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“if you don’t go outside, well nothin’s gonna happen!
she’ll never write her number on a crumpled up napkin.”
haley heynderickx, “oom sha la la.”
Tubbo didn’t have enough fingers or toes to count all the reasons on why he loved Tommy.
While Micheal pushes his breakfast off the table to hit the wooden floor with a silent thud, Tubbo washes the dishes at the sink. His toddler cries at him - loud and distressed, but the sound doesn’t register in his ears. He scrubs at his hand rather than the porcelain dish until the scar across his palm is red and angry.
Often, Tubbo thinks of Tommy while doing his mundane tasks of the day.
He hates it - hates the thought of Tommy because as soon as he does, the tears pool in his eyes.
When Tubbo was a kid (and god how long has it been since he considered himself one of those? If he was ever?), he and Tommy would run around all over the place. They would pick apples off of trees that didn’t belong to them, and they would make flower crowns as their bellies rumbled endlessly.
Oh, how he misses that childish youth on the days he stands in front of his gravestone.
In the Memory of Tommy,
He was taken from us too soon.
Every morning he has his daily ritual: get dressed, feed Micheal, and pay his respects to an empty grave.
Empty because he mourns a living man.
By the time he comes back inside, Micheal is done picking at his place. He scoops up his child as he fusses at him before gently placing him inside of his room.
“Papa’s going out,” he says, stroking his head. “Be good. And, remember, keep the salt on your window. No touching, okay?”
Micheal frowns at him. “But Papa--”
“No ghosts allowed in here,” he whispers back, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”
He checks every window, every entrance, every crack in the house, and then he checks them once more before finally stepping out the door.
By the time he reaches Tommy’s home, the sun is raised heavy in the sky. It bears down on him as his knuckles break down against the door. “Tommy?”
He gets no response.
“Oh, hey, Tubbo!” Puffy greets, stopping on the sidewalk.
“Hey, have you seen Tommy?” he asks, holding his hand over his chest.
She frowns and cocks her head towards the house. “I don’t think he’s been out for a while…”
“Oh.” Tubbo raises his hand to knock once more.
“If you manage to see him, give him my hello,” she says before continuing on.
Tubbo gulps.
Then, he bangs against the door hard. “Tommy!” The door swings open and slams against its hinges before he is being yanked inside. It slams shut behind him.
“Good thing you’re here, Tubbo!” he says, grabbing him by the elbow. “I need you.”
Tubbo is yanked towards the ground where Tommy has a bunch of materials spilled over the floor. “Busy day ahead of us.”
“Wait, hey, Tommy--” he starts, but he’s interrupted as he jumps to his feet. His friend is drowning in his favorite blue cardigan, which falls around his shoulders. It’s tattered and filled with holes - a new addition since the last time he’s seen him, and his eyes are littered with bruises and bags.
“I want to revamp the walls,” he says. “Make it safer! Oh, and I was thinking of fixing Shroud’s cage too. Give him some more room to roam around. I tried to take him on a walk, but it didn’t go very well.”
“Tommy,” he repeats, eyes swollen, “what happened to us?”
He drops his shoulders. “What do you mean, Tubbo?”
Suddenly, Tubbo feels like crying.
He shakes his head frantically. His throat closes up tightly and threatens to block off his words. He shakes his head and spits out a shaky, “Let’s, uh, let’s work on that wall, Boss Man.”
Tubbo rises to his feet with his hand in Tommy’s. He sniffles before realizing that this may be the best he will ever have.
“I’m thinking we add another layer,” Tommy says. Tubbo pushes the door open and wanders outside, but when he looks over his shoulder Tommy is ten feet back. His mouth is taped shut.
“Tommy? You coming?” he calls over his shoulder.
Tommy takes one step forward and then stops.
Tubbo closes the distance between them. He reaches out for Tommy’s hand, and he lets him. He closes his rough fingers around his own. “I can’t build it without you,” Tubbo says.
He steps forward, and this time Tommy follows.
-
It’s been a week since Tommy’s left his house.
He waits for Tubbo to ask what he’s been up to, and he nervously prepares a lie to tell him. He could say he’s been busy doing things, which isn’t exactly a lie.
It’s just that his things he keeps busy with is waking up and going to bed - and nothing else.
Some days, Tommy wakes up and it’s the only thing he does the entire fucking day. He sits in his bed and he avoids the scratching in his walls, the eyes on him, the clawing at his front door and his bed post. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t breathe.
Today, though, he stands on his feet. He holds Tubbo’s hand, and he sucks in air.
Today, Tommy is alive.
“I think we did a pretty good job!” Tubbo says with his hands on his hips.
The wall looks more atrocious than it did before.
“I think so too!” Tommy says, stretching his arms over his head. “Your parts look a bit shit, though.”
“Fuck off,” Tubbo huffs, nudging his side. “I’m really beat-- oh, hey, let’s have lunch!”
“Lunch?” he parrots. He fidgets. “Tubbo, let’s add another layer to the wall--”
He grabs Tommy’s hand. “Let’s have lunch, Tommy.”
Tommy isn’t hungry. He hasn’t been in days.
But he loves Tubbo, and when you love Tubbo… “Okay.”
Not even five minutes later and the two of them sit on the bench with ham and cheese sandwiches in hand. Tubbo’s already devoured half of his. Tommy’s taken one bite.
Tommy put on the music, and Tubbo whipped up lunch for the two of them.
The both of them are sweaty and gross, sun-soaked by the day’s work. Tubbo curls up on the bench and rests his head on Tommy’s shoulder as soon as he gets situated.
Tommy lays back against him.
“You know,” Tubbo says, eyes fluttered shut. Tommy perks up. “You smell like shit.”
Tommy huffs. “You smell like peas.”
“You can thank Micheal for that,” he grumbles, tucking his feet under him. “He hasn’t been eating well. Ranboo could always get him to eat, but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to eat some fucking peas.”
“He always ate his shit for me,” Tommy says.
“Maybe you need to come and visit him, then.”
Tommy stiffens. “Well, you know… I’ve been busy.”
Tubbo knows. “Yeah.”
Tommy gives in, relentling to Tubbo’s heavy sigh. “I will, Tubs. I’ll… I’ll come and see him. Miss the little bastard.”
“He misses you.” He snuggles in closer. “Not to mention, so do I…”
Tommy smiles, an endangered sight. “I miss you, too, Tubbo,” he confesses, voice barely audible. “All the time.”
Golden hour sets upon them bright and cozy, and the two child soldiers admit defeat under its power.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
“Tubbo…” He squirms, but he never sets foot off the bench. He doesn’t dare budge. “I’ve jus’ been busy doin’ Big Man shit.”
He clicks his tongue. “So, you aren’t sleeping?”
Tubbo knows the signs - the eyebags, the restlessness, the faded pigment in the face. He sees the signs every time he looks in a mirror.
“Let’s just take a moment,” Tubbo continues. “I’ll protect you.”
Tommy believes him.
Exhausted from the day, exhausted from life - what’s the fuckin’ difference? - they admit defeat. They slump against one another and close their eyes and dream a distant memory of when they were young and had yet to fight in a war.
For a moment, they can dream, and in that, everything is beautiful.
-
Tubbo is the first to stir. His eyes creak open from a well-deserved rest. His hands find Tommy in a panic, and he settles as soon as he feels the rising chest under his palm.
Then, he sits up.
The bench is still there. He’s still sitting there with Tommy collapsed beside him.
But… They’re not on the cliff anymore.
“Tommy?” he whispers, half terrified of the teleportation and half terrified of waking up his sleep-deprived friend.
His feet dangle over the bench. Instead of the drop-off, he is surrounded by flowers.
Beautiful flowers are raised over him. They’re taller than him and Tommy combined, and they block out the Sun’s rays. Small streams break through the cracks in the flowers, but other than that, the world is entirely blocked out.
His voice leaves him as he raises his hand against the delicate flower wrapped around him. The vines stretch over him and Tommy both, but they favor Tubbo. Intricate vines with golden flowers wrap around his legs, his stomach, and even his neck.
Tubbo stands up, and the flowers make room for him.
“Oh.”
Tubbo laughs as Tommy rubs at his eyes. Behind him, his friend slowly wakes up.
“Tubbo?” he mumbles sleepily, yawning. “How long were we out? Where-- oh. Oh my god.” His face flushes a dark red as he pulls his knees close to his chest.
“Tommy,” he whispers, eyes blown wide, “This was you, wasn’t it?”
He fidgets, pulling at the sleeve of his cardigan. “It just fuckin’ happens! I didn’t want--”
“It’s so beautiful,” he exhales. “Tommy, this is so beautiful.”
He turns away. “I hate it.”
Tubbo falls back on the bench like he was meant to be there. When he cups Tommy’s cheek, flowers bloom across him. “I know you don’t see what I see,” Tubbo says, “Because I think you’re amazing, Tommy.”
Then, against all odds, against everything, against an empty prison cell and a bloodied potato, against a grave and then another, against the entire motherfucking world, Tommy smiles. Tommy loves. Tommy lives.
“I think they’re yours,” Tommy admits sheepishly. “I’ve never had these.”
“You’ve mentioned the flowers--”
“Thorns,” he corrects, crossing his arms over his chest. “I see thorns and weeds and poisonous flowers. I see flytraps and dead, rotting flowers. I wake up surrounded by them.”
Tubbo smiles. “I like thorns and weeds. Poisonous flowers seem pretty epic. I bet we could mess with people with those.”
Tommy holds out his hand where a flower sprouts from his palm. “I like these the most.”
Tubbo narrows his eyes. “I’ve never seen a flower like this before,” he whispers in awe of its magnificence. “What kind is it?”
Tommy hums, smiling as it grows, almost waving to the two of them as its leaf shakes. “I dunno. It only grows when you’re around.”
“Well, I love it,” Tubbo says.
Tommy fidgets. “Maybe I’d--” His voice breaks off. “I’ll make you one.”
“You already did,” he says, admiring the flowers growing across the two of them.
Tommy shakes his head. “A garden,” he says, “I will grow a garden for you, Tubbo, far away from here where no one - not even that green fucking bastard will be able to touch. It’ll have your flower, it’ll even have Ranboo’s. A giant garden, like a forest, and it’s only for us.”
Tubbo imagines it. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I would like that very much, Tommy. Just me and you. Against the world.”
My love for you is like a garden.
It’s full of weeds and flowers - beautiful and ugly things. They bloom from arguments (from wars) and from sweet gestures (“I’m always on your side, Tommy”) and everything else in the world. They bloom, they die, and they come back. Always, always, out of love, even when blooming from hatred.
The flowers grow over the two of them, and today this dream is just a dream, but right now, they have enough. They have a bench and a mess of flowers, but most importantly: they have love.