tommy chews on his thumbnail. He can practically hear the “wink wink nudge nudge” in Tubbo voice. They’ve been doing this recently, giving Tommy time-consuming tasks to do in order to distract him from the shitshow his life has become.
Tubbo holds his arms open, and Michael giggles before throwing himself onto his father’s lap. Tommy chomps down harder on his nail, barely reacting when the familiar twang of iron floods his mouth.
“I can get it, if you want,” he says.
Tubbo glances up at him through his bangs. “Would you?” he asks. “We’ll owe you a huge favor.”
“No problem, big man,” Tommy says, unfolding his legs and letting his bleeding thumb fall away from his mouth. “I’ll be back with your cobble by nightfall.”
“Thanks a lot, Tommy,” Tubbo says, running a hand through Michael’s hair. “We really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy mutters, trying very hard not to look at the way Tubbo is letting Michael curl up into his thick jacket. “See you, Tubso.”
The mansion door makes a loud thump when it closes behind him.
Tommy hums under his breath as he walks through the forest, running a hand along the rough bark of the trees. He jumps in between a few leaves that lay scattered on the ground, trying to get them to make satisfying crunch noises.
There’s a mountain in this direction that’s full of unmined stone. He found it last week when he was out walking around to clear his head. A lot of the mountains near the populated areas on the server have long-since been hollowed out, stripped of any potential valuables, but this mountain has remained untouched, so Tommy figures it’s a good place to start.
The forest is mostly quiet. There’s the sound of swaying branches, of soft birdsong, of a distant rushing stream. If he squints, Tommy can see where snow begins dusting the treetops to his far right, a mark of where the nearby arctic biome begins.
Tommy yawns, sitting down on a rock for a moment to catch his breath. He likes the quiet of the forest in the mornings. He’d never used to like the quiet before, but these days, he’s gotten used to it, and now it brings a sense of comfort that he can’t find anywhere else on the server.
He breathes in for a long moment, breathes out, and then he hears the footsteps.
He jerks to his feet, eyes slamming open and hand snapping to the hilt of his sword. The footsteps don’t sound light enough to be Dream’s (Dream is in prison, he’s not here, he’s locked up for good and he can’t touch Tommy-), nor heavy enough to be Techno’s, but it’s hard to tell when they’re coming through the snow-
A crow caws, and then another, and then another. Oh. Phil, then.
Tommy’s hand tightens on his sword, and he backs away slowly. Phil is- Phil is safer than Dream or Techno in that he won’t shoot Tommy on sight, but it’s not like they have a good relationship. Pretty much the opposite, actually, considering the whole betrayal and terrorism thing. Not- not great terms to be on.
Tommy backs up another step, and then Phil emerges from the trees, humming under his breath while he strokes the head of a crow that sits on his shoulder. Tommy whips around, preparing to run, when-
“Tommy?”
He freezes like a deer in headlights, body poised to start sprinting in the opposite direction. Phil’s voice comes from behind him, a mix of anger, confusion, and something else that Tommy dares not try to name.
He could- he could book it. Phil can’t fly, not on this server, so he probably wouldn’t be able to catch up. He could just run-
“Tommy? Tommy, is that you?”
He sounds- he sounds c oncerned. Tommy shakes his head- no, Phil’s not concerned, he’s angry because- because Phil hates Tommy and Tommy needs to run-
“Toms?”
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “Hi, Phil,” he says quietly, knuckles white from clenching so hard.
“Tommy,” Phil says again, and that can’t be relief in his voice, Tommy doesn’t- Tommy refuses to believe it. His stupid brain is fucking- fucking lying to him again, the way it does sometimes when he pretends that Phil and Techno and Wilbur still want him.
“Bit of a broken record, aren’t you, Philza Minecraft?” Tommy says, bracing a hand on the tree next to him. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t bear the thought of looking Phil in the eyes and seeing the disdain that must be there.
“Oh, shut up, you little shit,” Phil says in a way that can’t possibly be fond, so why- why does it kind of sound- no. No. “I haven’t seen you in ages, mate. Where’ve you been? Ranboo said-” he laughs a little, “Ranboo said you died, but I knew that was a load of bullshit.”
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. So Phil doesn’t- maybe it’s better that he doesn’t know. Tommy’s tired of being badgered about the whole “death” thing.
“Are you okay?” Phil asks. “Tommy? You’ve been staring off into the woods for a while now.”
“Fine,” Tommy says. “I’m fine.”
“Just can’t bear to look at me, then?” There. There’s the anger. The sting it leaves in Tommy’s chest feels comfortable, makes him feel whole, makes him feel alive.
“Maybe I can’t,” Tommy snaps. “Maybe I fuckin- maybe I haven’t fucking forgiven you, hmm?”
“For what? For Doomsday? Tommy-”
“You blew up my country, Phil! You killed Wilbur! You fucking- fucking ruined my life!”
“I only did what had to be done, Tommy,” Phil says, and Tommy can hear him walking towards him. “Surely you understand that.”
“You didn’t have to destroy L’Manburg,” Tommy says.
“Why won’t you look at me, Tommy?” Phil snaps. “I’m not arguing with your fucking back!”
“I don’t have to look at you if I don’t want to,” Tommy says. “You don’t get to- you can’t force me to do shit.” He’s so, so scared. He’s so scared that he’s going to turn around and see Phil’s disappointed glare, see the disdain and the condensation and the hatred.
“Tommy, will you just-” Phil’s hand lands on Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy barely manages to yelp in surprise before Phil spins him around.
Oh, Tommy thinks as he gazes into Phil’s eyes, he looks older.
Which shouldn’t be possible, because Phil is literally immortal. It’s not like his face has more wrinkles or anything. But there’s- there’s a weight to him, something in his eyes, that makes him look centuries older than the last time Tommy had seen him.
Tommy searching Phil’s expression, looking for the hatred that he knows is there, but- but all he can see is Phil’s shock. “What?” he snaps. “Something on my face?”
“Tommy,” Phil breathes, reaching a shaking hand up to trace Tommy’s cheek. Tommy moves to slap it off, but somehow only manages to wrap his fingers around Phil’s wrist. “Tommy, sweetheart, what- what happened?”
Sweetheart.
“What are you talking about?” Tommy says. “You’re fuckin- freakin’ me out, Philza.”
“Your face,” Phil says, jaw slack and eyes blown wider than Tommy’s ever seen them. “These are scars.”
Oh. Oh, that.
“Who?” Phil snarls. “Who gave you these?”
Tommy shifts his head to the side so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Phil. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters.
“Darling,” Phil says, “who did this to you?”
Tommy’s eyelids flutter shut. “Who the fuck do you think?” he says.
This has to be- this has to be some kind of weird dream. Phil doesn’t- Phil doesn’t care about Tommy. Phil wouldn’t care if Tommy wound up dead on the side of the road. That’s just how it is.
“Wait, when Ranboo said you died in the prison-”
“Does Ranboo seem like the kind of bitch who lies about that kind of shit?” Tommy says. “Fucking- Dream. Beat me to death. And then brought me back.”
Phil’s talon-like nails dig into the side of Tommy’s face. Tommy winces, yanking on his arm with the hand still wrapped around Phil’s wrist.
“I’ll kill him,” Phil snarls. “I’m going to make that son of a bitch wish he threw himself into the lava when he had the chance.”
Tommy releases a little shuddering gasp, pressing his face further into Phil’s hold. Fuck it, he decides- if this is a dream, he’s milking it for all it’s worth. “I screamed for you,” he whispers. “I screamed for you to come save me. But you didn’t.”
Phil yanks him into his arms. Tommy’s head bangs against the soft fabric of Phil’s robes, head pillowed against his chest. “Never again,” Phil says. “I’ll never let that happen again.”
“You didn’t stop it before,” Tommy says. “You fucking- you fucking let me die in there.”
Phil clutches him tighter. Unbidden, the image of Tubbo hugging Michael appears in Tommy’s mind.
Phil isn’t- Phil hasn’t ever been Tommy’s dad. Certainly not biologically, and not really in spirit either. But tucked into Phil’s arms, all Tommy can think about is that this must be what a child feels when their parents hold them close.
“I’m so sorry, sunshine,” Phil says. “You didn’t deserve any of this. I’m sorry.”
Oh.
When was the last time someone apologized to Tommy?
He can’t stop the tears from bursting out of his closed eyes, the way his face scrunches up as he begins to sob. Phil shushes him gently, rocking him back and forth as Tommy cries and gently threading one hand through Tommy’s hair.
“It hurt so bad,” Tommy sobs, fingers clasped so hard to Phil’s robe he’s shocked they don’t tear right through the fabric. “He just kept- he just kept beating me, and I- I was alone, no one came-”
“Shh,” Phil says, scratching lightly at his scalp. “It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay now. I’ll kill him, alright? I’ll make sure he never hurts you again.”
Tommy blinks up at Phil through watery lashes. “Promise?” he whispers.
“Promise,” Phil says without hesitation. “No one is ever hurting my kids again.”
Tommy tucks his head in Phil’s robe to hide his weak smile. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” Phil answers.
—
“-so I’ve been kind of on-and-off living with Tubbo and Ranboob. Uh, yeah, I think that’s it.”
Phil ruffles Tommy’s hair as they walk. “What’s Tubbo up to these days? Feels like it’s been forever since I last spoke to him.”
“He’s good,” Tommy says. “Mostly just taking care of Michael these days, I think- oh, he did mention something about Ranboo wanting to build a sky cit-”
Tommy stops dead in his tracks. A look of horror covers his face.
“What? What’s wrong?” Phil asks frantically.
Tommy’s eyes are wide with panic and he grabs onto Phil’s arms. “Phil, I forgot to get Ranboo’s fuckin’ cobblestone!”