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If Tommy imagined hard enough, he could feel a refreshing breeze gently cupping his cheeks.
Time was weird in limbo. Was it still the chilly Winter, just like back when he was last alive in L’Manburg? Was his home still as cold as the snow of Tubbo’s and Ranboo’s Snowchester (ignoring the fact that he spent some of his warmest days there)?
Or was it Spring now?
Tommy missed Spring. He missed his dirt hut and his flowers planted around it. He missed the alliums Ranboo picked up for him, he missed its purple shade that would glisten like a gem under the warm sun. He missed sitting on the bench with Tubbo and his music disc accompanied the scent of Spring.
He missed the warmth and the sensation of the sun smiling down at him; as if he was one with the sunshine. Wilbur used to say that the light rays that illuminated Tommy’s mop of blonde hair made it look like a halo, like a gremlin disguised as an angel .
Wilbur would say it in the fondest of voices and softest of smiles, so Tommy could do nothing but headbutt him bashfully, angry grumbles spouting from his mouth as his neck grew red in embarrassment. The sun would be setting, the birds chirping a sweet little tune, and the blades of the grass would be tickling his ankles. Wilbur would smile and ruffle his hair roughly, and that was that. He misses it.
Not only Spring, but Tommy misses the feeling of his flowers and vines crawling over his skin, something that has been so ingrained and an integral part of his essence. The ability to fully let himself go, allowing nature to run its course - he has never felt so at peace, surrounded by his friends and family. And when poppies and daffodils and dandelions stem from his feet, Tommy could do nothing and giggle at the ticklish sensation.
Spring was always the best month.
(Tommy doesn’t really want to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, Spring was special because of the people (family) he spent it with. He didn't want to consider that Spring was most, if not all, about spending time with everyone. He refuses to admit it because that would be accepting that Spring would never come back to how it once was. He doesn’t know if he can handle that loss.)
A stark contrast to the joy of Spring though was Tommy's limbo. It remained identical every day, as Tommy stretched out his arms only for them to be swallowed into the endless abyss. No matter how far he walked or how long he ran, his surroundings remained the identical darkness.
Quiet footsteps approached from behind him. Tommy has been here long enough to recognise them as Wilbur’s fleeting footsteps - silent and dainty, a stark change from his heavy footsteps back in Pogtopia.
An exhale.
‘Hey Wil,’ Tommy breathed out.
When Tommy first entered limbo, Wilbur was unnerved at how quiet he was. The boy who hunched over himself, skin splattered with bruises, and neck surrounded in rings of purple was nothing like the golden soldier Wilbur had known. His brother had quickly grown used to his tendency to stay mute and silent.
Like a ghost, Wilbur had gleefully commented on his appearance. He hasn’t used it to describe Tommy again after Tommy looked like he was about to be sick the first time. It was ironic because it made him look even paler (just like a ghost, pale like the mask of-
He stopped his thought process there. It was better not to think about him anymore. Tommy was as safe as he could be, it had been months since his death, and he had finally come to terms that the revival book wasn't real. He doesn’t want to, nor dares to entertain the idea of it any longer. It did give him the smallest of satisfaction, that no matter how hard Dream tried to play god, he was still powerless in the face of life and death.
A heavy arm slung across Tommy's shoulders as he buckled at the sudden weight of his brother, who leaned almost all of his weight on him.
‘What are you pondering in that head of yours, gremlin? I could hear your thoughts from blocks away,’ Wilbur exclaimed, dragging out the end of his sentence in mock annoyance.
Tommy hesitated to the answer, a wary sideways glance at the other's face. It was a neutral expression - the face of a well-rested and no longer as pale stranger compared to the Wilbur he knew back in the ravine. Sometimes staring at Wilbur in limbo was looking at a different man. Except Tommy wasn't fooled that easily. He sees it in the permanent tremor in his brother's hands, the stench of gunpowder that refuses to leave.
Sometimes when Tommy is desperate for some warmth and holds onto Wilbur’s hands, he can feel them tremble. Always trembling and shaking and shivering, as if even if his palms engulfed the entire warmth of the Earth's core, it still wouldn't be enough.
The tremors slow down when Tommy's hands are in his though, he wasn't too sure why.
‘C’mon, tell your big bro,’ Wilbur nudged Tommy with his elbow, whose face quickly shifted into a scowl.
‘Nothing, dickhead,’ he huffed.
A glare was shot in his direction.
Tommy has always been a shit liar, especially to Wilbur, who could spot his cues from miles away.
‘I was…’ he started.
Tommy didn't know how to put his feelings into words.
‘I was just thinking about the over-world again,’ he summarised, ultimately giving up on even attempting to fully describe all of his mixed emotions of love and grief inside him.
Wilbur scoffed.
‘Why? What’s so good about living anyways?’ Wilbur asked, mocking laughter tinged in his voice.
His trench coat fluttered with the abrupt motion as if dragged up by a gust of wind. A twinge echoed in Tommy’s heart.
‘The people out there betrayed you, they left you to rot in prison with Dream!’
Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. He thinks about the emptiness, of the sensation of wrong wrong wrong wrong crawling across his skin where his plants should be. He's cold, but he has nothing to warm him up.
‘What is possibly out there for you that makes you want to go back?’
He thinks of the morning dew, the moss in the woods, the flowers around his house. He thinks of how his own fingertips blossoms with the buttercups that resemble the rays of the sun. Tommy thinks of the warmth of Tubbo and Ranboo’s delighted laughter as wheat shoots up at Tommy's command, thinks of Sam Nook’s chitters, thinks of the once smiling faces of Niki and Jack and Fundy and Techno and-
‘What is there to want to live for?’ Wilbur gleamed.
Here, none of his plants could grow.
In the absence of Tommy’s response to Wilbur, if you strained your ears hard enough, you could hear the crack and mourning of a young soldier.
‘You don’t understand,’ Tommy exploded. He could feel tears drip down his face, could feel the moisture and wetness gathering in his eyes. What good is water if there are no plants for him to use it for? What good is Tommy if he couldn't flower his plants? Tommy lifted a hand to wipe at his tears, yet he wasn't able to see a thing because all he sees is fucking darkness and emptiness and he is so sick of it.
Wilbur quietened.
‘I don’t care if you think it's childish or immature, or if you think I’m throwing a goddamn temper tantrum,’ Tommy’s speech got progressively slurred as if his thoughts could no longer catch up to his mind. His hands came up to roughly grip and pull at his curls, the sharp pain grounding him with every tug.
Tubbo has always called him explosive, hot-headed - a stark contrast to the calming greenery he grows. A walking contradiction , his best friend had dubbed him fondly. Yet, now with the best parts of Tommy stripped away and gone, lost to the limbo, what good is Tommy?
His eyes were too watery to notice the slight twitch in Wilbur’s hand, who looked like he wanted to do nothing but grip Tommy's own hands and hold him safe. A pained expression darted across the older's face before it was schooled to a neutral, blank canvas.
Wilbur remained silent and still.
And Tommy should relish this moment. This moment where perhaps his brother will finally listen and hear him. Wilbur - whose tongue could spur up the sharpest and smoothest of words, whose voice could command an army of thousands - was finally listening to him. He could say so much, so so much.
Why did you have to do it? I trusted you, we all trusted you.
Were we not enough? Was I not enough?
Why wasn’t I enough? What could I have done more, how could I have helped you?
And perhaps, the question that was just dying to jump off the tip of Tommy’s tongue,
Why did you have to leave me?
However, all he could utter was a broken, cracked garble of,
‘I miss Spring.’
At that, Wilbur let out a breath so deep from his ribs that it felt as if it was going to swallow Tommy whole.
Once upon a time, Wilbur could read Tommy like a book. They knew each other like the back of their hands and it was a comforting thing; to have someone that loved and understood you so viscerally. It was as if, in any situation where Wilbur and Tommy separated, they would always find a way back to each other, in life or after death (Isn’t that ironic?). It was annoying at times when all Tommy wanted to do was to hide and skip rocks across the lake, yet Wilbur would be sitting behind the big oak tree right beside the river bed. A persistent rock that dragged Tommy out even during his darkest days when all he wanted to do was hide and sleep.
A quiet but steady presence that irked him as much as he craved it.
That was back in Spring, when the river wasn’t frozen and the birds still chirped.
Now though, Wilbur and Tommy were strangers just as much as they are family.
Tommy doesn’t think he can (or wants to) recognise this man in front of him as his brother in arms that took care of him and showed him the joy of living. His thoughts were confirmed when these words slipped from Wilbur’s lips,
‘What’s so good about Spring?’
Hot, burning anger flooded through every vein of Tommy’s body as he felt his cheeks become red and flushed. What’s so good about Spring? What’s so good about Spring?
Tommy thinks about the liberating freedom he feels whenever his plants sprout from his fingertips, flourishing under the warm light of the Spring sun. He thinks about the laughter and shrieks and the morning dew and sunlight weaving through the leaves. He thinks about how he can let loose and laugh as loudly as he desires, without a single fear and paranoia of masks and explosions and withers.
Spring was love and safety wrapped together, and how dare Wilbur question Spring? How dare he?
But just like that, the anger fizzled out, replacing his body with a tired, empty husk.
He was tired.
Tommy was so tired.
Wilbur didn’t even look smug; his face was blank, a confused lilt in his eyebrows with a frown across his face. Genuine bafflement darted across him, and Tommy couldn’t even tell if that was worse.
He was too tired.
He doesn't want to explain anything or talk anymore. He would rather fester in his dark silence than open his mouth and spill his guts, only to have it stepped on and crushed.
‘Forget it,’ he scoffed.
Tommy turned away and was about to leave before a rough hand gently grabbed his arm and halted him in his movements. Before the familiar curl of irritation could lick at his fingertips, Wilbur opened his mouth and repeated,
‘What’s so good about Spring?’
There was a frustrated tone that coated his brother’s words.
Oh.
He turned back around to face Wilbur. Tommy scanned his brother’s face - the twitch in his left eyebrow, the side of his mouth curled ever so slightly down, a spot of blood on Wilbur’s dried lips because he never got out of the habit of biting them when anxious.
Tommy liked to boast that Wilbur no longer knew each nook and cranny of him anymore. He had forgotten that he also could no longer read Wilbur as well as he did before. Wilbur’s grip tightened, his hands trembling gently - tight with a sick sort of desperation, yet loose enough that Tommy could easily slip away and leave this conversation for another day.
He thinks of the darkness, the loneliness, the cold, the absence of his plants and the growing itch of wanting to bloom something , anything.
A cry tore out from his throat.
‘I’m just tired of seeing nothing but the dark, Wil’ Tommy sobs.
A trembling hand reached out, and a twinning, shivering hand tightly grabbed onto a dirtied, burnt brown trench coat. Two once-brothers and still-brothers stood in silence, wrapped in each other’s arms.
It was hard to grasp the concept of days passing in limbo, but if he had to hazard a guess, Tommy thinks it was just a few days after his death and arrival into the Afterlife. He and Wilbur were lying on the ground, a companionable silence shared between them as they stared listlessly. If they were alive, they would have admired the sky and commented on what shapes each floating clouds were.
Now though, darkness was all he had.
‘You know what I see, Tommy?’ Wilbur asked, a pained wistfulness in his voice as he broke the silence.
‘What?’ Tommy questioned, his mind returning from its previous fuzzy dissociative state.
‘A train station.’
A curious glance, as Tommy watched Wilbur stare back at him with an indecipherable expression.
‘That's where I saw you the first time. You, limping and bloody and bruised, wobbling down the train onto my neverending platform.’
Tommy’s arms unconsciously curled around himself, trying to savour a drop of warmth at the sudden drop in temperature.
‘I’ve seen you many times in my limbo, a passing glance through the windows of the train that zoom past me, never allowing me to get on.’
A pained smile.
‘I tried, I really did try. I bashed at the doors, tried to pull it off the hinges, yelling out yours and everyone else’s names. The train would take off before I even made a dent on that thing.’
Wilbur swallowed, taking a breath in the middle of his ramble. Tommy responded with a hum, an indication that he was following. He wanted to ask if he was happy Tommy was dead, that he had come back to him instead of Wilbur having to find him.
Tommy debated against it though, he supposed that wasn’t really a fair question.
‘That day was the first time I saw you get off the train. Before you were always seated, nonchalant, staring ahead at nothing,’ Wilbur continued.
‘But that day, you got off that train.
That’s how I knew you were dead.’
The crack in his voice told Tommy enough, he thinks.
Tommy was aggressively rubbing his nose, sniffling back his tears as he looked away at Wilbur’s concerned expression, embarrassed. A thoughtful silence descended above the two.
‘So, Spring, huh?’ Wilbur tentatively asked, as if he was still wary of Tommy's outburst earlier today. He grumbled in slight self-consciousness, before nodding his head in assent.
‘Yup.’
Wilbur snorted before roughly shoving Tommy’s shoulder, a cackle escaping from the both of them. Before Tommy could retaliate, coarse hands started stroking his hair before heavily ruffling it.
Once upon a time, during a Spring day, Wilbur had said with a laugh,
‘Don’t you think your hair’s a lot like the colour of the sun, Tommy? Soft like newly mowed grass too,’ an undeniable fond glint twinkling in his eye.
Wilbur specialised in words and relished in his sharp tongue and dialogue. Yet even without them, Tommy had heard his message loud and clear that day.
You, you are the world.
A fuzzy feeling had erupted within him, a grin stretching across his face.
Don’t forget that .
‘I guess I do miss your plants, though,’ Wilbur whispered now, but the message was the same as back then ( You. You are the world ). For as much as Wilbur liked to talk and hear his own voice, his love was silent and woven between them.
‘Fuck off,’ he mumbled, heat spreading across his cheeks to his ears.
‘Prick,’ Wilbur replied fondly.
‘I do, though. What was that pretty and dainty white flower you grew for my birthday?’ Wilbur mulled it over, his fingers clicking in frustration as he scanned his memory for it.
‘Lily of the valley,’ Tommy responded in kind, flattered and not at all bashful that Wilbur had remembered his plants.
‘Aha, that’s the one!’ he exclaimed back in joy as Tommy let out a chuckle.
‘I loved that one, it was gorgeous,’ Wilbur exhaled, content.
‘You cried so hard when it died after a few days because you forgot to water it,’ Tommy deadpanned, the vivid memory echoing in his brain at how distraught his older brother had been. Wilbur had apologised profusely after forgetting to water it, citing that he had too many tasks and had just been too busy that it slipped his mind. Tommy hadn't minded that much, though, since he liked giving people he loved flowers.
It filled him with a sick sense of bubbly joy, as if the only way to encompass all of his love was to give people a part of Tommy himself. A young boy who had love bigger than he could carry, and the only way he could show it was to give all the beauty he could offer.
Tommy had quickly planted the same lily the next day, just to see Wilbur’s dazzling smile.
‘I remember no such thing,’ Wilbur sniffled, a hidden grin dotting his face.
Tommy's beam stretched so wide that his cheeks were starting to ache.
It wasn’t quite healing nor forgiveness, nowhere close. There were too much hurt and pain and unspoken secrets and lashed out words between the two brothers for them to bounce back so soon. It was more like taking a brave step into the dark - lost and unknown whether it was the right direction, but a step forward nonetheless.
Wilbur’s hands absently rubbed across Tommy’s boney knuckles, the once pale skin splattered with fading blue and green bruises. It was a welcomed gentleness.
‘I don’t really get it, missing Spring,’ Wilbur said with a sigh.
Tommy shrugged, ready to move on from this conversation. He didn't expect Wilbur to understand, not really. Tommy was nature’s favourite as much as how Wilbur was one to stay indoors, surrounded by his guitar and music sheets and manuscripts and books.
Yet, something about Wilbur’s voice made Tommy hesitate.
Because as much as they have grown together separately, and as much time they have spent apart, that hint of wonder did not go undetected. Tommy raised his eyebrows, a disbelieving hum escaping his lips before he muffled it.
‘But,’ Wilbur continued.
‘If it’s something you love, I guess I will love it all the same.’
‘Then why did you blow up L’Manburg?’
Tommy winced and forced his eyes shut, his brain berating him for his stupidity. He had thought that he would grow out of his habit of impulsively saying whatever comes to mind, but guess death couldn't even change that. He really did not want to ruin the tentative peace between the two of them, Tommy wants to preserve this fragility for just a little longer.
Wilbur didn’t appear to be offended though. In fact, he just looked a little surprised at the sudden change of topic.
‘Is this really a conversation you want to have right now?’ he responded, curious and genuine.
Tommy pondered for a second, and shook his head.
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘Not if you’re going to tell me some answer that will make me mad at you.’
Wilbur shut his mouth, and silence descended upon the two again. It was a familiar yet strange feeling. Most often than not, the two would always spend their time with either or both of them talking. Whether it was about what Tubbo and Tommy had done that day, or about the new songs Wilbur was writing, their moments were often filled with the voices of one another. On the rare occasions of silence, it was peaceful.
Quiet but calming; bathing in the comfort and presence of one another.
This silence was anything but.
It was awkward, with remnants of tension floating in the air from the argument the two had earlier.
‘...do you think you can grow me mushrooms since there is no light?’
‘Shut the fuck up right now-’
‘Have you tried imagining anything different?’ Wilbur questioned, sneaking up behind Tommy as he placed a steady palm on the younger’s shoulder.
A groan.
‘Wilbur, man, just drop it.’ Shame and anger threatened to burst out of Tommy, helplessness tearing at his limbs. He wanted nothing more to open his skin and watch the roots of a seedling take place and bloom, to let his plants take over him like a wave.
He wanted Spring so much, but it was far out of his reach - what is the point of adding salt onto an open, gaping wound? What is the point of yearning for the unattainable?
‘Tommy, you prick listen to me,
Death isn’t meant to be cruel. At least, it doesn’t have to be cruel.’
Tommy can’t help but think his brother is full of shit. He proceeded to say so to Wilbur, who only scowled and shook his head, before continuing his monologue.
‘Death is beautiful, and most of all, Death is kind.’
Unconsciously, the images of a familiar dark-haired woman dressed in gowns that resembled the stars flashed in his mind before they quickly faded away.
Tommy blinked rapidly. She oddly looked like Wilbur, with the same mop of brown hair and a serene look that the older had lost long ago.
‘Take MD for example,’ an unfamiliar excitement growing in Wilbur’s voice brought Tommy back to the conversation.
‘MD's limbo is a convenience store, right? Who is to say limbo has to hurt?’
‘Wil-’
‘There must be a way to change limbo for you, there must be!’
‘Wilbur-’
‘Quick, we can go ask Schlatt and MD or maybe even Kristin? I’m not sure if I can summon Kristin though, she was the one that came to visit last time-’
‘Wilbur.’
‘Tommy, don't you think you deserve Spring?’
Tommy stopped in his steps, his mouth wide open and frozen in shock. It was a foreign thought that he never dared to delve into, the question of what he deserves. Because Tommy doesn’t know. When his world was black and white and he was looking from the view of a ten-year-old child, Tommy would have easily said many things. He deserved to play Wilbur’s guitar, to try on his brother’s glasses, to hang out with Tubbo, to climb the tall oak tree behind their house. The old Tommy may have been annoying and childish (as if he wasn't still), but he was good and kind (he doesn't know if that was the case anymore).
‘Don’t ask me stupid questions, dickhead’ he spat out.
Tommy wanted a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean he deserved them. That’s what Dream had said, back in exile. All he did was want and steal and take, but he had never paused to consider whether he had earned it, if Tommy should have it. Tommy wanted his Spring back and his plants and his own little greenhouse, but maybe it was taken away because he didn’t deserve them?
That’s why Dream exploded his things at Logstedshire, right?
Tommy had to be taught a lesson. Tommy doesn't deserve Spring, he doesn't deserve the grass and vines and plants and moss and dandelions sprouting from his skin. He doesn't deserve it, he doesn’t deserve anything-
‘Tommy.’
He jolted, as Wilbur’s gaze appeared in his vision. His brother’s eyes were oddly glassy, slightly red around their edges, and wide open.
‘Tommy,’ he repeated, a hand hovering across Tommy’s cheeks. Wilbur’s fingers thumbed at the teardrops that were falling from his cheeks. He didn’t even notice when he had started to rain.
‘Out of all the people, don’t you think you deserve some kindness, Tommy?’
‘Okay, okay,’ Tommy hyped himself up, pacing back and forth.
Wilbur chuckled beside him, watching the younger fondly as he bounced around nervously.
It has been, what, the fourth or fifth day trying to conjure up something within his limbo? Tommy was starting to gradually lose hope, if not for Wilbur bugging him every single day to try it out. Tommy couldn’t say no, not when he himself wants this so badly too.
Yet, Tommy felt like he was going to cry, an incomprehensible whine escaping his tightly squeezed lips.
He doesn’t know if he can handle the disappointment of opening his eyes again, only to see the eternal span of darkness and void.
Wilbur’s hand was burning in his palm, as Tommy inhaled and closed his eyes. A steady, silent presence that anchors him wherever and whenever; from spring to summer to autumn to winter. Although Spring was temporary, coming and going, Wilbur was permanent.
He loved and wanted nothing more than to spend Spring with his older brother.
It was silent, and Tommy remained still for what felt like hours and hours, stiffness entering his knee. Rapid memories of years and years of happiness and family recycled in his mind, focusing on the slightly humid Spring air and the buzzing of life.
Anything , Tommy begged. Give me anything.
And when the heat of a warm spring breeze, he couldn’t hold in his sobs anymore.
He did it, he can feel the remnants of Spring again.
Flashes of green and warmth circulate in perfect harmony in his mind, and he eagerly opened his eyes to turn around and face Wilbur in excitement.
Except his brother wasn’t there anymore.
‘Wilbur?’ Tommy let out a terrified whisper.
Everything around him was dark - just like limbo. Except there was warmth now, he was one step closer to Spring and he wants to tell Wilbur but where was he?
A smooth chuckle reached his ears as shivers went down his spine - it was a familiar, clear voice that was decidedly not Wilbur’s. It hadn’t clocked in Tommy’s mind yet whose laugh it was, too shocked at the sudden disappearance of his brother and the now unbearing surge of heat. Tingles danced across all inches of his body, plants bursting at the seams to flourish across Tommy’s skin now that finally, finally, he got a sense of light back.
Spring was never this fiercely hot, Spring was warm, Spring was-
‘Tommy?’ a white porcelain mask questioned as it entered his vision, breaking his spiral.
A beat of silence.
Oh.
The dark walls of the obsidian prison and the blistering lava registered in his brain like a trainwreck, vines uncontrollably sprouting from Tommy’s fingers.
Spring; the season of rebirth.
The dark walls encased him just like how limbo did, but there was none of Wilbur’s singing and Mexican Dream’s laughter and Ghost-Schlatt’s dry remarks.
Beside him, flowers of all kinds; daffodils, chrysanthemum, marigolds, black roses, grew from all the crevices within his skin, as if Tommy was being strangled by himself, desperate for light and heat.
It was quite fitting, as it felt like he couldn’t breathe in this moment.
(Was it because of the overwhelming fear from seeing Dream again, or the suffocating grip of the prison room - he doesn't know.)
A cackle, a burst of hysterical laughter escaped from Dream who stood in front of him, his body bending in half as he choked and giggled.
(He wanted Wilbur, or Tubbo or Ranboo or Puffy, or Sam. Someone , please.)
The monster in front of him spread out his arms, oddly reminiscent of the wings of an all-encompassing bird. Tommy could hear the joy in his voice when Dream sang,
‘Welcome back.’
Tommy had dreamt of Spring, of rebirth, of a new beginning for so long. Yet, he had forgotten the most basic principle of life and its end and everything in between.
For, what is Spring, without death?