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Sometimes Tommy saw Wilbur staring at them, his buttercups. He pretended not to notice.
Tommy wasn’t sure if he hated them or loved them, wasn’t sure why they grew in his hair and under his fucking chin—was it his fault? Was it some cruel joke being played? Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. He was quite familiar with those. A little too familiar, if you asked him.
But, cosmic joke or not, the buttercups held too many memories.
. . .
There had been a day, back when L’manburg was young—and they were, too—when Wilbur had pointed to a small yellow flower in the grass and asked Tommy if he knew what it was.
“D’you know what those are, Toms?” he’d asked, and Tommy tilted his head and studied the flower, wracking his brain for an answer, childishly compulsive in his desire to please.
With a frown, he shook his head, saying, “No, Wil, I don’t think I do. What are they?”
Wilbur only smiled. He sat on the ground and folded his legs together, encouraging Tommy to do the same. Tommy followed suit, almost instantly, as he always did.
“They’re called buttercups,” he began to explain, and Tommy listened intently. He loved it when Wilbur talked about things. He always seemed so excited, so passionate. It was infectious.
“Is it cuz they’re shaped like cups and they’re all yellow, like butter?” Tommy asked, and Wilbur chuckled fondly.
“I think it’s because people used to think they made butter yellow,” Wilbur said with a smile, “but in reality, they’re poisonous to cows.”
“Anyway,” Wilbur continued, facing Tommy as he spoke, “there’s this special thing about them.”
Tommy perked up at that. “There is?” he asked in wonderment.
Wilbur’s smile grew. “Yeah, there is.”
He was really getting into it now.
“There’s this thing people do, to test if they like butter. You take a buttercup, hold it under your chin, and if your chin looks yellow, it means you like butter. If it doesn’t, it means you don’t.”
Tommy tilted his head in confusion, eyebrows burrowing. “But I already know that I like butter, Wil.”
Wilbur shook his head. “But that’s the fun of it, Toms. You see if the flower knows, too.”
He reached down and plucked the flower, placing it under his chin.
“Is it yellow?” Wilbur asked, and Tommy’s eyes widened when he saw that underneath Wilbur’s chin was, in fact, glowing yellow.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “yeah, it is!”
Wilbur grinned, giving the flower to Tommy. “Now you try,” he said, “and I’ll tell you what the flower says.”
Tommy nodded enthusiastically, holding the flower under his chin, excitedly waiting for a response.
“Is my chin yellow?”
Wilbur pretended to inspect it for a while, making humming sounds, as if he was a detective analyzing clues. “Hmm…”
“Come on!” Tommy urged, impatiently, “Tell me what the flower says, Wil!”
Wilbur resisted the urge to smile and pretended his analysis was done. “The evidence suggests that you do, in fact, like butter, Tommyinnit.”
Tommy grinned. “Fuck yeah, I do, bitch! That flower is smart as hell.”
. . .
And now, there they lie, in his hair and under his chin.
A reminder of what he once had.
A reminder of what he had lost.
. . .
Later that day, Wilbur had watched from afar as Tommy excitedly explained this all to Tubbo.
“But I already know I like butter,” Tubbo had told Tommy, in confusion.
Tommy shook his head, arguing, “I said the same thing to Wil at first. But that doesn’t mean anything, you gotta see if the flower says you do, too!”
Sensing his doubt, Tommy placed the flower underneath his own chin first. Tubbo’s eyes widened, not expecting his friend’s chin to have a yellow hue.
Bewildered,Tubbo mused, “Under your chin’s all yellow!”
Tommy nodded enthusiastically. “That means the flower knows I like butter! Now you do it, bossman.”
Tubbo wasted no time in mimicking his actions, excited to see what the flower would say.
“Your chin’s all yellow, too, Tubs!” Tommy cheered, and Tubbo beamed.
“Hell yeah! That’s awesome!” Tubbo replied, excitedly.
Wilbur smiled, fondly, as he watched them, and began to pluck the strings of his guitar.
. . .
Those days were far behind them now. But, unlike the friends he used to know, the buttercups wouldn’t leave him alone. Somehow, without fail, they remained.
There was one memory Tommy wished he could forget the most.
It had been a nice day, if his days spent in exile could be called ‘nice’ at all.
Tommy sat in the grass, watching the bugs and bees curiously, making up names for them.
“Oi, Tim,” he said, to a fire ant marching its way over to a caterpillar, likely about to kill it, “you get away from Margaret right this instant!”
He picked up the caterpillar and stood, walking over to a tree a safe distance away and placing her on the grass beneath it. “There you are, Maggie. You stay away from blokes like him. They’re nothing but trouble.”
Tommy sat, watching her, before he spotted a little yellow flower.
“A buttercup!” he exclaimed, grinning, “I’ve got to show Dream later.”
It was something to look forward to. Tommy could always use something to look forward to.
Tommy decided to leave it there rather than pluck it, worried that if he put it in his inventory, he would have to put it in a hole as soon as Dream arrived. Tommy stayed there with Margaret, watching as she munched on a leaf he had put out for her. “Good girl, Mags. Gotta get you big and strong so you can grow your wings.”
Dream arrived shortly after.
Tommy’s stomach flipped at the sight of him, and he was filled with that feeling he always got whenever Dream arrived: scared but happy at the same time. Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. He was glad for the company, he always reminded himself, willing his hands to not shake. Dream is my friend, he would repeat to himself in his head, Dream is my friend.
“Hello, Tommy!” Dream called, and Tommy stood from the tree and walked over to meet him.
“Hi, Big D!” Tommy replied, and began emptying his inventory as Dream dug a hole. He didn’t miss the pleased smile on Dream’s face.
As soon as the items were placed, Dream dropped TNT, and Tommy yelped as the flames nearly touched him. He laughed, nervously, “Almost burned me up, too!”
Dream chuckled but didn’t address it. “So, Tommy, what have you been up to today?”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tommy grinned and said, “There’s something I want to show you, actually!”
“Oh, really?” Dream asked, curiously. (Suspiciously).
“Yeah! Follow me,” Tommy replied, and bounded over to the tree.
Dream followed close behind—perhaps a bit too close for comfort, always close enough to intervene if Tommy ever tried anything—and Tommy nearly cringed at the sound, at the familiar sensation of being followed.
Tommy knelt down and plucked the buttercup. He stood and showed it to Dream, who merely stared at it in confusion.
Tommy held the flower under his chin and began to ask Dream, “Do I like butter, Dream? Do I?”
“What?” Dream had spluttered in confusion.
Caught up in his excitement, Tommy didn’t ask Dream if he knew the significance behind it, and had hoped instead that Dream would catch on.
“Is under my chin all yellow?” Tommy asked.
“Uh, yeah…” Dream had replied, trailing off.
Tommy grinned. “That means I do like butter, then!” he exclaimed before rushing forward excitedly to hold it under Dream’s chin as well.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dream said in a threatening tone, backing up and raising his sword, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Tommy visibly held back a flinch. Dream suppressed a smile.
“Jus’ wanted to see if you liked butter, too,” Tommy had mumbled, dejected and frightened.
Sometimes he forgot the reality of their relationship, that earlier in the day, Dream had made him empty his hard-earned items into a pit only to blow them up in front of him without waiting for Tommy to back up. Sometimes he almost believed Dream wasn’t lying when he said they were friends.
God, he missed his friends.
But Dream is my friend, he reminded himself.
“I already know that I like butter, Tommy,” Dream said, slowly, as if he was reprimanding a child. It made Tommy’s skin itch.
Tommy sighed. “It’s this thing people do,”— this thing I did with Wilbur and Tubbo —he explained, wishing he hadn’t done any of this in the first place, “where you stick it under your chin, and if your chin gets all yellow, it means you like butter.”
Dream shook his head dismissively and said, with a scoff, “That’s stupid.”
Tommy’s heart sank. He wanted to explain, to tell him what it meant, tell him it was a tradition, something his brother had taught him and something he had shown his best friend and something he wanted to show Dream, now, but Tommy forced his mouth closed.
Dream dug a hole and Tommy placed the flower inside without a word.
. . .
Staring pointedly at the crater below, Tommy reached under his chin for the buttercups he knew were there and began to rip them out, ignoring Wilbur’s startled protests.
“Tommy, what the hell are you doing?” Wilbur practically yelled.
Tommy paid him no mind.
If he kept staring down at the remains of his home until his eyes crossed and got all blurry, Tommy could almost swear he could see buttercups in the grass.
“Fuck, Tommy,” Wilbur was saying, and he was approaching him, strangely, as if unsure if he was allowed to touch him, “stop that, Toms. That’s gotta hurt.”
Wilbur took hold of Tommy’s hands, stopping them mid-tear.
“They’re fucking stupid,” is all Tommy said, still staring at what was once his home, tears falling down his face.
Tommy nearly jumped as he felt Wilbur’s arms wrap around him, pulling him to his brother’s chest. It felt weird to hug him, weird to press his face into his brother’s chest and know there were mushrooms growing behind his ears and on his shoulders. It felt weird to hug him because he was dead. Because he was different. It felt weird to hug him because Tommy hadn’t been properly hugged in a while now.
But he let himself melt into the embrace, as foreign of a feeling as it was.
He knew that his buttercups would grow back—they never left him alone—but he didn’t care. He wanted them gone.
In the distance, Dream watched in curiosity.