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When the first bomb goes off, Wilbur for sure thought this was the end for him and his brothers. He was okay to let go now, for this to be his last memory. The three of them in the piano room, Tubbo hitting random dissonant chords and with Tommy somehow keeping up with it.
Then he realizes, oh gods, a bomb just went off, and he’s still in a room with his brothers.
All three of them are frozen in fear, but unharmed, thank Prime herself, but they need to move, and now.
Tubbo scrambles off the chair, hand in hand with Tommy, dagger in his left. Tommy has nothing with him but the clothes Wilbur let him borrow earlier this morning. Wilbur followed close behind, sword in hand, eyes alert and darting every which way.
Before Captain Puffy died, she made them run this exact scene out, week after week, always at random times so they were better prepared in times like this.
Out the piano room, towards the kitchen if the infirmary had been taken, using the servant’s entrance to exit out into the catacombs beneath the palace, and out to a courtyard in the lower upper village. They had shown Tommy this route as well, working him until he knew it well.
The sudden light after being in pitch black hurts Wilbur’s eyes, but he’s grateful all the same. As his eyes focus, so do the eyes of the man across the field.
He looks like the Devil reincarnated, dried blood makes his hair stand up in a wild way, making him look like he’s wearing a crown, and the right side of his face looks either scarred or blown open. Wilbur, to his horror, can’t tell.
The man tilts his head to the left, as if listening for something. Another bomb goes off. Tubbo sobs.
Wilbur hefts his sword up, so it’s better held in his hand, shifts his left foot forward, moving his center of balance.
Across the field, the man slightly raises his right hand, and Wilbur feels a sharp pain, just above his right hip bone.
There’s a dagger there, and the blade breaks into pieces, dissolving into his skin with a pain he’d never thought he would feel in his life. He drops his sword and his feet stagger. He brings both hands to the wound, as if not believing that this is really happening, like he just wasn’t stabbed. His hands come away bloody, and he falls to his knees.
Tubbo chokes back a sob. He wants to check on Wilbur, to see if he can stop the bleeding. But he can’t leave Tommy and he can’t make himself move.
Tommy. Who has been quiet this entire time, clutching Tubbo’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him here. It probably is.
Tommy, with his whole body shaking, moves in front of Tubbo. Wilbur is groaning in pain on the ground to his left.
“Strange,” the man says, a new dagger hanging precariously from his fingertips. “I thought heroes didn’t exist anymore.” He won’t say it, but Tubbo is glad the man can’t see how he shakes in fear.
“Oh, but you aren’t a hero, are you, Tommy?” The man asks. He tilts his head to the side, and Tommy tracks the way the blood drips into his eyes. He doesn’t falter. “Did you tell them, Tommy, where you come from? About how you managed to survive on your own for so long? Or are you still keeping up with the amnesia bit?”
Tubbo’s legs give out from under him. Tommy turns his head slightly toward him and takes note of his appearance. He thinks he’s been crying, both eyes red and wet with unshed tears. He has a deep gash on his forehead, just above his left eye. Tommy wonders if it came from him. The blood drips into Tubbo’s eyes. He blinks anyway.
“Tommy? What is he talking about?”
The man across the field grins something akin to the Devil with blood on his hands. His eyes are broken, irises fractured like they had been cut. From Wilbur’s spot on the ground, he sees it all, sees how there's no emotion at all in his eyes. Wilbur had never felt so haunted.
“If you were embarrassed of your family, you should have said something. Little brother, we both know you are no hero.”
Nothing moves. To Tommy’s right, there’s a flash and a BOOM resonates through his bones. The ringing in Tommy’s ears is piercing, and warmth trickles out from his left. In a daze, he brings his hand up, and pulls it away to see black blood. He hears a higher, muffled sound, and later he will realize it as Wilbur’s screams.
Tubbo is on the ground unconscious. Where his left leg once was is nothing more than a fleshy stump of sinew and bone and blood. He isn't moving.
But Tommy does not feel, no. He simply turns to Wilbur and shields his body, acting as if he will keep shrapnel from hitting. He looks Wilbur in the eye, sees the pure, unadulterated fear in his face, and allows his dagger from his shirt sleeve to drop into his palm.
No, he does not feel anything.
He slides the dagger easily into Wilbur’s sternum, slices through like there's no muscle ever there. Eyes now locked, he watches how Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The poison sets in. He does not feel.
He is no hero, after all.
---
The poison is fact acting and painless. A last mercy, Tommy supposes.
Wilbur coughs and blood spatters Tommy’s shirt.
He holds Wilbur in his lap, hands combing through his hair, and Wilbur’s eyes close at the comfort. He doesn’t know that Tommy has tears in his eyes.
“I’m cold,” Wilbur whispers. His eyes open but they don’t focus on anything. They’re a muddy grey now. They look cracked in half. “I see my parents. When did they leave?” He sniffles, but it doesn’t stop the blood from flowing from his nose.
Something is breaking Tommy from the inside out. His heart is beating too fast, he thinks he might be dying, and maybe it wouldn't be so awful.
“They aren’t mad at you.” Wilbur says, his eyes moving across the sky before focusing on Tommy for a split second. They unfocus again.
“They have a lot of questions of mine to answer,” Wilbur laughs, but stops to cough more blood up. He has tears in his eyes, and wonders if they will fall before his last breath. His eyes hurt. He closes them.
Tommy laughs with him, but it sounds forced and choked, like he’s holding back a torrential pour of tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Tommy thinks it falls on deaf ears, but Wilbur shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, they are a dull grey. The same color as the sky. Is Tommy’s heart splitting into pieces, or is that Wilbur’s soul he hears?
“Tubbo has never had to apologize to me. I’m not going to let another brother start now.” His eyes are wide open, colorless and unseeing.
Tommy closes his eyes and prays for Wilbur to make it to the Other River safely. Prays that he’s able to learn every instrument and language he wants. Prays for his entire family lineage to be there, with nothing but open arms and warm hearts.
He lets his hands fall on Wilbur’s face, and looks at his eyes, now completely devoid of any color, and with holes in them like a broken bowl. With a release of his breath, he closes Wilbur’s eyes, and lets him rest.
---
Tommy's eyes open, swollen and stinging. He focuses on the clock: it's 2:43 am. He's not sure why he's awake until his ears reboot to hear Tubbo saying his name over and over like a mantra.
Crossing the room, Tommy opens the stark white curtain to Tubbo's bed, and wants to vomit. He's certainly seen better days. His entire left side is discolored blue and dark purple, blood on the bandage dressing of where his left leg once was, and multi-colored veins that snake his entire body like those ivy vines he so loves in the garden.
Tubbo's eyes are wide open and scarily aware. Tommy wishes he wasn’t.
He walks in and sits in the chair by Tubbo's right side. He seems to calm down at the sight of Tommy.
"Is it true, then? They've all gone and left us behind?" Tommy falters when he hears Tubbo. He tries not to let that bother him.
"I'm sorry," but Tommy doesn't know if he really is. Tubbo hums in acknowledgment. His eyes stare at the space where his leg was. His eyes flick up to Tommy, and Tubbo's eyes have tears in them.
"Oh," he takes a deep breath and there's a rattling noise coming from his chest. "Well. Wilbur says he already forgave you. The four of us had a talk about what happened. So, now I can tell you I forgive you, too."
Tommy hears sniffles, but doesn't register that it's him crying.
"Do you," he stutters, "Do you think you're ready?" On Tubbo's next breath in, his eyes are bright green. His chest sounds like it's cracking all over. Neither of them bring up the black veins snaking up the left side of his chest, slowly creeping into his gashed and mottled neck. Tommy feels he might be sick.
"All good things," his next breath brings a cough, "must come to an end." He closes his eyes and it's another 2 minutes before they're open again. This time a dull grey. He tries for a comforting smile, but with the blood and slow healing cuts on his face, it’s more horrifying than anything.
"It's cold," he states. "Can I have a blanket?" And of course Tommy obliges.
He pulls up the blanket to Tubbo's neck and grabs his right hand. Tommy finally allows himself to cry.
"See you on the other side, boss man." His eyes turn bright white, and as Tubbo breathes his last breath, Tommy screams.
The clock strikes 3 am.