Archive of Our Own

Something is festering inside Tommy.

He didn’t know what it was at first, nor did he know how or why. He couldn’t even see it—Nevertheless, he could feel it. Wrapping warmly within his bones and in the ladder of his ribcage. 

It fizzles in his blood, burrows deep in the tissue of muscle, and flourishes in the soft lining of hair. Sometimes it sent him writhing in pain, and other times it filled him with relief.

It felt like something was constantly growing like his organs were being replaced or he was being eaten alive—not that he knew of the feeling—But there was no way he could properly describe it without sounding like a lunatic. He didn’t need to be called crazy by everyone. Hey! I think I’m turning into a FUCKING tree! 

It was a bit cathartic though, to feel something.

Tommy hadn’t felt this much since his revival, since Wilbur’s revival, since anything at all. Nothing had ever been the same with him since. 

Everyone looked at him differently, treated him differently, curious or concerned glances were taken as condescending. And even in his own reflection, he could barely recognize himself. No traces of the boy he was before it all went to  shit  —And with that, he was completely alone.

All the faces he passes by are nothing more than scribbles, and when he opens his mouth, all he gets are excuses. No one pays him a visit, no one sends him a message, no one tries to see if he’s still alive—And hell, maybe he should’ve just stayed dead.

It’s always like he’s floating, untethered, and there’s no one to bring him back down. He’s meaningless, empty—Like a hole opened in the center of his chest, with only his heartbeat rushing in as though to fill it. The sound, however, just reverberates into nothing.  

Then all of a sudden, he gets an obscure sickness. 

The sickness that was beginning to overrun his body, started off with small dried leaves in his shoes and socks, vines of ivy on his clothes, and leaving handprints of moss on stone walls. Then little cracks on his skin. Then he started violently coughing in the middle of the night, only to find petals in the morning. (Sometimes it hurt, sometimes it didn’t.) Then whenever he laid his head on grass or even his pillows, little flowers began sticking to it. 

It was always in his hair, then in his shoulders and arms—One time, he was merely standing in his carrot farm and vines began pulling him under. But even that wasn’t enough to convince him not to ignore the festering of nature inside him.

What did though was when he had cut his palm.

Tommy was mining, you see. And along with the charming clumsiness to his step—He had cut his hand on a sharp edge of stone. 

Dropping the pickaxe on his left, He hissed and brought his hand close to his chest, bending his knees. Tommy mumbled curses to himself. He opened his hand, expecting blood but instead, little sprouts were growing out of his wound. 

It did not hurt. In fact, he found it—mesmerizing. The little green buds rose from the pink-red gash on his palm. Tommy smiled at it.

Later, he sat on his bed, knees tucked to his chest, and just stared at his palm, admiring the sprouts of green fading to white. How it didn’t hurt as much. And maybe he could bear with it for just a little while longer.

That was also when he decided that not a single soul should ever know about it. 

This peculiar, worrying condition of his.

──────────────

 “Tommy!” Wilbur yelled. He quickly hoisted the boy up from under his armpits. 

 “What are you—The fuck are you doing!?” 

Tommy was nine, nearing ten. His hands were sticky with sap, teeth crunching on purple and yellow petals. The forest didn’t seem to care whether or not he ate its plants; He wasn't going to be punished by it. All he could feel at the time was hunger. 

 Tommy grumbled under his breath and said nothing. 

Wilbur placed him down. He grabbed on Tommy’s wrist before he could put another petal in his mouth. Tommy resisted the older’s grip. 

"Tommy, Tommy—No! Stop eating, those are pansies-” 

"Why not!?” 

"You shouldn’t be eating flowers.” Wilbur snatched the remaining petals and stems from his hand, dropping them onto the ground, and crushing it with his boot. The remnants of the flowers blended in the damp soil. Tommy frowned at it. 

"But I’m starving!” 

"I am too! I am quite, literally looking for food right now.” 

"You’re not doing a very good job at it! You can’t even shoot an arrow for meat.” 

Wilbur sighed. He crouched down in front of him, firmly placing both hands on Tommy’s shoulders. His rueful, brown eyes bore holes through his skull. 

“What?” Wilbur sneered. “Do you want to try, Tommy? Do you?” 

Tommy puffed his cheeks, and said—with all the indignance that a nine-year-old could muster—

” Fine!” 

Wilbur handed him an old, corroded bow. Tommy wiped the sap off his hands with his shirt before taking it, while sticking out his tongue. 

A ghost of a friend appeared beside him. Teaching him how to pluck the string like a harp, and hold the bow’s wooden limbs as if it were human bone. Tommy aimed for a squirrel on top of a tree. Wilbur watched him in silence. 

Tommy released the arrow—a swoosh—and missed. 

He tried again, picked up the same arrow. And missed. The squirrel ran into a log, then to a bush, then up the tree again. And Tommy kept flunking the shot. 

“That’s enough,” Wilbur said on the fifth try, with one arrow left. Tommy’s hands were trembling, his bottom lip wobbled, suddenly remembering a friend and a forsaken village near a lake. (Oh, It’s just a squirrel. A stupid, stupid squirrel—And he failed.) 

Wilbur placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, gesturing to give back the bow. 

Tommy chucked it to Wilbur’s chest. “I hate you.” He said through gritted teeth, eyes cast to the ground. It was the first of many. 

Wilbur smiled sadly at him. He put away the bow and took out an apple from his inventory. Tommy’s eyes lit up at the red, shine of the fruit. 

“I found it when you were busy,” Wilbur said with a teasing lilt in his voice. 

Tommy huffed under his breath, stomach growling. “I don’t want your stupid apple.” 

Wilbur shook his head and forced the apple into his hands. “Sorry,” He simply said. 

And they walked ahead without another word. Tommy took a hesitant bite out of the apple, It tasted sweet and crisp. 

──────────────

Tommy stood outside Wilbur’s brand new, fucking burger van. His stomach did a number of flips, just looking at it. 

He clenched his fists tightly. A bitter feeling rose in his throat. Then as he unclenched his hand, in his palm was a flower—a crushed petunia—that had grown in the middle of it.

Tommy plucked it out, and proceeded down the hill, breaking into the van.

Of course, Wilbur was nowhere to be found. What was he expecting? 

There was nothing but two aprons hung on the door, stacks of frozen meat in the fridge, rusty utensils, a poorly written menu, and condiments lined up on a counter. It seems as if it wasn’t open for business. Tommy didn’t know if either Wilbur or Ranboo even knew how to make burgers. But he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The heat was unbearable, his sweat stuck to the fabric and to his skin. Uncomfortable, Tommy took off his jacket, tying it around his waist, revealing a good amount of yellow hyacinths blooming from his skin, leaving some of its petals on the floor.

There was nothing to be scavenged in the van. Nothing at all. There was nothing of significance, and Tommy hoped it stayed that way. An ugly, loud part of him hoped that it would never open, but a quieter part of him hoped that he would be the first person Wilbur would call if it did.

Because it’s supposed to be Wilbur and Tommy. 

They should be the ones making vans and homes to leave behind. Their own little universe spread out and open to anyone. Wilbur’s supposed to tease him for having flowers on his skin, and he’s supposed to be in the safety of his arms. But Wilbur had been gone lately, perhaps even avoiding him.

And the sinking feeling returns, the hole in his chest expanding.

Tommy thought that if Wilbur was revived, things could go back to the way they were, the days before and during L’manberg. 

He was lying to himself, of course—Then the thought of Ghostbur came to mind. Tommy missed him, even if he was a bit of an airhead. He was still the version of Wilbur that somehow cared—When Wilbur was revived, it hadn’t gone as he expected. Nothing bad, nothing good. And that’s just the problem. Nothing happened.  Nothing changed, for him at least.

He hoped that maybe he could forget Pogtopia, and could get past Limbo. But Tommy had looked in Wilbur’s eyes and saw only ruin. 

He could hear explosions in his ears, phantom pains on his cheek, voices crowding together. And Tommy—no matter how much he pretended, wanted—couldn’t simply move on and forget.

He’s being stupid, for hoping that when he turns around, Wilbur would be there. That Wilbur would find him, and scold him for snooping around. That he’ll grin at him and say, “Wanna know what I’m up to, Tommy?”  But even when Tommy stands in the empty van for almost half an hour.

No one arrives. 

And when someone does—seeing it in the distance, two pairs walking far apart from each other, talking loudly—Tommy runs away.

──────────────

“Someone’s been here,” Wilbur mutters, eyeing the yellow petals—hyacinths?—and scattered leaves on the floor. The poorly latched lock of the van was broken into by clumsy hands.

“They... They didn’t seem to take anything though,” Ranboo replies, going through the cupboards and the chests.

Wilbur shrugs and feels as if he’s missed the passing of a storm.

──────────────

As the condition of Tommy’s body continued to grow—worsen—There came a sort of rashness in his steps. A numbness to his body, a pain that he was getting used to. He would occasionally pull out the weeds that grew from his skin or vines that curled around his feet. He’d let the flowers stay a little longer before inevitably crushing them with one hand. 

On some days, he doesn’t bother to clean the scrapes he gets from mining. Or when that annoying skeleton shot him, the arrow lodged itself on his shoulder, and vines with small flowers tore through his shirt, crawling around the shaft of the arrow before Tommy eventually pulled it off. 

He stopped caring about mobs since then.

Sewing patches on his clothes became more frequent. He found an old coat from one of his chests, It looked as if it once belonged to Wilbur. Tommy didn’t give it much thought as he mended it to his own liking.

Sometimes he finds himself walking aimlessly along the prime path. Hands tucked in the pockets of his old—new?—coat. And he’d stare down at the ruins of L’manberg. 

Puffy had been trying to clean it up, planning to cover it up with glass. A memorial,   she said.  We’ll make a memorial, Tommy. But instead, Tommy found it unfinished and infested with hideous red vines in around parts of the crater. When Tommy came too close or stepped on one, It writhed, screamed, and then died.

Tommy felt a chill run down his spine and the rising of poppies in his hair. He plucked one, and crushed it—Suddenly he’s taken back to limbo. What Wilbur had said at the time.  You and me, Tommy. We were never good enough for that server. 

Tommy slid down through the rubble of his making.

A proper crater, it is. All the remnants of war still remain.  But could he even call it a war?   The smoke lingers, and the ash under his feet is still warm even after months. The soil is mixed with dried blood, a flag buried and ripped underneath all the rubble. The apparatus of obsidian looms above him like another, mocking reminder of what he had failed and lost. 

Tommy thinks that Wilbur had been right.

Someone watches him from afar.

──────────────

 “There is—“ Wilbur begins, chewing an apple as he tosses one over to a thirteen-year-old Tommy. “—Something really special about the way sunflowers follow where the sun is.” 

They're seated on a moss-covered log at the edge of a forest, overlooking a view of a sunflower field in the distance. Their hair being blown by the summer breeze. Wilbur pulls on the straps of his new guitar to his shoulder. He bought it by selling a few of their old belongings. 

Tommy nods, greedily munching on the apple. “Yeah?” 

“But it only happens when they’re young, so it stops once it matures.” 

Tommy nodded and swallowed, not paying much attention. He shook off the rock that had been stuck inside his shoe with a grimace. Then his eyes trailed off to a bunch of ants, marching to a hole in a little mountain of soil. 

Wilbur—unbeknownst to Tommy—is smiling at him. He ruffles the boy’s hair. 

Tommy’s head shot up, looking at Wilbur with a puzzled expression, unsure of where the unexpected display of affection came from. 

“You’re kinda like one, aren’t you?” Wilbur says, withdrawing his hand. 

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Am I?” 

“Kind of.” 

Tommy grins. “So, what—Are you saying you’re the sun then?” He chirped. 

“I dunno,” Wilbur raises an eyebrow, mimicking his tone. “Am I?” 

Tommy does an exaggerated shrug, mocking him. “Kind of!” 

Wilbur shoves him off the log. Tommy scrambles to get his bearings, and he tries to pin the man down in retaliation. 

They're both laughing as if they own the world. As if they're inseparable and impenetrable, and somehow they are. Those were the days when they believed that they could be.  Those were the days when they had lived in their own universe because the universe that they had was never kind to them. 

The sun sinks gloriously, casting light across the sunflower field. It's such a wonderful sight that even the bugs are quiet, and the cows and chickens stop to look at it once. 

The two rowdy boys didn’t seem to care. 

──────────────

When you’re alone, you get a lot of time to think about the past. Sometimes you’re transported there in the scene itself, and other times you remember because you want to engrave it to memory. The past is only something to look back on, not to live in.

But it seems that the farther you are from someone, the closer you get to their past.

When Tommy returns to his home, he does nothing. 

He lays in bed and looks at the gash on his palm that has healed, stitched by itself with soft stems. He hated how it did that. He hated how there was no one around him but the growing and dying wilderness in his home and in his body. Dead leaves, wilting flowers, entangled vines, branches of wisteria, ivy, moss, the nauseating fragrance— He’s become sick of it all. 

From the sleeve of his coat, a meadow saffron—a small, purple bulb—emerges from his skin and it slowly blooms, revealing six petals—Tommy hated how he knew their names, even though he had never learned the names of any other except for sunflowers and dandelions.

Tommy took its stem between his fingers and plucked it with a sharp hiss.

He would never admit it, not to anyone, but he was getting progressively worse in handling this. He was not built to hold a garden inside him, was he? Mining, eating, and drinking had become such a chore. That he began spending more days indoors, in bed, and the still the growing plants had not eased. In fact, It got worse. 

He was just tired .

A boy once a soldier, a friend, and a brother,  or was he not any of those anymore? Was he always just  an annoyance, a nuisance, a pain, a traitor, a bug, an ungrateful brat. Always a failure, and punished by the gods. Even after everything, he still ends up alone.  Maybe he deserved this. And all the sacrifice, and bloodshed amounted to  nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing! 

Tommy quickly sat up from his bed, drawing in a deep breath. A clouded thought taking shape. He grabs a small blade from under his bed—He keeps it out of paranoia—and thinks of silencing all of these persistent thoughts. A fog comes forth and shrouds the rest of his mind. The function of his hands doesn't feel like his own. 

He rolls up the sleeves of his coat, where three hearts should be—or two, or one. But now there was none—His wrist that once engraved all three of his lives, was as empty as he felt.

And with a shaky breath, he draws the blade up to his left arm, sliding it slowly over his flesh, forming an unsteady slit on his wrist. Tommy marvels at the sight of little, purplish sprouts breaking through it.

He makes another, then another, and another—the little buds of petunias do not grow. Beads of blood drip- dripping and staining his pants—It's comforting to know that there's still some  evidence that he's human.

Seven painful cuts now run half the length of his arm. Tommy watches with empty eyes as the little buds bloom from each cut like a miniature garden. Little buds coated in a bit of red. He leans against the wall and lets his arm fall limp. And all he does is stare at it with quiet satisfaction.

For the first time, in a long time, everything around him is quiet.

──────────────

“Please don’t cry,” 

“I’m not going to, bitch.” Tommy exclaimed, even when his eyes glistened in the glow of the lantern. Wilbur sighed, and moved in closer, placing his arm around the boy’s shoulder to give him warmth. 

They were sitting in the stony womb of a cavern, the air thick and dreary, The light of a dimming lantern kept them company. Rain was pouring heavily with no promise of ceasing, and within the depths of the cave was swirling darkness joined by the grim sounds of numerous mobs. 

Tommy was ten, and Wilbur was older. Neither of them could sleep in such conditions. 

Tommy folded his arms, lips quivering as his throat tightened. Only a few seconds went by until he could no longer hold it in. He dipped his head, and it all poured out in an onslaught of uncontrollable tears. 

Wilbur rolled his eyes. "Oh come on—" 

But, he drew Tommy closer, letting the boy lean on his side, gently rubbing his shoulder. Tommy choked on another sob, hastily wiping away warm tears. All the grief, and hurt, and fear that had built inside him came toppling down—Though he still hoped that the rain could cover the sound of his cries. 

“Tommy, Hey—” Wilbur pulled away. It made Tommy weep harder. “Tommy, Tommy—Look at me.” 

He blinked, still rubbing his eyes dry. His fingers are wet with snot and tears. He sniffled and tilted his head up to meet kind, brown eyes. 

Wilbur swallowed at the sight of the boy’s tear-stained cheeks. 

“You and I—We’re not going to stay here for long, alright?” Wilbur reassured, cupping his cheeks, His hands were so cold then. “We’re going to have to cross the cavern, and while we cross the cavern, you’re going to have to be the light bearer-” 

“But I- I- don’t want to! I hate it, I’m shit- I drop it all the time! and I hate it, I—” Tommy shuddered, a hazy memory stopping him. 

“Okay, okay—Fine.” Wilbur’s gaze softened. He withdrew both of his hands. 

“Look, if you’re frightened we can do it together.” 

Tommy sniffed and said nothing. 

“What do you say?” Wilbur muttered, the rain making it harder to hear his voice. “You and I can hold the lantern together, and I’ll try my best to fend the mobs—But under no circumstances do you let go of me, understand?” 

Tommy nodded. 

──────────────

A bundle of white clovers grows under his feet, scattering amid his bed, as Tommy weeps in the agonizing silence. He needed to escape the plants, the loneliness, this expanding hole in his chest—Maybe all he had to do was accept it, rest, and become one with the flowers.

──────────────

Technoblade enjoys taking Carl out when he hunts for food or gathers resources. He latches a collar around the horse’s neck and feeds him with a carrot. It’s one of those days when he’s not dozing off in bed. When it’s all gray skies and snow. 

The peace is interrupted when someone coughs loudly behind him.

Techno sighs, looking over his shoulder. “Tommy?”

“Techno.”

Techno turns around, surprised by the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Then more surprised as he surveys the boy in front of him. Because, all holy mothers of ender, he looks like a damn corpse. Techno could almost mistake him as a ghost.

It’s the first time that he’s seen Tommy ever since hearing about his...death? But then not shortly after, Ranboo announced on another one of their syndicate meetings. “He’s alive.”   

“Oh.”  Techno had said, not particularly shocked.   “Alright, I guess.” 

“What do you want?” He asks.

Tommy has his hands behind his back. His hair is a mess, and strands of it are white—similar to Wilbur’s, Huh maybe he was revived that quick after all—The boy looks malnourished, the coat working like a hanger on his thin frame, eyes as gray as the sky above them. 

And there’s a strange scent to him, that Techno doesn’t know of. Blood, and flowers, and wounds—It’s a seemingly terrible combination. It reminds him of an old village near a lake, one he visited probably a thousand years ago.

Tommy wasn’t about to give him flowers, was he? If anything, Techno should be the one giving him flowers. He vaguely wonders if those statues are still up.

“What?” Tommy speaks after a long time, brows furrowed. “Did you miss me?"

Techno scoffs. “What are you here for?” He says, leaning on the wooden railings of the stable.

Tommy coughs into his hand. Techno’s surprised there was nothing behind it. He’s even more surprised when Tommy takes a familiar axe out of his inventory—Bruh, too many surprises for one day. 

“The axe of peace,” Tommy says, his battered hand tracing along the tip of the blade. 

Techno almost misses the way Tommy used to say its name with a special, ferociousness to it. (The axe of peace!)  Now there’s none, all that’s left of it is an extinguished fire, smoldering under wet ashes.

“Take it.” Tommy hands it to him from a distance. 

Techno’s eyes widened in disbelief, scanning him from up and down.

“What’s the catch?“

Tommy’s hands are trembling, holding the axe in his outstretched hand. “Take it!” 

“Tommy I don’t–“

“Take it, you–“ Tommy chucks the axe to the ground as if it burned him. He hides his hands in the pockets of his coat, grinning nervously. While Techno looks down on the axe shoved in a heap of snow. Leaves and moss are sticking out of the handle where Tommy had just held it. 

And Techno wonders.

He hesitantly takes the axe off the ground, brushing its handle, inspecting it. And there’s no curse, it’s not a fake—It’s the axe of peace, with all its enchantments illuminating along the blade.

Techno glances at Tommy. Tommy still has that nervous smile, his bravado dropping with every minute that passes as Techno’s eyes study him all over.

They hadn’t talked to each other either since Tommy asked for supplies to fight against Dream. Tommy had called him big brother, just to please him. 

Now, he’s got the axe of peace back. And Techno isn’t sure why it doesn’t please him as much as it should’ve.

“What?” Tommy drawls out with a hint of impatience. “It’s not a trick—I gave it back to you and all—You should be grateful, you’re welcome.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. A hundred million words go through his head. Seeing the boy he used to treat as a friend, looking pale and sickly like he hadn’t seen the sun in ages. 

“Alright.” Techno places the axe of peace back in his inventory. The tension in Tommy’s shoulder loosens.

They both stand across each other for a good, awkward while. 

Recalling the day when explosives fell out of the sky and they called each other traitors. Recalling the days when they had a hundred dogs, and called each other allies. 

Recalling a time when they had barely known each other—An annoying orphan that Wilbur picked up in a burnt heap, and an immortal gifted by gods—when they thought to themselves that they could be good friends.

They could have been good friends.

Brothers? 

Maybe.

“So uh—“ Tommy said, rocking on his heels. “That’s it—I’ll get going now, you know– places to be, women to woo—“

Techno chuckles nervously, the awkwardness is insufferable. 

“Sure, okay, Tommy— I appreciate you for returnin' my axe, didn’t expect I’d get it back but I-” a pause. “Hope it served well.”

Tommy gives him another forced smile, eyes falling to the ground. 

“Well,” He gave him a mock salute. “Goodbye Techno.” 

The boy turned his back to him, and kept walking. 

Techno got the feeling that there was more than Tommy wanted to say, but couldn’t find the right words for. A million different words unsaid hovered above them. Just silent understanding and uncertainty. 

There was definitely more to it. Did he hate how it felt like there was a bit of finality between them? A little part in him wished it wasn’t.

When the boy vanishes out of his sight, Techno returns to his work only to be ambushed by Phil. Startled, he places a hand over his chest.

“God, Phil—Stop scarin’ me.”

Phil chuckled. “Sorry, mate.”

“You were there the whole time,” Techno grumbled.

Phil shrugged. “Didn’t want to intervene,”

Techno stares at him with disbelief. “Phil,” He says, slowly. “I wanted you to intervene—That was the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had with the kid in my life.”

“It’s rare.”

“It’s unsettlin’”

Phil smiled wryly at him, giving Carl a pat. “He seems…sad.”

“More than sad, He’s straight-up depressed,” Techno scoffs. “Like he’s hiding somethin' and it’s eatin’ him up inside.”

Phil hums, staring out into the rise of dawn where Tommy had disappeared. When Phil does this—hums and goes quiet—It’s usually a great time to drop the subject. It gives Techno leeway to start another.

And so they do. 

They talk about their days, the progress of the syndicate, how Wilbur is doing right now, and the turtle farm that’s beginning to crowd. Though the thought of Tommy continues to linger in the back of his head.

Techno gives one last glance in the space that the boy used to occupy, left behind. The patch of snow where the axe had fallen is still there. He sighed and went inside the cabin, Phil inviting him for tea. 

──────────────

“Can I call you, Blade?” Tommy asks The Blood God. All starry-eyed and freckled. Young and unsure, full of hope and admiration. “Is that okay?” 

“No,” Technoblade replied in an instant. Then comes a short, awkward silence between them. It breaks once Techno snorts and breaks into a grin. “No, no—Blade is my father’s name.” He jokes. 

Tommy laughs at the joke, and everything between them is settled from then on. 

“Okay, Blade Junior—” 

──────────────

Tubbo was about to replace the dead flowers that sat on his windowsill. Until he saw Tommy approaching, and all of it was forgotten. He opened the door before Tommy could even knock.

Tommy smiles at him. Seeming rather bashful, and that in itself was unusual. Tommy was never bashful. 

His hands were tucked in the pockets of a tattered black coat full of different, colored patches. Face ghastly pale, and cheeks hollow, deep bags under his eyes—His blue eyes looked empty. The bright blue that could once match the glimmering ocean in the sun—Has faded into gray, like a storm.

In summary, Tommy looked like a walking corpse that was about to keel over at any given moment.

Tubbo lets him in. He tried giving him a smile, instead of commenting on his appearance. Tubbo asks in the nicest, most casual tone he could muster: “What brings you here, bossman?”

Tommy doesn’t provide him an immediate answer. He stops where Micheal is playing on the carpet. Micheal looks up at Tommy and grins. Tommy grins back, and Tubbo’s chest flutters with warmth. 

Tubbo leaves them alone in the living room to place down a mug of hot chocolate on the table. Tommy muttering a small thank you. 

“Did you really just walk all the way here in the freezing cold?” Tubbo said.

Tommy shrugs, and Tubbo realizes that it’s the first time he sees Tommy’s hands slip out of his pockets, cradling the mug. 

Tommy’s hands shook slightly as he brought it close to his lips. His fingers were covered in flimsy bandaids like he’d done some god awful knitting. Tubbo had not seen Tommy knit anything since their uniforms in L’manberg.

“Jesus I—“ Tubbo swallows the lump in his throat. Tommy stares at him questioningly. “Okay, I’m gonna be honest with you man, I’m gonna be blunt—You look like proper shit, right now.”

And Tommy laughs. He laughs harder than Tubbo’s ever heard him since the day Wilbur was revived. He laughs, and Tubbo laughs along with him—a bit nervously.

Tommy stops once he notices the way Tubbo’s brows crease in worry. Like the funny joke was not funny at all and he was merely pretending that it was.

Tommy clears his throat. “Sorry,”

“It’s fine.” It’s really not. 

“No I- I really am,” Tommy says between giggles, placing the half-filled mug on the oak table. He turns his gaze to the ceiling and lifts his palm over his eyes. 

“Because you’re right, I do look like shit—I feel like shit,”

Tubbo winces, face falling in sympathy “Tommy—“

“Don't,” Tommy glares, then plasters a wide grin on his face that tells false promises. Please, let’s drop it, I don’t want to talk about it. His grin says.

Silent conversations are one of the things that were left unchanged between them.

Okay. Tubbo replies, arms crossed as he sits on the other end of the couch. Micheal’s near his feet, babbling to a toy truck. 

“Why are you here?” Tubbo asked, hoping that it doesn’t come off as rude.

Tommy scoffs. “Can’t I visit?”

“It’s not that, it’s just—“

“You think I’m looking to  gain  something from you? Maybe scam you a little bit, hm?” Tommy interjects, poking his side. Tubbo swats his hand away, and snorts.

And there’s the Tommy that Tubbo knows. It’s not him entirely, but it’s there and he grins at the version of his best friend that he will always know by heart.

“If anything, I can scam you better.” Tubbo declares.

Tommy lets out a fake groan, slumping on the couch, raising his feet on Tubbo’s lap in that dramatic way of his.

“Oh! Tubbo, Tubso, Big T!—You’ve gotten pretentious!"

Tubbo catches a whiff of—something—like a strange aroma of flowers. But he ignores it, tries not to think of it. He’s trying to get Tommy’s legs off his lap. Tubbo’s gaze turns to his piglin son.

“Bet I can get you to watch over Micheal.”

“That’s dumb,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “You know I’ll do it anyway.”

And with that, Tommy hops down the floor with Micheal. 

Micheal throws the truck at him in surprise. It lands straight to Tommy’s forehead, and he does an exaggerated faint. Micheal gets on his feet, seeing if he had actually hurt someone. But Tommy’s cackling relieves the entire room.

And everything seems to be reverting back to the way it should be. 

No awkward tension in the air, just jokes and lighthearted jabs. Tubbo tells stories of how he  almost  got Ranboo to swear by trapping his foot in a plank or that time when they had to chase Micheal around the room because of a sugar rush.

Tommy had laughed at it all, providing his usual commentary. Although his dimmed eyes betrayed what he truly felt. Tubbo decided not to press. He remembers a watchtower near a prison and a tower on a lonely beach.

And Tommy told him stories as well, they were catching up and all that. How Tommy had slipped in deep mud the other day and tried to combine potions that aren’t  supposed  to be combined.

Tubbo leaves them alone from time to time, first to take Tommy’s half-empty mug to the sink, then calling Ranboo to check up on him, 

“Where the hell are you!?” 

“Still in the mines! I swear, Tubbo—I’m getting an enchanted apple, just you wait or else I’m gonna—“

Then he got to the laundry and did a few other chores in the kitchen. If you’d asked Tubbo a year ago, he would not believe it if you told him that he’d be living such a domesticated life—Well, not  too  domesticated. There are still nuclear missiles that need to be worked on—And he’s content, maybe even a little happy.

To give him some credit, Tommy does play with Micheal. Tubbo hears them. Making strange allegories with the blue truck, and funny noises, exaggerated roleplay fit for only a toddler.

Only once Tommy knocks on the threshold of the front door does Tubbo realize that it’s already dusk. And Tommy tells him that Micheal’s asleep. (Which is unbelievable, to be honest.) It’s also a I’m going to go now. But I just can’t be fucking straightforward lately. 

“So soon?” Tubbo says, with a head tilt, patting on the empty step of the front porch. Tommy occupies it, sitting next to him, a heap of laundry on his other side.

“Yup,” said Tommy, his hands hidden in his pockets again. “Figured, it’s getting dark.”

“You can stay, you know.” 

Tommy stills, knowing what it really meant. Tubbo watched as a hundred conflicting emotions crossed through his best friend’s face, and his mask fell into a fleeting moment of vulnerability.  For just the simplest of words. 

Tommy shakes his head. “Can’t,” And his bottom lip wobbles as he says it, but he breaks into a smile.

“Okay.” Tubbo felt himself die a little, as he answered. “It’s been nice.”

What do you even say to that? How do you heal someone without breaking them, when you yourself are still porcelain? 

Tommy laughs, nudging his shoulder. As if Tubbo’s the one who is in dire need of comfort. 

“Stop that, it’s- I- you’re just going to make me watch over Micheal the whole time if I do.”

Tubbo rolled his eyes. “Perhaps.”

“You’ll turn me into your personal nanny,”

“Maybe.” Tubbo considers. “But you’re more of an uncle than a nanny.”

“Ah, I bet your husband has finally gone through with the divorce.”

Tubbo punched his shoulder, Tommy recoils. The two boys burst into bubbling laughter.

“Seriously, stop that–“ Tommy pressed.

Tubbo pauses. “Stop what now?” 

“That look on your face,” Tommy replied, his grin falling away.

Tubbo opens his mouth, but no words come out. It submerges them into a silence thick as the snow crunching under their shoes. 

“Tubbo?”

“Tommy.” 

Tommy let out a deep sigh, he stood up, brushing snow off his pants. “I’ll…I’ll see you later?”

Tubbo nods. “Be careful out there.” He says while kicking his foot.

Tommy smiles at him like it's the last one. “Bye Tubbo.”

The sky turns into a hazy purple, its orange rays spilling on white snow, and he watches as Tommy’s figure gets smaller and smaller until it disappears. 

Tubbo goes back inside after a few minutes, heart a little less heavy but worried all the same. He sees that Micheal woke up from his nap on the couch. They must’ve gotten too loud. 

Tubbo plops right next to him and hoists the child up and on his lap. His heel prods at something from under the sofa, thinking that it must only be a toy. Tubbo figures that he’ll pick it up later. And listens to Micheal’s senseless rambling instead.

That Tommy is magic, that he can make leaves, and flowers grow out of his skin. Tubbo doesn’t give it much thought. Micheal tells him a lot of weird things. He nods occasionally to show that he’s listening to every word.

Soon, the night takes over, Tubbo waits for Ranboo to come home. He gazes out of the window, eyes landing on the purple hyacinths that fill the pot.

Huh, Tubbo wonders. Where did I get those? Those were supposed to be pink tulips.

──────────────

Tommy takes out two discs from his inventory. “Shhh, Shut.” He hovers his finger above his lips, Micheal mimics him.

“This’ll be our little secret, don’t tell Tubbo okay?”

Micheal nods, hands over his mouth, staring at him with big, curious eyes. 

Tommy looks at the disc—Cat, and Mellohi—Both pieces of vinyl are safe inside a record sleeve made out of fine glass. His weary reflection stares back at him. He hears Tubbo in the other room, humming an unfamiliar tune. 

There used to be a time when he could not let go of the discs—No, wrong. He still can’t. 

But it was better here with Tubbo, than leaving it rotting in an ender chest or even leaving it in his  dirt hut  —He can’t imagine it being left there by itself, what if they come for his things, and take it?  Would they throw it away? Look at it and think of only the trouble it caused? 

Tommy makes a final decision. He slides the disc down underneath the couch. Enough to be hidden, but not enough to go unnoticed. It would stay under Tubbo—Tubbo and Ranboo’s  couch. It could either collect dust, or Micheal would break his secret and pick it up and show it to everyone. 

It will stay under the cares of this warm cottage in the cold, in a place well-loved enough. Where he knows it won’t be destroyed or abandoned. And maybe they will sit here, maybe they’ll listen to it, and tell stories about him.

It will stay and be found maybe in a few days, months, or years. And they’ll think of him. An apology. A realization. A reminder. 

When Tommy leaves his best friend behind, he doesn’t look back to know if he’s still there watching him until he disappears.

Because Tommy isn’t sure if he’ll be able to stop himself from running back if he does.

──────────────

Tommy wipes the sweat off his brow, tosses a heap of wheat in Henry's stall. He gives the cow a smile.

“Henry is my number one best friend in the world.” 

Someone  pulls on his shirt from behind until Tommy stumbles to the ground, landing on his bottom. 

“Oi!” Tubbo exclaims, looming over him, and blocking out the sun. His eyes bright and lips frowning. 

Tommy suppresses a smile, grumbling. “Henry is my ‘second' best friend in the world.” 

 Tubbo’s eyes lit up, satisfied. He huffs. “Thank you.” 

He offers Tommy a hand. Tommy grabs it, and with one forceful tug, He pulls Tubbo down into the stack of wheat beside him. Tubbo gasps and Tommy starts cackling. 

──────────────

Wilbur has been staying at Phil’s for a while. 

Actually, he’s been to a lot of places lately. The burger van, Tommy’s dirt hut, Techno’s cabin, the stone house near Las Nevadas—It’s not exactly surprising that you no longer have any permanence to anything. Not when you’ve been gone for a long time.

Wilbur enters Phil’s cottage, like a child coming home from school. He brushes the snow off his shoulders and plops down on the threshold to take off his boots. Living in the snowy tundra is not so bad. It's easier to say that you’re numb because of the cold and not because you’ve spent a decade in Limbo.

“Hey,” Wilbur greets Phil, who’s busy working on potions in the other room.

“Hi, mate,” Phil replies, shaking one of the bottles. “Tommy came by today.”

Wilbur suddenly felt quite awake, the traces of weariness fading at the mention. 

“Really?” 

He hasn’t heard from Tommy in a while. The last time they saw each other, they were camping in the forests near Las Nevadas, building railroads. It was also the day that Wilbur found out his motor skills were fucked, and could no longer play the guitar. 

"Oh, that’s too bad,”  Tommy had said, eyes dimming despite the light of the fire in the center. “That’s alright though.”   

Wilbur couldn’t stand the look Tommy gives him. He sees the past in the boy’s eyes, and it always felt as if they were transported there when all Wilbur wants is to move on from it. If not that, then it was the distrust and fear that made Wilbur sick. Tommy doesn’t even hide it.

At least with Phil, Phil could pretend so easily.

His father gives him a nod.

“What’s he up to?” Wilbur asks, leaning on the door frame with crossed arms.

Then Phil averted his gaze to the potion stand, looking at Wilbur like he was about to spill the juiciest gossip he had heard from a rumormonger in the village.

“He, returned Techno’s axe.” Phil said, slowly sounding out each syllable.

Wilbur blinked in surprise. “You’re joking.”

Phil shook his head, turning his attention back to the potions. “He did! He literally did, It was so out of character,” He chuckled, then added with a contemplative look. “He seemed ill.” then another long pause. 

“Like he was about to die.”

Wilbur stiffened. Responsibility, guilt, and fear came falling on his shoulders. He slumped further on the doorframe as if that would help with the weight of it all. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” He decided.

“You should,” Phil replied, his tone suddenly serious. And then he whispered. 

“I really don’t like how…how he made it sound final.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” Wilbur retorted.

Phil shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Sorry.” And then the topic was dropped, as silence came in a sudden drop, like a knife being sliced through a thick veil. 

──────────────

“How long… How long is left?” 

“Okay, uh- Let me go check- for- for the universe to end, right?” Wilbur ensured. 

Tommy scoffed. “Sure, No, please—Because that’s what I meant by that question.” 

“I’m saying about- I’m saying about eight more eons? Are you familiar with what eons are? That’s a bit-” 

“What the fuck is an ‘eon’? That’s a type of- that’s a type of fish.” 

Wilbur burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the empty train. 

──────────────

Wilbur arranged—messaged, rather.—Tommy to meet up with him in the forest near Las Nevadas. The same place where they had last set up a campfire a few weeks ago and made absolutely no plans whatsoever. He’s leaning against a tree, the needle in view and he thinks of Quackity—Until Tommy arrives.

“Hey,”

And Phil was right, the boy looks awful and obviously ill. “Like he’s going to die.” 

Wilbur shakes the thought off. He knew Tommy had never been the type to outright admit that he was sick, but he also was the type to seek help when he couldn’t handle it anymore. 

“Hey,” Tommy greeted, struggling to pass through one of the thickets. “Something wrong, Wil?”

Wilbur’s fingers twitch to the pocket of his coat, where a lighter and three cigarettes are. But he persists. Tommy never liked when he smoked. “Been meaning to talk to you.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up for just a second, he leaned on the oak tree right next to Wilbur. “Really?”

Wilbur nods. “I see you, standing around the L’manhole."  He says with a cheeky grin.

The L’manhole or L’mancrater as everyone has been calling it. Wilbur has seen Tommy standing at the mouth of it, on top of a boulder, staring down at it all.

Wilbur coughs into his fist, suddenly remembering the day when he was revived and that—that is what he first saw, what he  first  stood on after decades in Limbo—A wreckage.  An unfinished symphony,  he used to call it.  Forever unfinished. 

“You miss it a lot?” Wilbur blurted out, unsure of what to say or do. 

Tommy shifted from one foot to another, glancing at him. Wilbur takes notice of the ferns growing from where Tommy stood.

“ You, don’t?” He replied grimly.

“No,” Wilbur said in an instant. “I blew it up.”  A fact. 

Tommy snickers, like he can’t believe it. (Which is dumb, because he should. He should hate Wilbur.) 

And there’s something in there that Wilbur can’t see, and can’t understand, In all the years that he’s known Tommy—There is that nagging sixth sense that there’s something the boy is hiding. 

But he’s long lost the ability to persuade people into telling truths. Much less Tommy, who knows every one of his gimmicks as much as his blunders. It’s harder in that case. 

Wilbur hates it.

“Tommy—I’ve spent decades in Limbo. L’manberg felt like eons ago to me. Whatever attachment—might I say—love, that I have left for it is gone, it faded long ago.”

Tommy doesn’t provide him an answer. So Wilbur rambles.

“Look, I did—I did care about L’manberg! but a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet—I mean, I don’t get why you even miss it—Techno told me it was the reason for your exile.”

“...Tubbo exiled me,” Tommy murmured.

“Exactly! For L’manberg.” spitting the word like poison,

“So, what? Techno’s beliefs of anarchy finally got to you?”

“No!—what I’m saying is that you have to get over it, Tommy.” Wilbur bellowed, in the tone he once had as a commander. 

Tommy flinched, his mouth opening and closing, unsure of what to say.

Wilbur lowered his voice. “I just- I don’t- I don’t get why or where you even get it from—I don’t understand you, Tommy.” Not anymore, was left unsaid. 

Finally, the boy scoffed. “Look, Wil—Maybe to you it was just some sort of a- a way to gain control. Life, freedom, liberty, and all that bullshit before—But to me, L’manberg was home. ”

Then it was Wilbur’s turn not to have an answer, to fumble for the words.

Tommy pressed on. “It- it wasn’t just about the power or the land—It was Niki’s bread, and- and me and Tubbo’s pranks, and pestering Jack Manifold! It was us being fucking happy, When all of us were together, It was like we were a family—”

“We were Tommy,” Wilbur interjects. And he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. “We were.”

Tommy’s eyes widened, and for a brief moment, Wilbur saw the nine-year-old that he rescued all those years ago. Back to the days when their biggest trouble was whether or not they should steal crops from a local barn. 

Tommy’s eyes were full of hurt, then it shifts into a fit of familiar anger, and then a muted weariness. The blue fire dies right in front of him. Wilbur couldn’t possibly take it back now.

He had let his anger slip through. Anger for everyone that didn’t understand, for everyone that feared him, for the world that changed without him, for Limbo, for himself—

Shout back. Wilbur begged. The leaves rustle in a huge gust of the wind, whistling mockery in his ears. His fingers clenching and unclenching, beads of sweat fall from his forehead.  Tell me I’m wrong. Go on, argue. 

Tommy turned on his heel.

“Tommy,” Wilbur calls, his voice wavering, watching Tommy walk away without another word. His hands were the shape of a fist in the pocket of his coat.

“Tommy!” Wilbur rushes and grabs on the boy’s arms. 

Tommy flinches and stops.

“Listen—I- uh- Tommy, Look at me.”

His nails dug into the fabric of Tommy’s coat, desperate and needy and guilty. Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he stays frozen in place, and Wilbur thinks he can hear the sound of the boy’s pounding heart.

“Look at me,” Wilbur insists, willing himself to be gentle. Though his grip on Tommy’s arm betrays it. But he’s desperate, a sudden fear rushing through him. Remembering what Phil had implied.

“I know what I’m like, ”

Tommy said so suddenly with a shaky breath, easily mimicking his tone. Wilbur was caught off guard.

“That’s the issue. ” 

Time came to a halt. The space between them—a crevice—widened. And in Wilbur’s effort to reach Tommy, he stumbled into that crevice, an abyss.

“We’ve—I’ve always been the issue, haven’t I Wil?” Tommy continued, voice cracking. 

And Wilbur falls and falls and falls, the words reverberating along jagged walls—He doesn’t think he’ll ever reach ground. Don't say that, Tommy. Wilbur thinks, trying to get the words out of his throat as he falls. You can't say such a thing.

And suddenly, there are flowers everywhere. 

Wilbur could not have been wrong. He watches Marigolds rise in Tommy’s hair. Red carnations and purple hyacinths puncture through the boy’s coat—Which Wilbur, only now realizes used to be his—Wilbur let go of Tommy’s arm, from both confusion and fear.

Yellow jasmine falls from Tommy’s sleeves, his hands were still in his pockets—But it is now overflowing with dying leaves, grass grows below his feet at an unnatural speed. 

Wilbur gapes, eyes wide with shock at his—outburst? Tommy is visibly shaking, either in fear or pain—Maybe both. Wilbur wanted to comfort him. To say,  I’m sorry It’s alright, it’s alright—But Wilbur is a coward, so he steps back and stammers.  

“To- Tommy.”

Tommy makes a break for it. Leaving strewn petals behind, reminding him of vibrant clumps of leaves, scattering during autumn. Wilbur reaches his hand out, his mouth opening to yell his name, something that used to be easy. He'd done it a hundred times before. 

But Wilbur has lost his voice, it’s drowning in fear and bewilderment, and he merely watches, letting Tommy disappear into the thick of the woods.

──────────────

 “—me and you were never good for that server,” Wilbur says. Tommy listens, because it’s all that he can do in the endless dark. In Limbo, there is nothing but his mind and—Wilbur.

"Look, right, think about it. EVERYTHING that has gone wrong, it’s been down to us, this entire time…It lies in our footsteps.” Wilbur paused. 

"I genuinely think If it weren’t for me and you dying—The server would be in shambles. I know for a fact, if I’m brought back to life in some way, it’s definitely gonna just go bad again.” 

Tommy doesn’t want to listen anymore. He covers his ears, but it’s like he’s suspended in the air. As if he has no body, no blood, no heart—It’s just mind and soul trapped together in an endless dark, endless dark, endless— 

“You’re doing the thing again,” Wilbur says, an intervention for his thoughts. “That shaky breath of yours.” 

Tommy scoffs. “Thanks for pointing it out—My- my voice gets all shaky when you…you talk like that- like, this, I-” 

“I know what I’m like,” Wilbur said, his voice solemn. “That’s the issue.” 

Tommy goes silent, realizing how vast but suffocating the dark could be, like walls closing in. Realizing how Wilbur’s voice is still able to soothe him despite his words, how Wilbur is a constant thorn to his side. Something permanent even as he grows numb. And he misses everything. 

He misses being able to wield a sword, to feel the grass on his toes, the smell of fresh bread, green bandanas, discs—

Tommy lets out a low grunt. 

“Well, I know what I’m like and I FUCKING HATE IT HERE!” 

──────────────

Wilbur reminisces. The way Tommy sobbed for hours on end during Limbo. The way he would duck his head in Pogtopia. The way his blue eyes glimmered in L’manberg, and his small hands plucking flowers to eat in the forest—

Wilbur pauses on the path to Tommy’s home. Feeling the warm wind on his skin. The air is a lot different—more humid—in the SMP itself. A huge contrast to the snowy tundra. His gaze is on the small field of flowers in the roof and lawn of the dirt hut. 

If he could remember correctly, It used to be the L’manberg Embassy, constantly griefed from skirmishes and war. It had been destroyed and rebuilt over and over again. And he remembers that it was Tommy who always had the patience to do so.

How his hands would be full of bandages, fingers with splinters, clothes drenched in sweat, how there was even a time when he claimed to have worked on it for four months just to get the viewpoint right.

Wilbur could hear the ghosts that remained. Laughing, having meals, bargaining, construction—It has undergone several changes, just like its owner. It changes—grows, alongside him.

“If you hadn’t griefed them, Tommy. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to keep repairing it every second, or— or! Even better, you could just, move out. It’s that simple.” 

Tommy had been silent as if he couldn’t comprehend Wilbur’s suggestion. Then the boy flashed him a wide grin and said: “I don’t think I’ll ever stop rebuilding, ever.” 

Wilbur wondered if they could rebuild each other too.

“Wilbur?”

Wilbur jumped, he had been staring at the base for too long. He glanced behind him to see Tubbo, looking slightly nervous—Ah, he hated it. That look.   

“Hi,” Wilbur nods, trying to sound casual. “Is Tommy home?”

“I was about to ask the same thing.” Tubbo replied, his eyes on the ground. “I brought him some food. Y’know he’s been kinda sick lately .  ”

Wilbur tilted his head. “He said something?”

Tubbo pondered and shook his head. “No…I just assumed.” a shrug. “Plus, I reckon he needed some company.”

Wilbur smiled. “Alright then,” He ushered for Tubbo to come along. The tension between them slowly dissipates.

“Why are you here?” Tubbo asked without any malice, as they stood in the very front of Tommy’s oak doors. Still, the question made Wilbur’s gut churn.

“To…” make amends. " To explain myself,” Wilbur said.

Tubbo hums, his hand hovering on the door handle. Looks like best friends didn’t need the courtesy of knocking on each other’s homes. “Well, isn’t that something—” 

His sentence was cut short when the door opened and they were hit by a musty smell and a gust of hot air. 

“What the fuck.”

The house revealed an indoor wilderness full of flowers, wisteria, and a sickening fragrance. The entire floor was covered in soil and a few patches of tall grass. There were leaves of poison oak on the wooden furniture, the bed was overrun with sacks of ripped cotton, and the walls had moss in them.

There’s a jukebox in the corner with several flowers littered around it, a potion stand that no longer works, and an ender chest coated in dust and vines. The place was practically uninhabitable for any normal, human being who wanted to fucking live, No wonder the boy got sick—How long had Tommy been like this? 

Wilbur didn’t want to go into the backrooms. He was afraid of what he would find, so he stayed frozen on the spot. His mind drifted to the marigolds that had grown on Tommy’s head, and the hyacinths that punctured out of his clothes. 

Tubbo had knelt down and busied himself by going through every chest. He frantically took out spoiled food, a few bits of iron, empty potion bottles, and other useless junk. Leaving it all piled on the ground.

“Shit,” Wilbur mumbled, the revelation scratching on his skin. The smell protruded his lungs and the sight burned his eyes. Tubbo snaps his head up, a look of horror in his eyes. 

Tubbo is the only one who isn’t afraid of touching and moving everything there is. 

Wilbur had only stood still as if everything inside was sacred. “Shit, fuck—Tubbo,” 

Tubbo stands with shaking knees. 

Wilbur places a hand on his shoulder. “We have to find him.” 

“Micheal,” Tubbo blurted out, voice strained. 

Wilbur tilted his head questioningly, Ranboo’s son? 

“What about?”

“He—“ The boy sucked in a breath, clearing his throat. “He told me a lot of weird things and I brushed it off.”

“What did he say, Tubbo?” 

Tubbo averted his gaze, eyes landing on a rusty blade entangled in ivy.

“He said- He said Tommy could grow plants out of his skin. That it was pretty but it withers too, and that it hurts him, and- and- He told me that Tommy left a special gift somewhere, and I think it’s- uh, I’m supposed to find it—”

“Tubbo, Tubbo—”

Tubbo shook his head, ignoring Wilbur’s concern. “You’ve—You know of it?” He asked, voice sounding between offended and disbelieved.

“No,” Wilbur replied. “But Tommy, he’s— he’s not-“

“He’s human,” Tubbo answers, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes speaking multitudes of guilt and remorse. “Oh my god, He’s  human. That’s just not right. Wilbur, what if he- what if—Surely not.”

Wilbur’s grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, none of this is your fault,” He said, tearing his gaze away from the plants, and looking him straight in the eye. 

“We’re going to look for him.”

Tubbo gave him a stiff nod.

They split up.

Tubbo scampers along the prime path. He’s hopeful that Tommy’s just wandering around and later he’ll provide them with an answer. But Wilbur wasn’t so confident. He’s seen the signs more than anyone else did, and he did nothing. 

Wilbur sprints in a certain direction. Fear comes in a bag full of angry bees swarming within his chest. He couldn’t imagine having to mourn for Tommy—Dream wouldn’t revive him a second time.—Then he wondered how Tommy even mourned for him. 

He drags his legs forward, gut-clenching and heart racing. He felt his entire body working together for the first time in weeks. Blood flowed to all of his limbs, warming his muscles, and the summer air entered his lungs like an engine.

Wilbur could imagine it—blonde hair, tattered clothes, bandages, and tearful eyes—sitting next to a grave. Did he cry for days after?  Or did he hate Wilbur?  Had he spat on his grave and wished that they had never met, and none of this would’ve happened?

Would he still forgive him after everything?

“Why do you stay, Tommy?” Wilbur asked in the ravine they named Pogtopia, stubbing a cigarette between his fingers. 

They were sitting on the floor together, leaning on each other. Layers of dust on the floor, empty chests, resources scattered, cobwebs in every corner, and buttons all over the walls as a sickening prank. 

Their eyes red-rimmed and dark, minds weary, hands scarred, and aching. And they were tired. So, so tired—and they couldn’t figure out how they ended up, leaning on each other’s weight. Allowing themselves to be vulnerable for once. 

Vulnerability and honesty had never been a thing between them. They had always been too scared to have genuine conversations. But in dire situations like these, it had always found a way to seep through. 

“Why do you care? Why do you still give a shit?” Wilbur pressed, asking time and time and again. He wonders. 

Because he could never understand. (“I don’t understand you.”) How Tommy—Young, reckless, full of burdens and life  Tommy, who sang to the flowers as much as he cursed them, who encouraged wars and griefed homes, and followed destruction along with chaos as his frequent lover—had stayed by his side. 

 And told Willbur not to blow shit up. 

(Wilbur did not understand how someone could have such a bottomless well of love concealed under layers upon layers of hubris.) 

Tommy sighed. 

Wilbur kept running, his breath coming in short gasps. He shouted Tommy’s name—Just a little hopeful—There was no sign of the boy anywhere. People passed by him, some were surprised and some looked at him like he was crazy and still a ghost. Tommy must’ve felt the same once.

But the difference between them is that Tommy was alone when it all happened—His grief, His exile, his death, his revival—He didn’t have Wilbur by his side.

But Wilbur always had Tommy. He was everywhere. In abandoned towns, pointless wars, a suffocating ravine. In the eyes of Ghostbur, in the train platform, in the buildings and the roads, in flowers, and in everyone’s stories, his memories—Tommy was a constant.

And he would not have it any other way.

“You can run away if you want.” Wilbur continued. “Take Tubbo, and go—It’s not like you’re going to miss much.” 

Tommy replied with a small laugh. “I think I will. I think I’ll miss a lot of things, big man,” 

Then Wilbur could feel his cheeks contort into a smile. 

 “I need you.” Tommy said as if clearing the burnt fog of all his extinguished cigarettes. 

Wilbur finally arrived at the crater of L’manberg, out of breath. He surveyed the rubble, inhaling the tarnished air. Tubbo was there too, on the other side near a ledge. He gave him some sort of signal. but Wilbur didn’t have time to understand in the midst of his panic.

Then there , Wilbur spots an unusual patch of grass and spontaneous flowers near a tattered flag. The sunlight illuminates it through the spaces of the obsidian grid above, like a spotlight. To his horror—an arm bulges out of the dirt.

Wilbur scampered down. Please. He begged. His heart pounding, blood pulsing—feeling more alive than he’s ever been before. Please, I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t know if you’ll forgive me. But I need you still. 

“You don’t.” Wilbur hissed, giving him a weak shake. “You don’t need me, at least not anymore.” 

Tommy cackled at him then. “What do you really want from me, Wil?” 

"The truth,” Wilbur answered. 

It seemed a little unfair of him to ask for it when he himself is made up of lies. Confrontations are easy when you have nothing to lose, and at that moment there was truly nothing that could uproot him from his madness. 

And the truth is that Wilbur was afraid of the answer. 

The even bigger, more tightlipped truth—is being afraid Tommy would do as he says—leave. 

Tommy didn’t reply for a good while. He was silent. And Wilbur could hear his breathing become erratic like he was about to laugh or cry—Wilbur didn’t know. He refused to open his eyes. To lift his head and check. He refused to acknowledge his own dependency and knowing that the silence was an answer already. 

Wilbur thought the conversation was over. He was beginning to drift off, his head lolling on Tommy’s shoulder. And before sleep could take him, he heard Tommy let out a shuddering breath, a whisper in his ear. 

“Because—“ 

What had he said? 

Wilbur’s foot got caught in a plank. He stumbled and rolled down the slope until his ribs hit stone. He gasped, curling in on himself, and the pain registered just as his mouth tasted of dirt. Wilbur gritted his teeth. He reached out a hand, placed it on the stone to pull himself up. One arm clutching onto his ribs and the other on the stone to steady himself.

What did you say, Tommy? 

He wiped his lip with the back of his hand and spit. Wilbur was too close to stop now, his eyes were on the irregular patch of grass and flowers blooming everywhere, A single hand extending outwards—the same hand that punches his shoulder, writes insults on walls and had cared for his wounds.

What did you tell me? Say it more clearly, You’re not allowed to leave without telling me. 

Wilbur bent his knees and seized the hand as tight as he could. And he pulled with all his might, begging for whatever deity there is in the world to give him strength.

I didn't want to think too much of it. So I had forgotten. But living foolishly, irresponsibly, impatient, and full of delusions—none of it ever did me any good. 

Tubbo came afterward. Yelling, a shovel in hand, flying clumps of soil, someone hugging his waist, flowers, leaves, and the rest was all a blur.

Tommy had whispered. He whispered, in a hollowed ravine that only bought him misery. In the middle of conflict and heartache, and beside his older brother who had been the cause of it all— And Tommy still held onto his brother’s broken hand. 

He learned early on. Beside Wilbur, beside everyone, and everything—That loving had always meant hurting. Even if it were the last day of their lives, he would sing of arrogance and love. And he will be forever certain, that none of it was in vain—Tommy had whispered, something raw and true: 

“Because I love you.” 

Simple as that. 

It was I love you when Wilbur showed him maps, biomes, and names, and how to properly shoot a squirrel. 

It was I love you when Wilbur reassured him about the mobs in the cavern. 

It was I love you when they talked about sunflowers. 

It was I love you when patching each other up after battles and war and petty townsfolk fights. 

It was I love you during sleepless nights. 

It was I love you during simple days. 

I love you despite it all. 

And I’ll love you after the end. 

And a thousand more I love you’s that had gone unsaid. 

The love between them had always been a fragile, brittle thing. 

The world, the universe they created for themselves had been broken by what made it. When they let the lies carry them from what was true. When they let their grief-stricken hearts beat too loud until they couldn’t hear each other’s voices. 

But even when it crumbled, there was one thing that remained and it had been love. As quiet and loud as it is. 

The present, memories, the past, kindness, betrayal, humming, laughter, pain, hypocrisy, deception, flowers, blue skies—It didn’t matter at all. 

Love had always been there. Staying, breathing, waiting. 

                °•❀ 

                       * ˚ ❀      

                              .· * • ˚            

                           ❀ : · • 

                                       .· * 

                                    ✵ ˚ : ·  

                                            ❀ * ˚ ✧ 

                                             . · *

                                                            ˚ . 

Tommy was nine years old when Wilbur found him in the wreckage of a scorched village, left alone by family and a friend. 

It was a wonder how Tommy managed to survive it. It's a wonder how he hadn’t heard their screams or the hilt of swords. Graciously, he was in their basement when it all happened. A choice that he doesn’t quite remember taking. He used to think that if there was a way to alter it, He would have gladly died alongside them all.

He wouldn’t have met Wilbur.

When Tommy came up to the surface, the entire village was ash and smoke and blood. The nine-year-old boy fell to his knees and screamed and cried the names of people he once knew. Until all he could do was lay there in silence amid dead bodies.

It was Wilbur who heard him. Who had found him writhing in ashes and grief. 

Wilbur extended his hand. “Are you hurt?”  He asked. 

And Tommy hesitantly took it. But he did not stand at first. He had laid there and only stared at Wilbur Soot looking down on him, his face blocking out the crimson sky. 

“I’m Wilbur—Wilbur Soot.”  It was Wilbur who pulled him up and changed it all. “Can you stand?” 

It was Wilbur who brought him to a warm home. Who bathed him, taught him how to write properly and pronounce the words correctly. He haggled for lower meal costs and longer stays in inns. He always found a way to make an enemy in every town they set foot on and made Tommy laugh whenever he argued with one.

He never got tired of telling him various whale facts and things about geography even when Tommy kept saying it was boring. He never got tired of buying him coats, pinching his cheeks, flicking his forehead, or sharing the larger space of the blanket with him.

It was Wilbur who he first called brother. 

“Hey, Wil,”  Tommy called out. It was their first time in the nether. He had been twelve. Perhaps it was the sweltering heat that made his mind hazy and his mouth loose. “We're like brothers.” 

Wilbur suppressed a grin, he was failing. “Don't call me that, I will cry.” 

It was Tommy and Wilbur who started a little drug van. It turned into a nation, a contestant for war. It was Tommy who knitted the flag, and it was Wilbur who designed it. It was Tommy who sang to the tree, and it was Wilbur who made the anthem because of it. 

It was Wilbur who led, and Tommy who followed. 

“I’ll follow you,”  He said once in the darkness of a van, the smell of potions and iron in the air. His hands clenched on the counter. “I’ll be your right-hand man in this, You can trust me.” 

Wilbur dipped his head, glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. “Me and you…will be history.” 

“Hey!—At least we’d make history together, yeah? Just me and you!” 

Wilbur shook his head and smiled. "It'll always be me and you, huh?"

It was for Wilbur that he lost a life—two lives in one day—He sacrificed his discs. Discs that were solely precious to him, and hence had to be fought for. Because Wilbur was his brother. Because Wilbur’s the reason he’s here and breathing and living. He owed him everything.

And yet it was Wilbur who caused the most damage, with lifeless eyes and a detonator. Then left them behind to pick up the pieces.

It was Wilbur who he hated and loved. In every stage and role he took, Tommy had been there. He had seen Wilbur as a young runaway, a commander, a president, a madman—Alive, dead, ghost, and revived.  

Tommy, though, is exhausted. He's finished with all his roles. It was time to leave the empty stage and bring the story to a tragic conclusion. He simply wishes to be at peace, to float in the infinite darkness and turn numb.

But it’s Wilbur pulling him out of the dirt again. 

Like all those years before, in an ash-charred village.

Holding his hand, 

Dragging him up.

Roots are wrapped around his torso, flowers blossom in painful clutters on his skin. The heavy soil is suffocating him, putting pressure on his lungs and his eyes are closed tight, his ears fill with leaves and dirt. He couldn't move, going in and out of consciousness. He was becoming part of the earth.

Tommy could hear Wilbur’s muffled voice. He can recognize it anywhere. He can feel his frantic and sweaty hand.

I don’t want to die. He thought. As the vines seized his throat, taking in shallow breaths.

Wilbur grasped tighter on his weak, unburied hand. Tommy made a feeble attempt to hold back, forcing his hand to grip Wilbur’s fingers. 

Ah, Tommy thinks, He regrets never getting to tell him again. Never got to remind him. 

He still wanted to play with Micheal. He wanted to tease and insult Ranboo. He wanted to tell Techno he’s sorry—and if he can have the axe of peace back—He wanted to keep calling for Phil’s name even if it were pointless. He wanted to sit down on the bench with Tubbo and listen to Cat.   And he wanted to tell Wilbur-

As the yells grow louder, Tommy feels his cheeks become damp. The horrible wetness of his tears mixes with the soil and turns into mud. The roots and the vines loosen their hold. A clear, blue sky began to emerge from his blurred vision. 

All of a sudden, he became afraid. He shook his hands and tugged his other arm out as he regained a bit of mobility. He grabbed Wilbur's arm with both hands and began rising free, kicking his feet through the plants and soil.

“TOMMY!”

And it was as though a hand reached and yanked his heart out.

Tommy feels the earth shift as he’s lifted up. He can’t feel his legs, ending up on his knees. His arms dangle on his side, aching and strained. Tommy coughs violently, bringing one arm around his ribs. Every limb and bone in his body hurts.

Tommy squints as he takes in the sun. The wind blows the wilting flowers that surround them. It flutters and suspends in the air for just a brief moment—It’s a little beautiful—Someone is holding his hand, so tight that it’s sure to leave another bruise. 

Someone’s rubbing away the grime on his cheeks, in his eyes, and through the locks of his hair. And someone’s sobbing right next to him, their fingernails caked with dirt. He’s too stunned to even speak, his breath coming out in short gasps.

Then Tommy’s pulled into an embrace, arms circling around his limp frame. 

He’s no longer underneath the soil. The flowers that grew on his wounds are wilting too, and the vines have long died. Now there are steady, arms wrapped around him, holding him close to a heavily breathing chest. So close that he could even hear the pounding of a heart.

“For fuck’s sake—“ 

Wilbur holds him like he’s going to fall back if he doesn’t. Tommy’s eyes fill with more tears. Shakily, his arms rise to return the tight hug that Wilbur gives him.

“I’m sorry.” He gasps. And the tears are freely flowing from his cheeks, breathing hard. Seeing the sky and the ruins around him, he takes it all in. “I’m sorry,  I’m sorry—  “

Wilbur hushes him. A gentle hand cards through his hair. Tommy grips on the fabric of Wilbur’s coat, not caring if he’s getting mud and snot on it.

Wilbur pulls away, hands firm on his cheeks. And Tommy’s nine again, as he sobs relentlessly, unable to hide anything anymore. He’s nine again, and Wilbur’s hands are warm. “I’m sorry.” He breathes, looking deep into his brother’s worried eyes through a blur of tears. “I’m so, so sorry—”

“What were you thinking!?"  Wilbur yells, loud enough that his voice cracks. And Tommy realizes that Wilbur is crying too.

Tommy couldn’t find the words, he shakes his head, rubbing his eyes dry.

“I- I- just—“ a deep breath. “I just couldn’t—I thought it’d be easy, and- and over , I hated—you, and everyone and I was sick—I had this thing and I thought nature wanted me to- to- and I-–“

“The earth doesn’t want you—“ Wilbur interjects, voice shooting above like he could make the sky fall. “It doesn’t need you—You know who does? I do, Tommy. It’s me, and Tubbo, and Ranboo—We want you here, I need you here.”

Wilbur smiles shakily, his thumb wiping away the tears and grime on his cheeks.

And if there was anything more constant and true than that. Something more permanent than the earth, sky, and oceans. Potion vans and crow feathers and rusty swords, music discs, and cows and plastic crowns. Oversized coats, apples, sunflowers, jokes, smiles, and laughter—

Tommy’s breath hitches and he buries his head in Wilbur’s chest, uncontrollable sobs still hacking his body. “ I’m sorry. ” 

Wilbur never lets go of him, rocking him from side to side.

──────°•❀•°•✿•°•❀•°──────

Tommy counts the morning glories blooming on his taped fingers.

He’s inside a desolate cabin in Snowchester. With missing floorboards, gaps on the roof filtering the sun, and melting snow. It smells of pine and oil. His breaths come in small clouds. He’s never been more glad and comfortable to be sitting on a hay bale, a blanket draped over his shoulders, wearing clothes that probably belonged to Ranboo. His hair dripping wet after a long, warm bath.

“Hey,” 

Tommy flinches. It’s only Wilbur, entering the cabin while brushing snow off his hair. A familiar blue mug in hand. Wilbur gives him an awkward smile and sits right next to him. Both their eyes were red and weary.

Tommy gives him a stiff nod. The morning glories separate from his fingertips, falling on his lap

Wilbur hands Tommy the mug. “Hot chocolate, the way you like it.”

Tommy takes it, trembling. If Wilbur notices the scars on his wrists, then he doesn't mention them.

“It looks like shit in here,” Tommy comments to amend the silence, his voice hoarse.

“Yeah? I think so too.” Wilbur laughs lightly. “We should tear it down.”

Tommy shifts in his seat. Slowly, he brings the mug close to his lips. Then he pauses once he catches a whiff. Tommy hands the mug back to Wilbur. 

“You don’t want it?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy shakes his head, pressing the mug in Wilbur’s hands. “I want you to try it.”

“Why?” Wilbur takes it hesitantly, a skeptical look on his face. 

Tommy tilted his head. “Just try it.”

Wilbur hums and takes a sip. “Oh,” He blinks, lowering the mug to his lap. “ Oh. ”

Tommy smiles wryly. “You put coffee instead of cocoa, dumbass.”

Wilbur looks ahead, dumbfounded. “How did I not notice?”

Tommy shrugged. “Guess your senses are still fucked.”

They sit together within their empty vigil. In the serene and desperate light and itchy haybale. Warm in the flutter of snow and listening to their evened breaths, dust motes dance on their shoes.

Tommy leans his head on Wilbur’s shoulder, closing his eyes. And Wilbur takes occasional sips of coffee, pressing his cheek on the boy’s hair.

They weren’t okay, not at all. But one day, they will be.

──────°•❀•°•✿•°•❀•°──────

On the third day, Tubbo finds the two vinyls under his couch, encased in glass. 

All three of them—Wilbur, Tubbo, and Tommy—were sitting in the radiant glow of the fireplace in the living room. Ranboo is upstairs, trying to put Micheal to sleep. It seemed as if he were struggling, as they could hear constant thuds and the pounding of their footsteps from above.

Tubbo held the discs up for Tommy to see before placing them both on his lap. He gazed down at it with a sad smile.

A bundle of rosemary grows out of Tommy’s sleeves. He brings his knees up and close to his chest.

On that same afternoon, Tommy tells them everything. Through constant rambling and half-hearted jokes that did not get any laughs. He doesn’t know how long he went on, but he just couldn’t stop himself from pouring it all out. It felt like his heart had been torn from his chest— bloody and still beating—then placed on the table for everyone to see.

He told them about the leaves, the flowers, how it has been growing within his body for months, and he still couldn’t figure out why—He doesn’t speak of the slits on his wrist, or the reasons either. He can't explain any of it.—Tubbo was quiet for the entire time, Wilbur hadn’t made any further comments other than, “I need some air.” leaving them both behind. A silent: “Why didn’t you tell anyone? You should’ve told me!” 

Then amid the crackling embers, and Ranboo’s yelling, and Micheal’s tramping from above—Tubbo finally speaks.

“I think it’s tied to your emotions.” He says his palms on the disc. 

Tommy laughs half-heartedly. “How does that work?”

Tubbo pointed at the mint-scented herbs that had been growing from his right forearm. “Those are balms—Lemon balms, to be precise.”

Tommy rests his chin on his knees, his hand automatically running through the leaves—herbs—on his skin.

“You’re relieved aren’t you?” Tubbo said with a wry grin.

──────°•❀•°•✿•°•❀•°──────

“How are you holding up?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy blinks, wringing his fingers. “It- it doesn’t hurt as much anymore and- and turns out I can control it, I think, so…”

“That’s great,” Wilbur nods, flicking a lighter. “Phil likes to call your condition—the emergence of the greenhouse.  ”

“Yeah?” Tommy chuckles, watching as Wilbur’s lighter fails to ignite. “Well, I like to call it God's creative, extravagant way of punishment.”

Wilbur laughs, a long one. The unlit cigarette fall on his palm, and the lighter is tucked away into his pocket.

Tommy smiles, a genuine smile. “But I…I think I can handle it, I can cope…better, now, with the help and all.”

Wilbur sighs. “I know you will.”

──────°•❀•°•✿•°•❀•°──────

Something is festering inside Tommy.

It's pulsing through his veins, fluttering within the cage of his heart, flourishing like the daisies in the lining of his hair. It burrows deep into the holes of his skull, and the roots of his soul. It’s a little something akin to wishful thinking. Something warm, like better days and light. 

“Why’d you do it?” Wilbur finally asked, lips pressed into a thin line.

Tommy always thought the answer was obvious. But even so, he had a million, different answers to Wilbur’s question.

Because I was sick and I wanted it to stop.

Because I already felt like I was going to die.

Because I deserve it.

Because I wanted everyone happy.

Because I wanted peace.

Because I was miserable.

Because I was lonely.

Because I was hurting.

Because of everyone.

Because of you.

Tommy’s brows creased, he looked down and saw red columbines under his feet. He shook it off. 

“Everyone kept treating me like- like a ghost or a corpse. And I thought I might as well become one.” 

Tommy tilted his head up, giving him a shaky smile. 

“That day I- I just—I was so tired. And I knew you were going to be…to be fine. You were all fine, happier even—I visited Tubbo, Techno, made amends, and all that. I even talked to a few of the others—trying not to let flowers  slip right through my fuckin' sleeves—“ 

Wilbur snorted. Tommy huffed and continued. 

“I talked to each one of them like everything was normal and fine.  But all I could think of was- was—” a breath. “Oh God,  this is the last time you’ll ever see me, Tommy Innit is burying himself today.”

They plunged into a hole of silence, filled with guilt and a gust of truth. Their gazes are fixed on the crater of L'manberg, where a flag stands in the very center. From afar, Tubbo and Ranboo could be heard constructing lanterns and dissuading Micheal from jumping on a mound where he could slip on. Eret is busying himself with burning what’s left of the red vines. While Phil and Puffy are having a heated discussion over architecture and Sam is there actually figuring it out for the both of them.

Then there was Wilbur and Tommy, who were far from them all but still present. They were standing on a small hill together. The ashes and rubble are no longer there and have been replaced with lush, green grass. They were-

They were simply rebuilding.

“How about you then?” Tommy said, unable to bear any more awkward silences. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you ask Phil to- to kill you.” and leave me behind,  went unsaid.

Wilbur let out a long sigh. He had always expected the question to come. He ran his fingers along his hair.

“I… I wasn’t in the right mind. L’manberg lost its purpose. And I was certain no one would stick around—”

“Bullshit,” Tommy mumbled, making Wilbur pause.

Then he added, a bit hesitant. “You had me.”  I would’ve followed you to the grave. 

“I know,” Wilbur replied quickly.  I guess you did. Now, look at us both. 

“That should’ve been enough—But I was a coward,” Wilbur said, kicking a pebble. It fell into a small creek, where squids kept spawning.

Tommy tilted his head and met Wilbur’s eyes—The same brown, warm eyes of his brother that painted color into his scorched, gray world.

“I was a coward, Tommy. I blew up L’manberg and left. Because I didn’t want to deal with any of it.“

“Wil—”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur said. “It was you, and everyone who had to pay the price for my actions—my mistakes—And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you off this cliff thinking you could fly, and I’m sorry that the only safety net that you trusted to fall on just—left. ”

Tommy’s eyes welled up, his fingers clenched behind his back. “Wil, You didn’t—”

“I love you,” Wilbur breathed, much quieter, echoing the words said to him lifetimes ago. “You’re my brother, and I’m sorry I don’t show it enough for you to believe it.” 

A few periwinkles blossom from Tommy’s hair, and his hands are clenched full of clematis. He lowers his gaze to his shoes, trying to keep his shoulders from shaking or his eyes from misting any further. "You, too." He whispered. 

Wilbur smiled at him and sighed. He stood a little straighter.

“I don’t know how many apologies it takes for you to forgive me—Actually, apologies aren’t enough—But I’m here, Tommy. I’m here to try everything again, to do things differently.” Wilbur said with a tone of finality.

Tommy shook his head, fumbling for the words. “I don’t think we can ever put the past behind us. I can’t forget it.”

“No, never,” Wilbur said softly. “But we can learn to live with it. That’s how some stories continue.”

Tommy huffed. “Will ours end someday?—Or has it already?”

Wilbur shrugged, looking forward. “No, It never will—For as long as you want it not to.” 

On the other side, Ranboo waves, Phil smiles, and the rest of the group is laughing at something Micheal did. The sky is clouded and brilliant, their weary faces are bathed in sunlight.

"Our story can go on for eternity if you let it.” Wilbur said, returning Phil’s smile. 

“Do you want  it to go on for eternity?” Tommy asked, looking up to meet Wilbur’s eyes.

“If you do.” Wilbur grinned nudging his shoulder, and it’s a promise, another I love you unspoken between them.

Tommy smiles back, the blue in his eyes returning little by little. He sends a deliberate kick to Wilbur's shin.

“Ow! ”

“Oh Shut up, Wilbur.”

“You just fucking kicked me you little shit!”

Tommy grinned widely. “Good! That’s gonna be the brilliant start of our first act! Our prologue to the new story—It will be me beating you up.”

Wilbur bursts into a loud laugh. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, nor does it sound like a very promising start.”

Daffodils grow from where they stand.

“Oh yeah? It will be a promising start for me! C’mere and I’ll throw you off this ledge—”

One day, nature will claim the wreckage. Through the hands of a boy who could make it happen with just his fingertips. The stone will be smoothed out, and the walls will be colored in luscious moss. There will be waterfalls and creeks flowing down to the middle, forming a small lake with a beacon and a towering flag set on bedrock to keep it from being swept away. 

The land will be covered in vegetation and flowers of all kinds and the obsidian grid above will be raptured in vines and colorful floating lamps, just like they used to do. They'll then complete it with bridges; restoring caverns, and hideouts. They'll find items that they thought had been lost in the rubble, like old banners and a compass.

And they will learn to love the fragments of what they’ve found and what was left from these ruins. 

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"  they'll joke as they sit together on a bridge, their legs dangling, never looking down. Knowing that soon, dawn will break, and they will see the picture they've made up in their drowsy thoughts, so many times before.