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Tommy had never been one for war, in the beginning. He didn’t even know how he got wrapped up into the thing in the first place.
It’s like he had blinked, one moment he was sat making jokes with Wilbur and Tubbo, then the next he was cowering in the dark ravine he had called “Pogtopia” while waiting to strike on Manburg.
In the past, before it had all started, he would sew endless clothing and gifts for his friends. In the past, he would run around carelessly in flower fields and would crack jokes and relish in the sounds of his friends laughter.
Like Wilbur’s laughter. It used to be some sense of comfort for him, like a grounding sound that soothed him. Now, it only reminded him of Wilbur’s laugh when he was going mad; that strained, high pitched, maniac laugh. Even thinking about it sent shivers down his spine.
Or Tubbo’s laughter. One he could barely remember, seeing as he hadn’t heard it in forever.
In the past, when he actually knew how to sew (he couldn’t remember a thing about the old hobby now), he would sew the uniforms for L’manburg. Hell, he’d sewn Wilbur’s iconic coat. The one he died wearing. The one Tommy now wore as he trudged across the snow, not in any particular direction; just wherever his feet carried him.
In the present, he’d walk aimlessly. He’d glance at structures, picturing what had been there before. He’d look at his friends, and what they’ve become. Oh, how he wishes he could go back to the past; or even to another world where they had never fought.
He could still vividly see Niki’s bakery, and the old community house, and the smiles on his friend’s faces before they turned neutral and unnerving.
Despite the snow and frigid temperatures, Tommy began to feel his legs burning from the walking. He paused to take in his surroundings.
Out of muscle memory, maybe, his feet had guided him to Tubbo and Ranboo’s mansion. What a surprise.
He ignores the pains in his legs and walks past the large house, towards the now setting sun. Towards his future. Towards.. a river.
He slows to a stop and looks at the sand by the river, reminded of talks with Phil and Wilbur about Wilbur’s sand addiction. He smiled at the old-as-time memory and sunk down and sat on the sand. His boots were thick, and covered in snow, so he allowed them into the river and sat there.
The thumping of footsteps were suddenly heard from behind him. He sucked in a deep breath and prepared for whoever it was.
The last thing he was expecting was the feeling of rough piglin skin on his shoulder. He flinched, almost jumping before seeing Michael behind him.
Oh, his mind graciously supplied, Tubbo’s kid.
He stood up and stepped up a block to the sand. He cleared his throat.
“Where’s your parents, little piglin?” He asked in piglin, the language still somehow in his mind. The small piglin boy lit up and snorted.
“Bee ‘n Boo cooking!” Michael chuffed out, and Tommy hummed while grabbing the small piglin’s hand.
“Let’s head back there, okay? Can’t have Tubso and Ran thinking I kidnapped you or something.”
In the past, Tubbo was his best friend.
In the present, he still was.
From the past to the present, he found that that was one of the only similarities. How long it would last? He didn’t know.
He just hoped it would last long enough.