Work Text:
Tommy shivered slightly from the wind, he hadn't been planning to go out so he was severely underdressed. For a minute he forgot what was happening, lost in his thoughts. He remembered that he was supposed to be at school, or maybe home, wherever that was. Would someone be worried? Probably not, they didn't really notice anything that had to do with Tommy. In fact, he could probably never go back and no one would care. That was just how it was.
Tommy used to have friends, he thinks, but now he doesn't. It might be his fault that he doesn't. He has a family, technically, but they gave up on him long ago. That might be his fault too. Tommy is failing school, never does the homework, talks back, spaces out. That is definitely his fault, he wants to try harder -or at least wanted to- but for some reason he just can't seem to bring himself to do anything.
And that's fine. Tommy knows he is a failure. He's accepted it.
People always tell him that if he just tried harder then everything would get better but he's fucking tired. They act like trying is a thing that comes easily if you just decide to do it. It's not. Sometimes Tommy feels like he's in a race; there's only a couple metres left, he could easily make it, but then a wave of exhaustion hits and he cannot will himself to move.
Most of the time he just feels detached. Like he's floating ever so slightly outside his body and everything feels wrong. What he hates is the numbness that comes with it. The numbness makes him feel his emotions through an almost soundproof door, as if they're there but the numbness makes them feel blurry and off.
There's a bird in the distance, a crow atop a grave yelling at him. That's what makes him remember what he was doing.
The cemetery had been empty and Tommy decided to walk in. Maybe he was trying to feel something, maybe he was trying to convince himself out of the same thing he thought about every other day. Honestly, he really didn't understand why it would be so bad to just die; no one would care and he would be free, just because everyone said it's bad doesn't make it any less appealing.
But he had walked in. And began reading the gravestones. Eventually, he decided to write what each gravestone said into his journal. To remember. These people deserved at least that.
He had gotten to the 47th grave and the realisation dawned on him; those were once people, people who loved and hated and breathed and laughed. Gone forever. Only some writing on a stone remaining of them. He hoped that they at least had someone who loved them enough to remember them.
He loved the gravestones that had more than just a name, date and title on them. It just felt more personal, like someone cared enough to write something that the other would like. He had chuckled at one that said 'The damn best fake husband ever'. It also made Tommy wish that he had someone like that. Though he shouldn't really be jealous of dead people's friends. It was probably already disrespectful enough that he was contemplating suicide in the cemetery.
The crow squawked again and Tommy tiptoed towards it but it flew away. Cautiously, he walked up to the gravestone it had been on. It wasn't new but wasn't old, and there were no flowers, just an old photo and a soggy knitted blue sheep plushie. The grave read:
Wilbur Soot
14/09/1996 - 16/11/2020
Beloved son, brother and 'dad'
"Our unfinished symphony,
forever unfinished"
For some reason, this one hurts. The other graves he read were sad, of course but this one hurts. He was young. Only 24. Wilbur probably had a whole life ahead of him, goals to achieve, a fucking kid. Now that was just unfair.
Tommy picked up the small Polaroid picture up and inspected it. It was faded, but Tommy could still make out a pair of round glasses, short wavy hair, a yellow jumper and a kind smile, the type that makes anyone who sees it smile back. How could someone with that much life be lying in the ground underneath his feet?
Tommy sat down on the cold ground, facing the grave and leaned the photo on it. He felt a tear run down his face, he hadn't realised he was crying.
It was then that he realised that today was the anniversary of Wilbur's death. A year ago, this man had still been alive.
Tommy wondered what Wilbur would think of this; some random kid crying on his grave exactly a year after he died. When he was alive, was Wilbur a kind person? Was he funny? He could have been a mean, spiteful person. Tommy hoped not. He wanted to believe that Wilbur was kind and funny, with a family that loved him and friends that would remember him.
So, Tommy imagined that Wilbur's ghost was right there, sitting in front of him, with an encouraging smile, waiting for the boy to talk.
If he was a ghost, what would be want someone to talk to him about?
Tommy had no clue, so instead he thought of singing. Wilbur Soot seems like a man that would appreciate a good song. Who knows, maybe he was in a band or something, the grave does talk about a symphony.
Tommy knows that if he was a ghost he wouldn't want someone singing his something sad, especially not on his death anniversary. The problem was that Tommy doesn't know many songs that would apply to singing to a dead person so he just started singing the first one that came to mind.
It was called 'Concrete' by Lovejoy. As he was singing, he imagined Wilbur dancing manically and singing along with him and even started dancing himself.
Once the song was finished, Tommy sat down again, slightly out of breath from the dancing and singing. Would Wilbur want to know about him? Not many people do, it's kind of boring but it's all Tommy's got. So he started telling Wilbur about himself, that he liked to write and play Minecraft and hated maths, things that happened in school, rants about random things that had happened to him. And Wilbur Soot listened quietly to it all. Eventually Tommy began talking about the numbness, and how he could seem to try, and about how he wasn't planning on seeing tomorrow. At some point he started crying again.
Wilbur didn't deserve death. Tommy wished he could give Wilbur a hug and tell him it would be ok. That he could be under the ground right now if that would make Wilbur live.
He had made up a story about a man based off of a photo and a grave. Tommy knew that it was just that, a story, but it was a good one, even if very bittersweet. He didn't want to let it go just yet.
So he stayed and cried. Tommy cried for himself, he cried for Wilbur, he cried for all the people who were gone and just how fucking unfair the whole thing was.
During his crying, a man walked up besides him. Next, Tommy felt warm arms embrace him and collapsed into them, and heard the arms whisper: "Hey, mate, it's ok. You're ok."
Tommy doesn't know how long he spent sobbing into the other man's shirt but eventually he pulled away to see a man with long blonde hair and kind eyes, Tommy almost recognised him from somewhere. "Come on. Gods, you're freezing, let's go home.", the man tells him and Tommy nods, then Phil picks him up.
They walk to a picturesque cottage and enter, Phil still carrying him. The inside is warm and welcoming with an orange light surrounding it and Tommy can smell baking.
The living room has a fireplace and three sofas, all in different patterns. The fire crackles soothingly and Tommy watches as the flames dance and swirl. He notes the orange-yellow hue and the grey of the smoke slowly rising from it. There is heat coming from the fire as well, the kind that is pleasant until you move too close. The light radiating off of the fire illuminates Phil's face nicely, reflecting off of his eyes and making his blonde hair look gold. Tommy watches as the flames consume another piece of wood from the bottom of the fireplace, charring it and setting it alight, completely engulfing it in seconds; he also hears the wood's final wheeze before it is destroyed.
He is set down at a table. "Techno is making baked potatoes, your favourite!" Phil says.
Techno? Does he know Techno? Yeah, of course he knows his brother. How could he not?
There is a baked potato in front of him on a plate. It has beans and cheese. Techno made it for him. Techno is smiling at him, his long pink hair down and apron still on.
"I'll get Will." Dad says.
Tommy's hand traces the writing on the cold stone.
Wilbur is at the table, and they are all eating, the food tastes so good, it's Tommy's favourite.
"Do you like it Tommy?" Techno asked
Tommy nods.
"It's your favourite."
Tommy nods again.
Wilbur is telling them about this new song he and his band are making, he promises to play it after dinner.
Tommy helps clean up the dishes, they turn clean when he touches them. That's helpful.
Dad suggests they listen to Wilbur's song now. Will gets his guitar and starts playing. The song is called 'Concrete' and Tommy likes it a lot. He and dad do silly dances while Will sings and Techno laughs. This is great.
"Will you want some more baked potatoes tomorrow, Tommy? The're your favourite."
Tommy nods
Cold stone. A bird squawking.
They decided to watch a film. Somehow, they all fit on one sofa and Tommy snuggles up into the other three. He couldn't be happier. The fire crackles in the background.
Dad is stroking his head and the film is ending. The fire is being very loud now, it's very rude. Tommy cuddles further into Will.
The film ends and the screen goes dark. Tommy is sleepy. Today was a good day. He loves his family.
Flames scale the walls and hiss and crack. They rise and smoke fills the air, choking Tommy. Dad, Techno and Will are all just sitting there, cuddling Tommy. Tommy can't move. He tries to scream but the smoke wraps around his throat before he can. The fire is scalding now and their faces are illuminated with the orange light. He wants to leave.
The other three are still looking into space with crazed smiles as Tommy tries to break free from their grips.
"We're dead Tommy."
"Let us go."
"You're not dead yet."
They chime in voices that bring a shiver down his spine.
They can't be dead.
There's no way. Tommy won't let that happen.
He struggles further, trying to get the three to move, wishing he could scream.
The flames are almost fully engulfing them now.
He can't lose them. Not again.
Not again.
But he has to.
His fingers trace the writing on the gravestones as tears leak down his face and choke him. They had so much more to live for. The three adjoining graves stare holes into his soul. The names he tried to forget, or to dream back into reality hitting him like a punch to the gut.
Phil, Technoblade and Wilbur Soot.
He falls to his knees.