Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day is rather hot but despite that, Tubbo decides to pull them outside. In Tommy’s considered opinion, this is perhaps the worst fucking thing his friend has ever done to him.

They’re out in the garden behind Tubbo and Ranboo’s mansion. The heat beats down on their heads like weights of stone upon bending scaffolding wood. Soggy snow has crawled its way from Snowchester to the land’s borders in dwindling amounts with only the sun above seeming to ward it away. It’s made the soil rather loose and amenable. Perfect for gardening endeavours, according to Tubbo.

“You’ll barely have to do any work at all,” Tubbo had added, pulling Tommy out of his room by the sleeve. Tommy had protested like all fuck, but he didn’t stand a chance; his friend has always been stronger, the arsehole. “Plus, you’re inside all day so you’re pale and weak. It’s time to tan.”

Tommy had scowled. “Piss off, Tubbo!”

But Tubbo did not.

And now Tommy’s shovelling dirt into piles.

“You know,” Tommy says, grunting as the shovel’s blade gets stuck into a hard part of the ground, “when my blood pressure drops, you’re gonna really fucking regret putting me through this child abuse.”

Tubbo hums. He’s beside him, digging individual holes in a well-spread pattern. Sweat clings to him, but Tubbo doesn’t seem to mind at all. He does rather well with manual labour. So unlike himself.

“I dunno why you’re complaining,” he says. “All this shovelling will help with muscles. Besides, you were literally saying how you wanted oranges like the other week.”

Tommy pulls a face. “You aren’t doing this for me, though. Why do we need so fucking many?”

It’s a valid question. Tubbo hasn’t really explained why beyond a vague implication of a new recipe for his restaurant, ordered by Quackity. It’s a dessert, he had said, and there isn’t a lot of space in Las Nevadas for oranges just yet. So, their home would have to do.

Not that Tommy minds oranges—he’s a big fan, actually—but the entire thing is rather tedious. Fucking odd too, though Tommy can’t be one to speak. He, with his restless impulsivity and unpredictable plans, doesn’t really have a place to judge from.

Tubbo flicks some dirt at him.

“Easy production,” he tells him. “With this, my chickens, and sugarcane farm, I’ll be so stocked up on ingredients that it’ll totally beat Wilbur’s dumb van.”

Ah yes. The van. Tommy rolls his eyes but doesn’t say a word. He just pulls his shovel from the ground, his mind going weirdly numb. He’s almost forgotten about Wilbur’s van—that stupid thing he has with Ranboo because Ranboo is kind and naive and all things he and Wilbur are not.

He tries not to think about it. Lately, Tommy hasn’t been talking to Wilbur, but maybe it still hurts nonetheless. Because Ranboo hasn’t been telling him really anything these days either, and Tommy literally babysits his son. It all feels like a betrayal, but Tommy tries to tell himself it’s not so. He’s the one who betrays, not Ranboo. Ranboo doesn’t know anything about that. He wasn’t built wrong.

And yet every time Ranboo mentions Wilbur, Tommy feels like he might as well just spit in his face.

Tubbo stands. “Almost done,” he says.

Tommy watches as Tubbo purses his lips in thought, eyes tracing the holes lining their garden. They’re mostly straight. Tommy’s are a little messy and shallow because he’s new at this, but they’re done well enough to where the trees won’t suffer for it.

Tubbo holds out his hand as if to calculate how many more oranges they need to plant.

“We could have found literally anyone else to do this for us,” Tommy says. “I know your husband is a fucking billionare.”

Tubbo scoffs. “Aren’t you a billionaire?”

“Only when it matters. It’s a nine to five job and I’m off right now.” Tommy sticks his shovel into the dirt and then perks up with an idea. “Ooh. Let’s fuckin’ hire someone and invoice Ranboo for it.”

“But capitalism though.”

“Scam them.”

Tubbo clicks his teeth and shrugs with an easy grin. “Nope.”

“Tubbo, man, I’m fucking tired,” Tommy says, wiping his sweaty wrist on his shirt. “It’s hot as balls out here. C’mon.”

“What? No—think about the trees,” Tubbo insists. “Once they grow, we’ll have shade. And we can literally just chill out here! I bet the bees will like it, too.”

Tommy resists the urge to smile. When Tubbo talks about trees and bees and plants like that, he takes to rocking on his heels, shovel digging into the soil with this newly found vigour.

“Bees are hibernating right now,” he says

“Not for long they won’t be,” says Tubbo. “We’ll have honey soon.”

Tubbo and his bees. Tommy sighs. “Don’t bees need flowers and shit? For pollen?”

“They like it when the trees bloom,” says Tubbo. He bats some of his outgrown hair away from his eyes and Tommy pauses. He didn’t know orange trees grew flowers— “Oh, and we can make orange honey!” chimes Tubbo. “Everything should bloom around spring, I reckon.”

Tommy nods. Sometimes it’s nice being out here with Tubbo. Because more often than not his days are all fucked up and it’s hard to remember a thing. Not because he’s dumb or stupid, but because this entire life thing feels like he’s still limbo-ing it up. Like he’s sleep-walking and talking to ghosts. But Tubbo’s little quirks make it all feel real. Like he’s sober again.

And wow, look—there’s this thing in Tommy's chest. There’s this warm and twisting and kind thing growing within this chilled coffin his body likes to make itself sometimes. Only now that he’s noticed it, it’s destined to become a fleeting thing. Tommy peers up at the sky.

“Long way, innit,” he says. And then he’s furrowing his eyebrows, turning back to all the dug holes. “What are we gonna do with all the extra oranges?”

Because they have over a hundred holes.

“Orange business,” says Tubbo, snapping his fingers. “We make oranges and then we sell them to the people.”

“Nobody wants to buy oranges.”

“Sure they do. We can grow them and then we can…”

Tubbo stops, his smile frozen on his face. He seems confused for a moment, like he’s trying to grasp at some sort of idea to pull from thin air. Tommy would feel bad for him, but he understands how Tubbo feels. He’s been the same a lot recently. It’s hard to play along to the beats of a melody they can’t really remember anymore.

At least they’re trying, he thinks.

“We’ll make a moat around Eret’s castle out of orange juice,” offers Tommy. “It’ll be a great way to get people to your business! They won’t get enough of the juice!”

“Drug it up!” adds Tubbo, nodding furiously. “We’ll drug it up and get them addicted!”

“Yeah, and then they’ll have to come over and—and…”

There it is again. The forgetfulness.

How does this song go?

Tommy scowls, his mood suddenly soured.

“And they throw all their money at us,” tries Tubbo.

“So now you’re capitalist,” Tommy snarks. Tubbo makes a noise. Tommy huffs and scrubs at his face with a dirty hand. He’s tired, he thinks. He’s not used to working outside—not like before. Sometimes it feels like he’ll never be at his peak again.

“We’re going to have bonemeal grinding,” says Tubbo. Tommy’s posture slumps. He definitely doesn’t wanna do that.

“Get Ranboo to get it for you. I’m sure he has some.”

“Ranboo is doing van stuff. He can’t know about the trees. It’s our secret little thing.”

“Wh—” Tommy starts. His eyes squint. “Aye? Is this a little bee boy mission I hear?”

“Mhm. It’s a bee boy and b—” Tubbo pauses in thought. “Bee boy and Buddy Grove.”

“Not Bee Boys?” Because it’s plural.

Tubbo shakes his head. “You’re not a bee boy.”

Tommy scowls. What the hell—

“Fuck this. I’m tired,” he says. “I’m gonna go sleep or something.”

“What? But we—how are we gonna make our orange moat?”

Tommy shakes his head. This isn’t fun. Their fucking groove is off and it’s almost like they aren’t cut out for this type of shit anymore. It doesn’t sound too crazy. Because Tommy remembers Dream had said something like that before, and while he likes to take everything that fucker says with a grain of salt, it’s not like Dream is a liar about everything. Dream had a point when he said he wasn’t the same little Tommy who burned down houses.

“And you’re not as fucking annoying, too,” Dream had said. He was making an origami cat then. Dream liked his origami. “You’re better when you’re not talking so much, you know?”

“Kill yourself,” Tommy had spat because he was sort of in denial, but Dream had glared at him and after Tommy apologized, Dream had smiled. And it felt like he had a point.

Though, Tommy tries not to think that way anymore. Sometimes he does that and he thinks he’s so much like Wilbur. Wilbur likes to dwell on the past and then claim he’s not even though everyone knows that’s not true. Tommy really hopes he never ends up like him.

With the help of his boot, Tubbo digs his shovel into the ground.

“We’re almost there, you know,” he says. “Come on.”

“No,” Tommy huffs. “No we fucking aren’t.” He motions his hand around at the many undug spots around them. “There are like 50 holes left! What the hell?”

“Just keep digging,” groans Tubbo. Tommy fixes a glare at him, but Tubbo doesn’t say anything, and just keeps going. “You’re so lame.”

Tommy slowly exhales. He has half a mind to keep protesting standing outside in the rancid temperature, but he practices restraint. He literally lives in Tubbo’s fucking house so he doesn’t really think he has a fighting fucking chance. And if he gives it a thought for truly more than a second, in any situation where he abandons this project, he just looks like a dick. Tommy isn’t trying to be like that anymore.

And either way, Tommy doesn’t really mean it. He doesn’t think he’s capable of saying no to Tubbo with complete sincerity anyways. Maybe that’s his own issues getting in the way of things, but Tubbo isn’t someone he feels comfortable taking advantage of. He’s no fucking Sam or Jack in that regard.

Plus, if Tommy complains about it now and means it, he’s just like—

Wilbur towering over him. Tommy startles.

“You think you deserve something because you decided to get me stone?” Wilbur snaps.

Tommy swallows. “You asked.”

“You didn’t have to,” jeers Wilbur. “I asked and you said yes. I don’t owe you something in return for that.”

And he’s right. Wilbur is still right.

So, Tommy sighs and picks up his shovel. Tubbo is grinning as he does so.

It’s days before the plan to kill Dream. It feels like it happened long ago, but that’s only because time in limbo lasted so long. Either way, this is the clearest memory:

Tubbo is wrapping his arms around his legs. He’s at Tommy’s house, sitting near the pond as Michael—his son—splashes in the water. He’s a cute little thing—annoying, but Tommy is fond of him. He’s like Henry, in a lot of ways.

Not that Michael is a cow, per se, but more because Tommy can look at their faces and see the good in them. There’s something about certain creatures that reveal their innocence. Tommy misses that. Tubbo used to have that look.

They’re on the grass, eating burnt slices of pie. Tubbo’s all curled up on a towel, in think mode. He’s been doing that a lot since Tommy unveiled his plan to kill Dream. He knows Tubbo isn’t all on board but he stays on the ride to support him anyway. He hovers around while Tommy builds their watchtower. Like a good friend, Tommy thinks. So unlike himself.

“Hey,” Tubbo says. His voice is a whisper. He swallows a piece of his pie. “Hey, it’s been kinda quiet lately.”

“Yeah?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’m used to it.”

“Well,” Tommy says, and he thinks about it for two seconds, before the thought seizes him— “Dream isn’t around to cause shit.”

Tubbo frowns. Tommy tries not to feel hurt by the reaction. He knows he’s been a one-note siren lately, releasing constant barrages of “Dream this” and “Dream that” that have probably tired Tubbo and Ranboo, but Tommy can’t stop this pattern any more than they can help listen.

Because there’s something that’s happened to him in prison that he doesn’t know to address. Because it’s like it's moulded him into a different creature entirely. It’s like it’s taken something from him and left him with nothing but instincts alone, defined by a human’s foundational emotions—fear and anger. Sometimes Tommy doesn’t know who’s caused which. Is Dream anger? Tommy wonders. Or is it Wilbur? And does Tommy fear Wilbur more? Or does he fear Dream?

He isn’t sure. But what he is sure of is that this is what animals resort to when they’re backed into a corner. Because those are the fucking coinciding feelings that call for help and fight and claw and scream. Those are the fucking feelings that Wilbur clung so harshly to in his final moments, and similarly, so did Tommy as Dream caved his skull in. So these things? They don’t leave.

And maybe that’s why everyone hates Wilbur so, Tommy thinks. Because his humanity was so fucking raw and pathetic it made them uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why Tubbo and Ranboo are starting to look at him oddly too.

“It’s not just that,” Tubbo eventually says. He’s pursing his lips, eyebrows furrowing like he’s in deep thought. “It’s like—well, nobody is super into fights anymore.” He smiles a little. “Ranboo is happier. Badboyhalo and everyone seem like they’re, I dunno, not pissed.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and this is too fucking easy— “'cause Dream is gone.”

“Sure, I guess,” Tubbo says, “but Dream isn’t the only reason the server was a mess.”

And Tommy knows. He knows all too well that isn’t the only reason. Because Tommy himself isn’t doing anything crazy these days either. Neither is Wilbur because he’s dead. The worst people on the server can’t do anything anymore and it’s quiet. As it should be.

Tubbo sighs. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

Tommy mulls over this. Slowly, his gaze wanders over to the prison in the midst of the water despite not wanting to. Its large silhouette looms in the distance and presents itself as the monolith of his supposed security. Nowadays, Tommy will wake up sometimes and not feel like he’s drowning. Maybe that is kinda nice.

“I guess,” he replies. His eyes then flicker to the prison’s entrance. He’s paranoid, he thinks, because he feels like the fucking building is looking right back at him. Like there are a million little fuckin’ eyes all watching him the way Dream used to do when Tommy thought that guy was his fucking friend.

He shivers. Dream is gone, it’s true, and it should be great, but Tommy’s smile doesn’t feel any more real than it used to when he only reached Wilbur’s shoulder. His love, too, hasn’t been swept away either—it still lies there, locked up in Dream’s palm the way it always has been.

And because of him, Tommy doesn’t think he’ll ever remember how it feels to be normal. He doesn’t remember much at all these days. Who he is, where he is—he’s dazy and disoriented. Gone, and growing further and further away. So much like Tubbo before exile. So much like Philza after Tommy turned five.

Tommy suddenly exhales angrily. “Fuck Dream,” he spits. “I hope he rots. I hope he dies and chokes on his fucking revival book.”

Tubbo hums. Like he almost doesn’t agree. Or, like he agrees so much that he doesn’t know what else to say. Because the conversation ends there, truly. It’s an ending with a nice bow at the top and with the cover all shiny.

“He’s dumb,” Tubbo eventually agrees. He pauses, and then leans backwards, collapsing on Tommy’s lap, which Tommy gives him a surprised squawk for. Tubbo’s bored gaze stares up at him. His horns aren’t long enough to dig into Tommy’s thigh, but they’re almost there. He’s grown up so much, Tommy fondly notes.

“Tired, Tubso?” he asks, setting his pie aside.

“Thinkin’,” Tubbo replies. Tommy studies him.

“About the bitches you got?” he asks, smiling. Tubbo smacks him in the arm.

“You’re so weird,” he complains, but he’s smiling too. He shrugs and then plays with his hands, before settling a gaze on Tommy. He looks nervous, for some reason. It makes Tommy nervous too. “You know—” Tubbo starts. He clears his throat. “You know I’m your friend, right?”

That’s never a good way to start off something. Tommy gives him the benefit of the doubt anyway.

“Besties,” he assures. Tubbo anxiously smiles.

“Besties,” Tubbo echoes. He dips his chin to his chest, and quietly, says. “Look Tommy—maybe we—” he worries at his bottom lip. “Don’t be mad. But do you ever think about how we don’t have to kill Dream?”

Tommy blinks.

Traitor, is what he thinks immediately, but he shoves the thought down and takes a deep breath. A wave of anger sparks within and threatens to explode like Wilbur’s TNT, but he’s promised himself to be better about stuff like this with Tubbo. He’s no longer what he used to be. He can be better than the monsters that have marked his mind. He can still be what Tubbo deserves in a friend.

But he doesn’t understand how Tubbo can just act like this isn’t a big deal. Tommy knows Tubbo understands what’s happened to him. He also knows Tubbo has gone through his own shitstorm, but Tubbo must get how the prison’s fucked him up, right? Tubbo is weighed by things, but Tommy is the weight himself. He’s pulled this way and that by other people and behaves to get the kick out of life he’s never known before. That’s obvious enough, he thinks. But this whole kill Dream thing, that isn’t for kicks. It’s not for the fun of it. It’s something so much more. Because as long as Dream exists, Tommy thinks he’ll always feel like—well, he doesn’t know. Like a used child? Like a piece of rubbish?

Tubbo fidgets.

“I don’t—” Tommy says after a while. He tries to calm down. “I don’t know how you could just say that.”

“I—well…” Tubbo furrows his eyebrows. He pulls away from him. “Ranboo said—”

“Ranboo doesn’t know what he did to us,” Tommy says, eyes wide as he leans forward. He shakes his head and ignores the way Michael the pig worriedly snorts from the pond. “Look, you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want, but I am gonna kill Dream. That fucker is going down.”

For closure, he remembers. It’s for closure.

“It’s not gonna change anything, though,” Tubbo whispers. Tommy shakes his head.

“I have to. have to, Tubbo.”

“I know,” Tubbo says quietly. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Then why?”

Tommy doesn’t really know why he even asked. He already knows the answer.

“I’m kinda tired of scheming and starting shit and killing,” Tubbo mumbles. He stares up at Tommy and crosses his arms. “I dunno—maybe we don’t need to do this to move on.”

Tommy pushes Tubbo off him. “Dream didn’t fuckin’ murder you, Tubbo.”

Tubbo inhales. “Well, that’s not—”

“He didn’t beat you over and over again and-and bring you back to life, Tubbo,” Tommy snaps. He moves away, and suddenly, this thing takes hold of him, this thing that makes him want to plead and cry for understanding. Because he isn’t crazy—he’s not. Tubbo can’t look like that at him, of all people. Ranboo? Sure. Philza? Sure. But not him. Tubbo is the only person left who can understand. “He didn’t taunt you,” he continues, “or fucking—force you to throw shit into holes and isolate and fuckin’ mess—fuckin’ gaslight you and laugh when you fucking cried at him or make you think he was your broth—friend when he really wasn’t and acted like he liked you—like-like he could have loved you when—”

Stop. Stop it, Tommyinnit—

“Okay,” Tubbo says. Tommy blinks, and turns towards him, releasing his breath. The grip on his arms is tight. Almost bruising. “Okay, I just—I get it, Tommy. I get it. It’s okay.”

Tommy nods. He breathes and tries to calm down and not feel ashamed. Stupid shit has happened to him and he’s embarrassed and he’s alone. And Tubbo, despite claiming otherwise, won’t ever get it. Not really. Maybe Tommy wishes he does, but he thinks that he’s the only person on the server who deserves this fucked up shit that’s happened to him. But Wilbur always did say he had a victim complex.

Las Nevadas is reaching noon by the time they get to Tubburger. Tubbo throws a coke at him from the back, and Tommy presses the cold can against his head since he’s exhausted and overheated. This is a habit of theirs now.

Because apparently, orange groves take days to work on. It’s not just a plant-and-go situation like he thought. There needs to be an irrigation system and a sunroof over it, not that Tommy thinks it’s necessary, but Tubbo had insisted. Snowchester is too inflexible, he had said. Too cold. There needs to be insurance the trees won’t just die after a bit of small wind passes by.

It’s dumb shit.

“You should have planted them somewhere fuckin’ else, man,” says Tommy, draping himself over the bar’s cool surface. He tries his hand at opening his can, but Tubbo snatches it away from him before he’s successful. “Hey!”

“It’s gonna explode,” Tubbo deadpans, and slides another can towards him. “Also, I don’t want somewhere else. Snowchester is mine so they’re safer there.”

Tommy exhales loudly, taking a sip from his coke. Alright, well Tubbo isn’t necessarily wrong. Snowchester isn’t anything big or special but it’s sort of protected land, in a way. No one has a quarrel with it the way they might with Phil and Techno’s land or the Badlands or something. Tubbo doesn’t bother people, so it just is. Maybe that’s why Tommy feels safer there.

It’s sort of like L'manburg in that way. The architecture reminds him of this soft, childish feeling their old country had. Sometimes home just feels like home regardless of how awful or messy the place is. Like, he can step into the ugliest fucking room and feel like this is where he belongs. That’s what L’manburg felt like. That’s what Snowchester feels like sometimes, too. ‘Cause in those moments when he watches Tubbo rant about those little things he’s really fucking fond of in their garden, Tommy has this big feeling that screams oh hey, I’m home. It’s a feeling he doesn’t think he’s felt in forever. And it makes him really happy.

“You want a burger?” asks Tubbo.

Tommy sits up, gripping onto his cold coke with quickly numbing fingers as Tubbo fumbles with packaged meat in the back.

“With chips too,” Tommy says. He grins when Tubbo aims an exasperated look his way. “Please.”

“It’ll take thirty,” warns Tubbo. “You could help, you know.”

Tommy laughs. “You’re the one with the job, not me, Tubs.”

Tubbo’s pulling his hair up with a rubber band. Tommy’s own hair used to be similar in length but now he mostly hides it under his hat. The white locks send him into spirals a lot. That’s why he doesn’t have mirrors in his room.

Tubbo’s nose scrunches up. “You don’t pay me for this.”

Tommy gives him a shrug, smug when Tubbo haughtily rips open the bag with gloved hands and red beef falls out of it. Tommy returns to his coke. He knows Tubbo doesn’t care. This whole little dance of theirs is a habit now. Like their new little melody to sway to.

Tommy tries not to feel too giddy about it. He’s not the possessive kind of person, but he’s not so emotionally immature to not realize that he probably enjoys having his own time set aside for Tubbo a bit too much. He’s not sure what Tubbo does with other people, but he finds that he doesn’t concern himself with these thoughts as much now that they have their project together.

It feels like he has a sort of purpose now, and it’s a completely different sensation from before. Because killing Dream was a lot like a flame that refused to be doused, but this? It’s less of a fire and more like a stream and a wheel. Or like wind and a mill.

It’s healthy.

Puffy would be so proud.

“Fuck,” Tubbo says. He slams his beef down and motions at the door with his meat-contaminated hands, a scowl pulling at his mouth. Tommy swerves his head around. Wilbur and Ranboo are approaching. “I should have known they’d—”

“Guten Abend,” cheers Wilbur, sliding through the entrance like some slinky cat. He looks improved, Tommy notes bitterly. His face is shaved and his coat is new—burgundy in colour. And he wears a cravat, too. It reminds Tommy of L’manburg. “Meine Freunde, I—”

“Quackity isn’t here,” Tubbo quickly tells him. Tommy swallows, and averts his gaze, forcing himself to take a sip of his drink. His heart feels like it’s being gripped by calloused fingers all of a sudden. Like they’ve reached down his throat and taken his voice from him and turned it all to stone. He’s underprepared and out-numbered. He didn’t anticipate seeing Wilbur so soon. His memories are too fucking full of snow-covered porches and dull expressions.

(“Fuck you,” Wilbur says. “You’re so fucking—” Wilbur fumbles for a word, “dramatic. Some thespian in training. See, now I see why Dream killed you as much as he did!”)

Ranboo steps in beside his brother. His tail is low, a sign that he’s apprehensive but not yet upset. It’s only when it wags.

“We’re not here for Quackity,” Ranboo says with a smile. “Just wanted to stop by.”

“Oh,” says Tubbo. He regards them coolly and turns back to his beef, mashing into it with excessive force. Ranboo’s smile wavers.

“You-” Tommy starts, tone overly rough, but he stops to clear his throat. He tries again. “You can stay. You can hang. But Wil? He needs to go. We don’t accept bitches here.”

Wilbur’s eyes are suddenly trained on him. His brother’s eyes narrow for just a moment, far too quickly for anyone to notice, but Tommy does. Wilbur has a myriad of fucking fleeting tells Tommy has learned to keep track of the hard way. So he knows Wilbur is vexed.

“It’s not a good business practice to turn away eagerly paying customers,” Wilbur chides. He reaches the bar, ignoring the way Tommy glares at him. “I’ll take a burger.”

“No fucking way.” Tommy bristles. Words can’t describe this fucking fear and confusion rattling him right now. “Get the fuck out—”

“We brought our own,” Ranboo pipes up. He sets two wrapped burgers onto the counter gingerly. “We wanted to see if we could investigate each other’s businesses. Healthily, you know.”

Tommy slams his hand onto the counter. “No. No. Ranboo, you’re—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur warns. Tommy’s mouth snaps shut, and he tenses, anticipating one of Wilbur’s paroxysms of rage but nothing comes. Instead, Wilbur just grabs a burger from Ranboo’s hand and weighs it in his hand. He turns towards Tubbo. “Oi. Heads up.”

The wrapped burger goes flying. Tubbo catches it reflexively. He looks down at the package.

“I don’t want this,” he says dully.

“You don’t have to eat it,” says Ranboo quietly. Wilbur loudly groans.

“What’s Quackity been teaching you?” he incredulously asks. “You’ll never get popular based on location alone. I’m sure your food is well enough Tubbo, but you shan’t fare well without a little competition. Though, you know this already.” Wilbur leans against the back of his chair, an arm sliding around Ranboo’s shoulder amiably. Tommy’s mouth goes dry. Wilbur waves a hand.

“Either way,” he continues, “that doesn’t mean we’re fucking enemies, man. Quackity and I’s tension? That’s us. Adult things. But we normal business people, though—in our ventures, we’ll share secrets all the time! It’s a common practice and quite needed if we want our products to improve. We both require proper feedback from professionals—don’t you agree?”

Ranboo is nodding along. He agrees. Of course he does, Tommy thinks bitterly. Ranboo doesn’t know that Wilbur’s charisma is the worst part of him. Because for all Wilbur rants and waves his hands about, it’s not the dramatics that convinces people, it’s how kindly he’s able to express his spells. It’s how he constructs and weaves his useless words into fact. Tommy isn’t stupid enough to think Wilbur has no plan here. He’s almost hopeful Tubbo will see it too.

But Tubbo is truly considering. He’s shifting on his feet and pursing his lips. Tommy’s grip on his coke can is tight.

“Quackity wouldn’t like it,” he says. Tommy’s head jerks towards him, eyes wide.

“Are you fuckin’ joking?” he snaps. Tubbo uselessly shrugs.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he says. “But Quackity—”

Wilbur leans forward gleefully.

“And here I was under the impression this was your business,” he says.

“I mean, it is,” says Tubbo, hesitating.

“At the end of the day, it’s just eating burgers,” Wilbur reminds him. “Nothing more.”

And finally, Tubbo seems swayed by this. He takes off his gloves and throws them in the sink. Tommy turns away, mind numb.

“So we just eat them and give thoughts and that’s it?” Tubbo asks. Wilbur nods excitedly. “...and you’ll leave after too, right?”

“Cross my heart,” Wilbur hums. Ranboo gathers closer to the bar.

“I made these,” he tries, hopeful. “I’m still experimenting with the recipe, but—”

Tommy has stopped fucking listening. His ears are ringing and his fingers are tingling and he’s gone still—body defaulting to some prey animal reaction. Like a factory reset or something. 

He feels like he’s in limbo all over again, screaming and pleading with not one fucking person to tell him it’s alright.

He almost expects Wilbur to reach down and pull him from the darkness to play solitaire again, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Tubbo eats his burger and rather likes it. And Ranboo eats his own and takes to smiling way too fucking much. And Wilbur picks at fries, and looks way too happy. It’s fucking awful. And really, Tommy just finds it really worrying how nobody else sees the fucking predator in their den.

It’s days later. Tommy picks up his communicator on the third ring.

“Hey, I need you to take care of the trees,” greets Tubbo. It isn’t asked in person because Tubbo is busier these days working at his little restaurant. Something happened between Quackity and Wilbur, apparently. They had an argument of some sort, so now Quackity is stricter around Las Nevadas than usual.

And now, Tubbo is barely around these days. Ranboo too.

Tommy is at home—not the mansion—halfway through feeding Shroud. He doesn’t really know what spiders eat, but he opted for raw chicken. He doesn’t need Puffy or Philza here to know that living for other things in his mental state isn’t the best choice, but at the same time, it’s the only trick Tommy has up his sleeve and it’s not like anyone else will keep up after them if he’s gone. Friend doesn’t appreciate anyone’s company except his anyway. So, it’s not so bad.

"I think I'd rather die than do that,” Tommy says. He wipes his hand on his shirt while he adjusts the communicator on his belt. It’s a little worn out, but many things Tommy owns are that way nowadays. Even his cardigan is dirtier than usual. And there are more loose threads hanging off his clothing than before.

“They’re our trees,” Tubbo says. Tommy furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t fucking remember you saying that.”

But he’s smiling.

“Well, I don’t need fifty trees all the time,” Tubbo says, snorting. “Twenty-five are for me, and twenty-five are for you. I had more seeds than I knew what to do with.”

Tommy considers this. He did think Tubbo making them dig that many holes was a little much, but now it makes sense. He’s making an orange grove with him. That’s great. But still—

“Does Ranboo have trees?” he asks. He can’t help it. Tubbo makes a noise over the communicator. Tommy can’t tell what he’s feeling.

“He’s my competitor, so no,” Tubbo says. “Just ours, Bossman. But Quackity is on my case and I really need them for my restaurant, though, so you might have to share yours sometimes, just in case some trees don’t make it all the way.”

“What?” Tommy says, incredulous, but his heart isn’t really in it. “No way! No. They’re mine. You said so.”

Tubbo sounds exasperated. “You don’t need like a hundred oranges.”

“It’s gonna be for my orange business, so yeah, I do,” argues Tommy.

“It’s our—”

“My orange business, all by myself,” interrupts Tommy. “You have a new competitor, Tubs. How’s that feel?”

“Just go take care of the trees,” Tubbo orders. Tommy rolls his eyes. It’s nice to have something to do.

Limbo. Wilbur pets his hair.

“You talk too much,” he soothes. Tommy blinks. He drops his cards. “If you stopped doing that, you wouldn’t be fucking freaking out all the goddamn time, man.”

“You don’t understand, Wil,” Tommy pleads. “You don’t get what he’s doing to me.”

Wilbur rests his chin on top of his knees. “Nobody likes a poor sport, Tommy,” he says humourlessly. “It’d feel better if you stopped thinking about it so much, methinks.”

“I don’t deserve this. Fuck you Wil. Fuck you—”

“Then why are you in Limbo, and not sleeping mindlessly like every other God-fearing man?” Wilbur asks. He claps his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and peers into his eyes kindly. It’s the most him he’s ever been, Tommy realizes. But then he remembers he’s only fucking things. Because Limbo isn’t fair and neither is Wilbur. Because Wilbur, before anything else, is a liar. Because for some reason, he was born that way and is cursed to remain like that for fucking ever.

Because not even death can put that trait to rest.

Wilbur inches closer. “Face the music, Toms,” he quietly says. “You’re just like me. Maybe Dream knows that, deep down.”

And Tommy wants to cry. “I’m not—I’m not a bad person.”

Wilbur only shrugs and responds with silence, as if to say he disagrees.

“I’m not,” Tommy insists. Wilbur pats Tommy’s cheek, because his munitions room is so large he’ll never run out of ways to tear Tommy apart.

“The first step to fixing a problem,” he says, “is admitting you have one.”

“Like you did?” Tommy bitterly asks. And Wilbur giggles.

“I don’t think Ranboo likes me,” Tubbo says to him a few days later. Their little groove or whatever the fuck feels a little tense, but they still go on as usual. Because that’s their dynamic—strained yet functional.

Digging his shovel into the soil too hard, Tommy blinks dust of dirt away from his eyes. Tubbo has been taking a break for a while. He’s dug ten holes for every three Tommy has made, so he’s earned his break even though Tommy likes to bitch about it. He sits in the chair across from him now, resting his hand against his face. Sulking. Moping.

Tommy stands, and exhales, throwing his shovel to the side. He regards Tubbo, and his friend doesn’t betray a single thought, posture carefully maintained, but Tommy knows Tubbo in that way that makes him sure they’re made from the same patch of dirt. Because Tommy was found within the hells of famine, but Tubbo was also similarly found just as half-broken and torn as he was. They’re simple creatures with simply shitty backgrounds. So they’re soulmates, or whatever.

“I don’t think Ranboo has a bone in his body capable of disliking anything,” Tommy says after a moment, frowning when Tubbo throws a vexed look his way. He shoves loose white hair locks out of his eyes. “What?”

“I’m being serious,” Tubbo tells him, and then he’s studying the ground. Like maybe this isn’t the shit he wants to be talking about. Or maybe he’s thinking about what horrible stuff Ranboo has done to him lately. Tommy isn’t sure. Either way, both build discomfort in his chest.

“Sure he likes you,” Tommy says eventually, modulating his voice. “You both are married with a whole fuckin’ child or whatever, right? I dunno, seems like he’d like you if he did all that.”

Tubbo winces, and clenches one of his fits, frowning. “He’s been hanging around Wilbur more,” he says carefully.

This again. Why is that every time they breach the topic of Ranboo, Wilbur is brought up?

Ah, right. Because Wilbur and Ranboo—they have their whole fucking thing. Because Wilbur can’t help but recreate the things he couldn’t have. Because he rather do anything than just lay fucking still and be the thing he’s always claimed to be growing up. Stuff like a brother or a family member or a friend.

Tommy can’t begin to enumerate how many things of that entire situation he loathes. Because every time he thinks of Ranboo being happy with Wilbur, something within him aches and it somehow hurts more than when he learned Wilbur would rather kill himself than grab Tommy’s outstretched hand. He’s trying really hard not to take this personal.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He shrugs. “That fucking sucks arse because Wilbur is definitely screwing his head around.” Tommy shoves a hand into his pocket, mulling over how he wants to comfort Tubbo only he’s falling short on ideas because this isn’t something he often has to do. “Ranboo is a loyal bitch, though. He likes you. He just needs convincing to come back to us, man.”

“No one could convince you,” Tubbo points out. Tommy scowls.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t exactly—” Tubbo starts, then stops himself, frustrated. Right on the verge of something enriching too, Tommy is sure. Tubbo pops his knuckles. “Nothing. I’m just saying things.”

“Fucking bullshit,” he argues. “What? What? What are you trying to say about me? Don’t hold back now.”

“Don’t make this a thing,” Tubbo scolds. He stands and grabs his shovel aggressively. “I’m just talking. Saying things. I can do that sometimes, too, you know.”

“Too?” Tommy repeats, because it’s like Tubbo is saying he isn’t allowed or something.

“You—” Tubbo exhales, frustrated. “Tommy.”

“What?” he asks, whining. “You started this! You and your little insecurity about Ranboo. It’s Ranboo. Prime, man—he likes everyone.”

Tubbo is shaking his head. He doesn’t answer him at all, and instead just digs another hole. He’s working to busy himself, Tommy realizes. So he doesn’t have to actually respond. He’s inundated Tubbo with his toxicity so much he’s driven him to the point of silence.

Tommy feels something drop within the pits of his stomach and heighten the water level.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, feeling oddly childish. He hesitates for a beat, but then takes a small step forward. “I just—You’re just being fucking weird.”

Tubbo shrugs. He scratches at the soil with the end of his shovel. “It’s okay,” he says. He smiles at him for a moment, and then sighs. It looks fake. “It’s just. Ranboo man.”

“I don’t understand why you keep going on about him,” Tommy says, trying. “He likes you, Tubs.”

“It’s not that,” Tubbo says. “It’s Ranboo and Wilbur. It’s them and their thing—”

“The van—?”

“—their duo thing!” Tubbo stresses. He traces a shape into the ground with his hoof and then kicks some dirt up. “He’s off with Wil and we’re here. What is that?”

Tommy doesn’t know. And normally, he’d be incredibly willing to talk it all out and make his jabs, but the allusion to this entire situation—of Wilbur and Ranboo and the apparent apathy to their discomfort really makes him feel nauseous—it makes him all nervous and shaky.

It feels how he did when Dream used to tell him these bad things—things like he sucked and how he was awful and how nobody fucking liked him. It’s a feeling that builds in his face and sets it on fire and makes his arms tremble and stomach flutter. Like he’s moments away from having a heart attack and dying. Tommy has never known what to do with the feeling.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna talk about fuckin’ Wilbur of all people,” Tommy says, and his hands ache beneath his bandages as he flexes them. “I’m tired of thinking of Wilbur.”

“Sure,” says Tubbo. He pauses, lips thinning, before softly continuing, “but listen: I just—Ranboo has been at Wilbur’s more and—”

Tommy seethes. “Literally don’t fuckin’ care.”

Tubbo’s expression drops. Tommy bites inside of his cheek.

Tubbo frowns. "You're always talking about him."

“What the hell?” he bites out. “So what? Wilbur has been a fucking dick to me lately. I don’t really wanna talk shit about him right now.”

“Alright,” slowly says Tubbo. “But you know Wilbur hasn’t been mean only to you? Like, he’s gone and done some weird shit with me too, Tommy.”

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know. But I don’t wanna—this is gonna have to be a you problem, Tubso.”

And then something happens. Tubbo genuinely looks mad. Like he’s been tight roping this entire conversation and has finally fallen with no way to turn back now. He’s exhaling loudly and then stomping his hoof on the ground. Tommy startles. “No. No,” Tubbo protests. “Because this was a you problem, Tommy! You brought him back! Ghostbur could be here instead but no, we have Wilbur. You did that!”

“You helped me,” whispers Tommy.

Tubbo quickly clambers to his point. “Yeah, but maybe I shouldn’t have. Because, I dunno, man. It’s hardly our best plan.”

“Dream deserved to die!” Tommy yells.

“So does Wilbur,” Tubbo says. He smiles, and the thing is all wrong. Hollow. Tommy suddenly realizes Tubbo does that a lot. “But it’s all gone sideways. And I sometimes just wanna talk about it. Because Prime knows if I try with Ranboo, he’ll only feel bad.”

Fuck him. As if this is about Ranboo at all. That’s guilt-tripping.

Angrily, Tommy glares at him and throws his shovel to the ground with an amount of aggression he didn’t know was building up within him. He’s thankful Tubbo doesn’t follow him inside.

Autumn.

Lately, it’s windier, which is the typical greeting for the season on the server. Tommy doesn’t mind it, but he’s more paranoid that his hat will fly away because of it. It’s a different feeling entirely not to have his hat on. It’s like walking without socks to barricade his feet from the roughness of his shoes. It’s like vulnerability and discomfort.

Dully, Tommy wonders if that’s how Wilbur feels without his coat on. Or how Dream feels without his mask. They’re never around without them, but Tommy remembers they didn’t mind taking them off when with him. It’s like they were comfortable. Or overly arrogant that he wouldn’t do anything about it. Tommy was never sure.

He didn’t mind the closeness with them. Even if was an obvious ploy of theirs to manipulate him, Tommy finds that the closeness was incredibly addicting. Because while most days with them were awful, the ones that were good were really good. And those made life worth it.

Sometimes, Tommy feels bad he thinks about this so often. Because it’s like he’s barely moving on. After all, Wilbur was his first memory. And Dream was his last— before his death. So much has happened between the three of them. Tommy often feels like he’s been pulled out of childhood too quickly.

Could he still be a child? Somewhere, deep inside, he still hopes he is. His body aches for it. Because maybe it would be nice to wake up to pancakes like he used to. To smell the lovely scent of an English breakfast waiting at the table. To have hands so small he’d need help cutting his food—and this would be Wilbur’s job—but it would never affect the taste nor the magic of having it served to him.

Tommy thinks he misses the way Philza could have maybe ruffled his hair too. The way he could have still loved him like he loved Technoblade.

Maybe he’d look at him endearingly and say: “Eat if you wanna grow strong like your brothers. Vegetables too” as normal parents would. And maybe Tommy would beam at him and not be afraid to do so.

But that’s just a wish. One Tommy is too old for now. So, while he wishes with all of his fucking being it could be different, the season will only get windier.

Something sparkles. Ranboo. He’s visiting today, doing a diamond trade for him because Tommy needed new armour. He’s still preparing for Dream’s inevitable escape, see. Techno’s apparently locked in prison with him now.

“It’s what he deserves for fucking visiting him anyway,” Tommy says. It’s karma, he thinks, but at the same time, he might be a little sad for him. Prison isn’t so bad, but it’s Dream that makes it nearly unbearable. “Tubbo told me Quackity said he’s been gone for what? A week?”

“Yeah,” says Ranboo. He’s swaying this way and that, his salt and pepper tail switching from behind him to beside him. “Philza says he’s waiting.”

“For?”

“Dunno,” Ranboo says. “He won’t share, but I think Techno’s okay if that’s the case. He’s strong. Cool.”

Unlike you, is what Ranboo doesn’t say. Tommy fixes the armour on the crafting table. One of the sleeves is a little too tight. Tommy adjusts it so.

“Nobody is gonna save him?” Tommy asks. Ranboo purses his lips.

“Philza says he has it handled.”

Tommy tries not to think about that. It’s going to be really easy to get hurt right now. Philza is a whole basket of issues and troubles about his past Tommy knows causes pain. In the one therapy session he had with Puffy, he had described his upbringing to her, and instead of laughing like he was, she only looked at him with pity. As if he was broken. As if he had issues. Stop that, he had wanted to say. Wilbur’s the one with Daddy issues. I’m fatherless and proud.

But he didn’t say that. And she only kept writing.

“Do you think his neglect has caused you any issues today?” she had asked. Tommy had scrunched up his nose.

“Neglect? He didn’t neglect me.”

“No?”

“He isn’t my Dad.”

And Puffy kept writing.

He didn’t go to therapy after that.

Tommy finishes adjusting his armour. Ranboo sits in front of his chests, organizing them. Tommy doesn’t remember him doing that but he sighs anyway and allows his mind to dwell over Philza and his cabin and his crows. He craves it, he thinks. Phil is endearing because he’s so easy to make laugh. Tommy likes it when Philza laughs.

“Did he—” Tommy starts, and he can’t stop himself, “did he ever say that about me?”

Did he try to save me? He wants to ask, but Tommy doesn’t think he’s strong enough to be completely blunt right now. The expression on Ranboo’s face kind of destroys all hope he might have been building in his chest anyway.

“We knew you were in prison,” Ranboo says slowly, like he’s some timid fucking cat of Dream’s or something, “and Sam said you’d be let out soon. By the time we decided to talk with Sam again, he said you were dead.”

Oh yeah, of course. Tommy remembers Ranboo saying that. For some reason, it still hurts just the same. ‘Cause no matter how many times he asks, the narrative doesn’t seem to change: nobody tried harder than they did and nobody cared more. He went to prison, died, and everyone moved on. That was the story. That was what he was worth. A couple of statues as a grave.

Meanwhile, Wilbur’s grave was the entire destroyed nation of fucking L’manburg.

“So Phil never said anything about it,” continues Tommy. Ranboo purses his lips, and looks away, tucking a loose lock of black hair behind his ear. Tommy angrily exhales. He knew better to ask, really. His fault. Comfort isn’t something he should keep expecting.

“You—” Ranboo starts, but Tommy cuts him off, and claps his hands instead. Whatever. Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore. Tommy throws his armour chest plate on.

“Got any enchanted books?” he asks, stretching his arms wide to show off. “Look at this fuckin thing and tell me it’s not good as shit.”

(Dream’s armour is better, says a small part of his mind.)

Ranboo offers him a small smile, complying. He digs his hand through Tommy’s chest and pulls out a couple of books. “You have one. Fire protection.”

“Five?”

“Two.”

“Barely anything,” says Tommy. He shrugs, and knocks on the armour’s surface. It elegantly sings back. “I’ll have to get netherite anyways.”

“Want me to join?”

Tommy considers this, then shakes his head, storing the armour in his inventory. He thinks that Ranboo coming to the nether with him might be the worst idea ever. Because if they go, Wilbur will look for him if Ranboo is gone for too long, surely, and then he’ll find them together.

Which really, shouldn’t be a big problem, but Tommy isn’t ready to see both Ranboo and Wilbur having fun together again—to see himself replaced and mirrored the way it keeps happening to him. See, Ranboo is a person who deserves so much, but Tommy can’t stop himself from feeling this storm in his chest every time he reminds himself that everything he’s ever wanted, Ranboo has. Tubbo, Philza, Techno, Wilbur—Ranboo has them all. And it’s no one’s fault but Tommy’s.

It’s dumb, but Tommy sleeps a lot lately to stop himself from thinking about it. Wilbur used to do it when they were younger. When Philza was gone Wilbur used to make them food and then sleep for days on end. He was just tired, he’d say. Tommy didn’t understand then, but he gets it now.

Similarly, he too is tired. It’s this fucking weight of a thing that pulls at his body’s centre and hazes over the world. His eyes don’t want to open all the way anymore. His mind isn’t as fast anymore. It’s like it’s all underwater in a small pond and fishes swim past but they’re not all clear in that way he’s used to. The colours are mixed. Blurred. Like when he used to paint when he was younger and pour all the paints into the same plate. And then Wilbur would yell at him because they had nothing but an ugly brown shade.

Either way, if this is how Wilbur felt during Pogtopia, Tommy only feels pity. His poor brother, he thinks. How shitty Tommy is, that he couldn’t even save him from that.

“Hey, um,” Ranboo says. Tommy glances at him. The other smiles, but it’s strained. Nervous. He plays with the end of his white hair. Ranboo does that when he’s apprehensive. “So, about Tubbo—”

Tommy furrows his eyebrows.

“—has he said anything about me?” Ranboo asks. “He hasn’t been talking to me a lot. Ever since I’ve been hanging with Wilbur and we visited, he’s, I dunno, not around a lot. He doesn’t seem angry, but he’s kind of—I don’t know, really, uh…weird? Does that make sense?”

Sort of. Tubbo is a weird person. Tubbo can say the cruellest things in the kindest voice, and the kindest things in the cruellest voice. He’s small and hyper and his supporter and also so fucking stubborn. That’s why they fight a lot. That’s why he gets along with Ranboo.

Tommy exhales. He tries not to feel jealous. It’s hard. Because Ranboo keeps looking at him like that, and Tommy feels so awful that he can’t offer a bit of comfort. Because Tommy is probably worse with people than Ranboo is.

And honestly, who is Ranboo, Tommy thinks, to ask him about Tubbo? As if Ranboo isn’t tearing them apart. As if Ranboo isn’t hurting both Tommy and Tubbo every time he talks about Wilbur and the van. Because they love Ranboo, and Ranboo keeps on doing something that everyone knows will hurt him. He’s in a constant loop of bear-poking, and fuck it, Tommy is scared.

But, at the same time, Wilbur isn’t truly doing anything, is he? Just making burgers. Just engaging in friendly competition. It’s barely grounds for betrayal, and yet Tommy can’t help but feel like they’re doing this to spite him specifically. Because the van used to be their thing. And now all Tommy has is Tubbo, who grows more tired by the day, and their trees, which have yet to have proven fruitful.

“He’d probably—” Tommy shakily breathes. “He’d probably talk to you more if you stopped hanging around Wil.”

Ranboo freezes.

Suddenly, Tommy feels like maybe he isn’t the person to be telling him. He also feels like maybe this is so much bigger than just Wilbur. Because Ranboo and Tubbo have this connection that he and Tommy don’t. They’re married—partners. Tommy is Tubbo’s partner, sure, but they’re not the two binary stars that Tubbo and Ranboo have made each other. Instead, Tubbo is Tommy’s earth, ever so lively and grounding. But, he isn’t any star. And Tommy’s growing really satisfied watching said star work through this like it’s the most difficult thing in the world.

“Right,” Ranboo says. He swallows, and smiles. “Figured, yeah. Thanks.”

Tommy forces a smile anyways. He’s too far in now.

“I’d just ditch him,” he continues. “You have to pick who you’re gonna side with, man.”

Ranboo looks upset. His smile drops into a frown. “I’m not—” he starts. “Sides aren’t—Tommy, I already told you that Wilbur is…” he fumbles, looking at his hands. “I’m just trying to give him a chance. People gave you a chance, and—” Ranboo stops himself. He’s almost helpless. Desperate to defend himself. “Wilbur seems happy.”

But that’s not true, Tommy wants to say. He wants to laugh. Wilbur is happy because he’s using Ranboo, but he’s not fucking happy because of anything innocent. Ranboo doesn’t get that. He can’t, because he isn’t them. He hasn’t seen Wilbur tear himself apart and dance towards the very fucking flames that promised to destroy him. He doesn’t know.

Only Tommy can understand Wilbur, to that extent.

“It’s either us or him, Ranboo,” Tommy says quietly. He ignores the screaming in his mind because he means it but he also doesn’t but he also doesn’t care. Not really. “You need to make up your mind.”

Ranboo is shaking his head. He looks torn. “That’s not—” he whispers. “That’s not fair.”

And it’s not. It’s really fucking not. But Tommy has never known fair. So he hopes they’ll understand. Because he just wants to find fucking joy in his and Tubbo’s orange grove in peace. 

Chapter Text

It’s the hearth that lights up the room. Ranboo was in charge of the firewood so it’s a well-made fire, but Tommy doesn’t know how to tell him that he hates it despite all the effort he’s made. The colours cast onto the wall remind him of the prison’s lava wall. Tommy swears he can distantly hear the sound of Dream’s incessant scribbling and chattering. Maybe Dream is even telling him the number of letters that’ll be in their word. Maybe Tommy guesses all the letters backwards and gets a hangman.

Ranboo doesn’t offer to stay. He’s wary of him like he’s fucking scared of him, maybe even a little upset to be in his general vicinity. Is he grieving? Tommy isn’t sure. Tommy isn’t sure if anyone has even processed what’s happened.

Not that Tommy cares. He doesn’t—at least, not like before. Cognitively speaking, he’s sure he gives a lot of fucks about the screaming and crying that happened within the ten seconds before Ghostbur’s death within the prison; he’s sure he really cares about the way his actions contributed to that sad fucking expression that crawled like a heinous beast reincarnated onto Ghostbur’s face, but it’s like his body is so tired he can’t be bothered to feel anything else but exhaustion. And when Tubbo slides in next to him on the floor, it all definitely weighs on him like a big bag of mined coal.

“Two months,” Tommy says. He glances at Tubbo and slumps down further, upset, pushing his face closer to his knees so he may rest on them. Tommy closes his eyes. “Fuckin’ two months, Tubbo. That’s how long I was in there and look how fucked I am now.”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Tubbo. He’s not looking back at Tommy. Instead, he’s staring at the fire with little flame animals Tommy can see dancing within the green of his eye’s irises. He tries not too hard to stare.

Tommy turns his hands into fists. “I saw Wilbur there, you know. And Schlatt, and Mexican Dream, and everyone else who’s—” He cuts himself off, biting at his lip. “And now Ghostbur is there. And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Tubs. I’m fucking sorry—”

“You tried,” Tubbo interrupts, but even Tommy can tell how useless the words are. Tubbo doesn’t even believe what the hell he’s saying. “You tried. You didn’t mean to. It’s alright.”

“Ghostbur is in Limbo,” Tommy says. “So don’t you dare say it’s fucking alright.”

“Ghostbur wouldn’t want you to be all hung up over it,” Tubbo points out. “He’d be sad if he knew you were so depressed about it.”

“Ghostbur doesn’t know his up from his fucking down,” Tommy snaps. “He doesn’t fucking want anything. Maybe he’d be happy to know somebody misses him.”

“Everyone misses him,” Tubbo scolds. Suddenly, Tommy averts his gaze. “Everyone fucking misses him. Nobody wanted Wilbur. Not you, not me—not even Wilbur himself wanted to be back! Nobody is happy, Tommy.”

Tommy nods. He understands. He understands more than Tubbo realizes. And he mourns so fucking much over what he’s lost due to his stupid actions. He should have listened to Tubbo, he thinks. He should have paid heed to everyone’s warnings and not poked at the bear so hard that it finally decided to eat their heads clean off. But there’s something that begs to right the wrongs he sees. Maybe that’s the Wilbur effect left within him. Maybe it’s his need to be better. He doesn’t fucking know.

“I didn’t know he would see me,” Tommy says. He stares blankly at the fire, and for a brief moment, he considers reaching into it and meeting Dream on the other side. “I didn’t know he’d go that hard.”

Tubbo shrugs. “It was a risky plan from the beginning.”

Tommy stares so hard he starts to see nothing at all. “You don’t have anyone to babysit your fucking kid anymore,” he says dully. Tubbo hums, and lays back, studying the ceiling.

“Where do you think he went?” Tubbo asks.

“Philza.”

Tubbo lazily turns his head to peer at him. “You think?”

“I know. Who else would accept him?”

Tubbo seems to think about it. He shrugs, and traces an indecipherable shape in the air. Tommy follows the shape. It’s a circle, he guesses. Or maybe an oval. Or a smile.

“Not Philza,” Tubbo says. “He wouldn’t be that confident yet. Philza killed him, anyways.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything. Tubbo’s looks thoughtful, but then his face is scrunching up as if he too remembers Philza, the book, and the attempted sacrifice made on Ghostbur. Tommy can almost see the lapis lazuli and TNT in his hazy memory. “Philza tried to bring him back,” Tommy says. He’s saddened, for a moment. “But maybe Wilbur doesn’t know that.”

“We don’t know how much Wilbur knows,” says Tubbo. He squints at Tommy. “Who knows, maybe Ghostbur isn’t in Limbo. Maybe he’s part of Wilbur now.”

“Wilbur said he was in Limbo,” Tommy says uselessly. Tubbo shrugs. He drops his hand but doesn’t look as sad as he should. It’s in character, Tommy thinks. Tubbo has always been stronger than him.

“Wilbur lies all the time,” says Tubbo. Tommy can’t even argue. Tubbo makes a noise, and sits up. “Are we gonna tell the others?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “We kind of have to.”

But that’s not Tubbo’s job, Tommy realizes. Tubbo played his part, it’s true, but Tubbo wasn’t the one to make the mistake that led to this entire mess. That lies on Tommy’s shoulders alone. But framing it as a them thing does make him feel better. He thinks if he started to take on all the blame himself might send him to the brink of tears. It feels a little too depressing, maybe. He feels like if he starts doing it he’ll start believing it so much that it isn’t just something to make him feel bad anymore. Like if he actually does it, Tubbo will start agreeing like Dream used to.

“I mean,” Tommy tries. “I can.”

“I can help,” Tubbo offers.

“Wilbur’s changed,” Tommy says, shaking his head. He looks at his hands, ripping them away from his jeans. “He’s worse now, Tubbo. You shouldn’t have to see that.”

“I will eventually. No use in shielding me, or whatever you’re trying to do.”

Tommy starts to shake his head but then he stops. Because Tubbo is right, he realizes. He can’t shield the server from Wilbur’s machinations. There could be obsidian walls so high that they touched the moon and not even those, he thinks, could stop his brother. Because Wilbur is cut from the same cloth as the very being who’s destined to haunt them both.

Babysitting duties don’t stop just because Michael’s parents are busy. Tubbo and Ranboo are gone more often than not because of their dumb restaurant endeavours, and although Tommy is grateful for the quiet it brings, he’s certain Michael doesn’t share the sentiment.

Piglins aren’t solitary creatures. Most animals aren’t, really. It’s part of the whole biological thing. Life keeps going because it has an inclination of mixing and grouping together for added strength. So loneliness? That’s a real fucking killer. And maybe Michael senses that. The kid isn’t as active lately.

Michael oinks, pulling at his cardigan. He’s got another drawing—he does a lot of those—and is waving it up at him. Tommy grabs at it. Something pulls at him when he sees the ugly little doodles of alliums on the piece of paper.

“Flower stems are green, not blue,” Tommy informs him, but he ruffles Michael’s hair anyway. The baby piglin angrily snorts at him but isn’t pissed beyond that. Michael knows their dynamic, unlike his parents. He, at least, knows the way their song goes.

His nails pick at an orange peel. Some have grown, finally. Not all of them, but the ones farther away from the snow have begun to give little sour ones. Tommy hasn’t told Tubbo about it since he thinks Tubbo is still a little pissed with him, but the grove is still theirs despite that. Tommy doesn’t really have a good reason to let it die. Tubbo might hate him more if he did that. He has a whole business to run, after all. Quackity depends on it too.

Tommy doesn’t really wanna think about their spat. He’s not in the wrong, technically. Tommy knows maybe he shouldn’t have worded things the way he did, but at the same time, Tubbo needs to respect boundaries. That’s a thing Tommy has learned from Philza—boundaries. A little thing he can set to protect himself and not feel uncomfortable.

“Techno and I set them for each other,” Philza had told him. “I know not to do certain things around Techno, and Techno does the same for me.”

“Oh yeah?” Tommy had snarked. “What, like you can’t borrow his withers skulls unless you ask?”

“Tommy.”

“What? That was funny.”

“Still,” Phil had sighed. And he had tiredly smiled. “Either way, I do ask before I use his things. It’s out of respect. For example, I don’t mention the voices around him. It makes him nervous. Nor do I enter his home without knocking—that’s his space.”

It was confusing to learn at first, but Tommy thinks he got the picture. He was mostly distracted by the mention of Technoblade. He sees a lot of their relationship, but sometimes it’s the way Philza speaks about Technoblade versus Wilbur that really hurts Tommy sometimes. It’s like Wilbur will only just be a ghost to him. Or like Wilbur will only ever be half of what Techno is the way Wilbur always claimed growing up.

Anyways.

Boundaries. Yes. They’re important.

But Tommy doesn’t know where to start with them. Because he’s apparently gone and done the whole thing wrong and now Tubbo is pissed at him. Tommy imagines this feeling that clouds his mind might be guilt, but his stubborn pride forbids him to concede.

Tubbo is allowed to talk about things! Tubbo can talk about a lot of things whenever he wants. If he doesn’t want to, it’s no fault of Tommy’s. He can’t be mad at Tommy for not forcing him to speak more.

But that’s not really the point, is it? Tommy knows that. He just doesn’t wanna think about it beyond that reasoning. Whenever he does it makes his heart race. His heart races a lot these days, but sometimes there’s a difference between normal racing and the type of racing that makes you think you’ll die.

Michael snorts. Tommy glances at him. The piglin has his communicator and is waving it around. There’s a name on the screen. Someone is calling him.

Wilbur.

Tommy scowls. He declines the call. He gets a message from him two seconds later.

What are your rates for gold mining? I know you’re online.

Tommy shoves the communicator face-down into the sofa’s cushions. No. Fuck this. He’s not in the mood to make a habit of talking to him because Wilbur doesn’t get to be a dick and get away with it. Not anymore, at least. Tommy doesn’t want to fucking see Wilbur and be reminded of all the things he hates about himself and this server. He doesn’t want to be reminded about how much Wilbur prefers Ranboo over Tommy. And even more, Tommy doesn’t want to feel guilty when he thinks about the shit he’s told Ranboo.

Michael oinks again, expectant.

“It’s not your dads,” Tommy tells him. “It’s someone else. Tubbo and Ranboo are off working, remember?”

But Michael doesn’t understand that. Of course fucking not. He’s just an infant, and apparently, the only time people call near him is to talk to his parents. So Tommy isn’t going to win here.

Frustrated, he grabs his communicator again and shows him the screen.

“It’s not them,” Tommy insists. Wilbur calls again, and his name pops up. Tommy shakes the device for emphasis. “See? It’s Wilbur.”

Michael reaches for the communicator. This kid isn’t understanding. Tommy lifts it away and Michael makes a noise of distress.

Tommy tries not to take this too personally. Michael is only a child and therefore can’t really understand complex things like Tubbo and Ranboo not being the actual communicator itself. Michael can’t understand that Tubbo and Ranboo won’t call him because Tommy’s a continuous fuck up. He’s only what? Three? Yeah. Tommy can’t break down why he doesn’t want to call them.

“I—” Tommy doesn’t know what to do. “Why don’t we play footie or something?”

Michael oinks again. A no. Tommy scowls at him, and turns away. He grabs a red crayon from the coffee table and pushes it toward the child. “Draw,” he orders.

But Michael leans away from the table and tilts his head, looking for the communicator he has hidden behind him.

His little baby hands reach up towards Tommy.

Tommy feels his chest squeeze painfully. Because something in Michael’s eyes makes this feel all too familiar—like a breath away from dizzy deja-vu. Michael’s desires are innate and innocent—a pathetic fucking desperation erupted from instinct alone. Tommy can’t be mad at him for that. Because he’s like that all the time.

Wilbur was like that too, Tommy remembers. But then something within him decided to grow up at an age far too fucking young.

“Fine,” Tommy says. He bats Michael away for some space and stares at his device with ire. He’s hesitating, but with one glance at Michael’s expression, he gives in immediately.

His communicator rings twice before Ranboo answers.

“Hello?”

Michael happily snorts. Tommy grits his teeth and shuffles closer. The shit he does for him, he swears.

“Ranboo,” Tommy says dully, as if he’s not fucking terrified to talk to him after the shit he tried to pull— “tell Wilbur to stop fucking calling me.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says. “I’m not—Wilbur isn’t with me right now.”

Tommy squints. He’s hopeful, maybe.

“Stopped hanging with him finally?” he asks.

Michael grabs at the communicator. Tommy lowers the device so the piglin can hear better. Ranboo sighs over the line. “A little? I told him I needed to take fewer shifts.”

Tommy blinks. He’s pleasantly surprised. “Bet he was mad about that.”

“Not really,” hums Ranboo. “He was alright with it.” There’s a pause and then, “is there an, uh, reason you wanted to call?”

Ranboo must be busy. Tommy forces a laugh.

“Your pet keeps bitching about not seeing you,” he says, turning towards Michael. “He thinks you’re in the comm or something.”

“In the comm?”

“In the comm,” confirms Tommy.

“I—I don’t… think he thinks that, actually—”

“I know what I saw,” Tommy says. He moves the communicator closer to the piglin. “Tell him, Michael.”

Michael oinks.

“Hi Michael,” says Ranboo, and his voice is softer. Kind. It’s a tone Tommy has never heard used from anyone before. “I miss you.”

Michael oinks again.

“I know. I’ll be home soon. I’m just up to a lot.”

That sounds like a lie if Tommy’s ever heard one. He himself feels pained just hearing it, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just lifts the communicator away from the piglin. Michael seems satisfied enough. The bitch is already toddling off.

“Michael?” asks Ranboo.

“He’s busy now,” Tommy says. And Michael is. He’s over at the table, picking up a red crayon he offered earlier, already forgotten about this whole fucking thing. Great. Tommy turns back to the communicator.

“Anyways,” he draws out, “what’s Wilbur want gold for?”

Ranboo makes a noise. “He told you about that?”

“Uh…yeah? Why wouldn’t he?” Tommy squints, then stands. He takes the communicator off speaker and shoves it against his ear. Apprehension takes fucking hold of him and freezes him in place. “What, is that a fucking secret thing between you two now?”

“No!” Ranboo defends. “No, not at all. I just. We’re planning this new extension of the restaurant and gold seemed like the best idea to attract people with, so—”

Tommy scoffs. “You said you were taking fewer shifts.”

“I am.”

“But you’re making it bigger now,” Tommy says. Ranboo stumbles over his words.

“Yeah-I—yes? I can take fewer shifts and also build for the restaurant. Those don’t, like, get in the way of eachoth—”

Ranboo stops. There’s a voice in the background. Tommy strains his ear to hear what’s going on—faintly, he hears the muffled sounds of a low voice speaking at Ranboo. He instantly recognizes it. Tommy scowls.

“So you’re with Wilbur.”

“—huh?” Ranboo says, sounding distant. There’s rustling, and then— “Oh, yeah. He’s here now, but I wasn’t—”

“You said he wasn’t with you!”

—“Is that Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice echoes over the line. “Oi, Tommy! Answer your comms, man! I’m trying to make a business deal—”

Ranboo sighs. “This isn’t really—”

“Great,” Tommy snaps. “Yeah, you have fun with your little thing, Ranboo. You have fun helping the biggest fuckin’ villain of the server while I’m here with your pet. Bet Tubbo would be really glad to hear that.”

That was a cheap shot. Even Tommy knows. But he doesn’t care.

“Seriously?” Wilbur snorts.

“No, that isn’t—”

“Is he seriously fucking—”

“Tommy—” Ranboo tries.

Tommy hangs up.

He turns, angrily exhaling. He’s trembling, and his knees feel all wobbly—like his entire body was built on weak arse foundations. Like the willpower that’s kept him going all of a sudden doesn’t want to work anymore. His eyes are switching from this wall to that, trying to find something to focus on, but everything seems so blurry and out of place. Like he’s inside of a waterfall that’s distorting the house around him.

Fuck. He can’t think.

Fuck. Shit. Wank. He doesn’t know why he called. Objectively, that was like, the worst fucking thing he could do, and yet something in him told him Michael’s fucking feelings mattered more than the disappointment he’d obviously feel. Not because Ranboo is anything disappointing, but because Ranboo is just everything everyone else wants and nothing Tommy can have.

Tommy doesn’t even know why he speaks at all. Because when he does, he isn’t heard for the content of his words. He says all he can and nobody gets what he’s trying to say. They just hear him blabbering and agree but don’t fucking think about what he’s trying to say. What is it about him that seems so untrustworthy? What makes it seem like he doesn’t have a right to call the monsters on the server what they truly are?

Tommy bites his lip. He knows. He knows damn well why. But it doesn’t hurt any less.

Die, he thinks. Tommy startles at the thought, and holds a hand against his temple, his breathing getting shallow. Fuck. No. No, no, no—

Tommy swings his arm. The communicator goes flying into the corner of the room. Tommy crouches down and jams his face into his hands just as he hears it crash. He needs to breathe. He needs air but it isn’t coming to him. And Tommy just wants to melt. He misses Ghostbur.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him lately. This fucking feeling never used to happen before the prison. He was better put together and knew who the fuck he was to people. And now, who is the hell is he without Wilbur or Dream or Techno or Philza here to tell him what the hell to do or what the fuck to think or-or feel—

Michael oinks.

Tommy twirls towards him. Michael’s eyes widen. He’s snarling. “Fucking piss—”

“—off, Tommy!” demands Wilbur. “I’m fucking busy! Go bother Tubbo.”

Wilbur is at his desk, looking over maps of the server. He hasn’t eaten all day. Tommy just wants to make sure he doesn’t die of hunger. Wilbur’s his responsibility.

“Pogtopia isn’t going to win in the next hour,” he says. “You can hang with us for a bit, Wil. C’mon, it could—”

“Tommy!” Wilbur is angrily standing. The chair behind him rattles. Tommy jumps. “Tommy, I fucking swear, I’ll—”

Shit.

Stop. Stop.

Tommy angrily rubs at his face. Michael is behind the coffee table now. Naturally, of course. Tommy is a manmade monster sculpted to perfection by Dream. And he’s melting like wax.

Sniffling, he stands. Michael is frowning. Tommy can’t fight anymore.

“Naptime,” Tommy pathetically says. Gently, he picks Michael up, ignoring the little child’s noises of protest as he climbs up the ladder. One look at him and Michael quiets down, seemingly resigned to his fate after gauging his state.

He’s cooperative when Tommy places him on his bed. Tommy throws his blanket over him, and somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere deep down, he almost considers doing the whole gentle reading a book and sweet-talking thing he’s seen only in films, but that thought is incredibly fleeting and more a reflection on what he wishes he got and what he wishes would be done for Michael instead.

He wants to do it, he thinks, but he doesn’t think he has the confidence or drive to do anything more for this kid than make sure he doesn’t die. Maybe it’s out of spite. Maybe it’s out of pity.

Just—Michael isn’t his problem.

Tommy lays down on the sofa when he reaches it, breathing out with forced precision, shaky. His mind is going numb, and all of a sudden, all at once, he feels nothing at fucking all, melting into a still cadaver frozen on the cushions.

It’s like he’s so tired he can’t bother to feel anymore. It’s like he’s so angry his body has decided to shut down. This has happened before. Sometimes it’s concerning. And then sometimes it’s nice because it feels like a rest from thinking so much.

He sinks into the feeling.

Tommy curls up on the sofa. Occasionally, he hears Michael’s soft snorts come from upstairs but eventually, that quiets down. Michael settled down easily. Tommy wishes he could sleep like that.

Later, the door opens.

Tommy is sitting on the sofa, watching the wall in front of him. It’s a thing he does a lot when he’s alone. Watching things and not having to think about who he is or why he’s here is a really easy thing to do when he’s not fucking being bothered all the time. He just stares and is. It’s nice. It’s like what Limbo should have been.

Tubbo is throwing his shoes into a corner.

“Hey,” Tommy croaks. Tubbo glances at him, and quietly, he shuffles over with evident hesitance. He’s holding himself like he’s beyond nervous. They haven’t spoken in days.

“Hi,” says Tubbo. His green eyes flicker over Tommy’s face. He frowns. “Were you crying?”

Tommy wipes his eyes. He doesn’t remember doing that.

“Thought about the TNT that blew up on my birthday,” Tommy says, slowly sitting up. He feels like he has a little more energy, but he isn’t sure. It’s just enough he can get through this inevitable talk, he’s sure. “Was fuckin’ wild, huh?”

Tubbo orbits closer, standing about two metres away. Tommy can’t look him in the eyes.

“You…” Tubbo says, and smiles. “Yeah. I— Sam could probably get us more TNT, I reckon.”

Tommy thinks about it. He thinks about it, and then he thinks about Wilbur and Ranboo and finds himself getting upset all over again. He’s furiously shaking his head in a no. “Let’s not,” he mutters. “Might blow up another country at that rate.”

Tubbo agrees after a moment. He fiddles with his hands and sits down beside him. He produces a perfectly round orange from his inventory. Tommy’s breath hitches.

“Is that—”

“An orange,” Tubbo confirms. “From the grove. It’s the best one I could find.”

For him. A peace offering. Tommy studies it and it's a pretty warm hue, and his hand goes to grab it, but something prevents him from fully accepting it. All of a sudden, he needs something. Something more than just an orange. Something really childish and stupid and idiotic.

“It’s…” Tommy is hopeful. “Is it from one of my trees?”

Tubbo pauses. “No,” he slowly says. “I don’t think so. But I—hey, I dunno, it’s probably—”

Ha! Tommy turns away, face hot. He wants to laugh maniacally. Fucking Christ, Tommyinnit.

Tubbo offers the orange again. Tommy smacks it away.

“What the—” Tubbo starts. He huffs and takes his orange back, astounded. “What is wrong with you?”

Tommy shrugs. He hates so fucking deeply right now he thinks he might start screaming his head off. It’s like he’s outside of his own house right now, looking inside as he fucks up everything. He’s banging at the window with no key to open the door. And it’s just all getting worse.

Tubbo clicks his teeth. He tries to shuffle closer.

“We could go orange picking,” he offers. Tommy shakes his head.

“Wilbur and Ranboo are expanding their van,” he says, tone hollow.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“But you said—” Tubbo pauses, and inhales as if trying to stall to gather his thoughts. “You said you didn’t want to talk about Wilbur.”

Tommy’s eyebrows drawing downward completes his glare. “I don’t.”

“Then why—” Tubbo looks desperate. “Tommy, I don’t know how to help.”

He can’t help it. Tommy yanks himself away. He’s offended. Hurt. And he’s so confused because he doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

At some point, a wall has grown between them. Maybe it's as tall as Lmanburg's charcoal barrier. Maybe it's as strong as the foundation of the prison. Maybe its name is resentment. Or jealousy. Or longing. Maybe that wall is a sea.

Tommy oh-so hates the sea.

“I didn’t ask for fucking help?” he says. “I’m fucking good, Tubbo. What are you trying to do?”

“Be a good friend? I dunno. You aren’t making this easy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocks. “Sorry I’m making this so fucking hard for you. I know I’m no fuckin’ Ranboo, but—”

“Ranboo has literally nothing to do with this—”

“Just!” Tommy makes a guttural yell of frustration and groans, shoving his face into his hands. “I don’t know, Tubbo. Leave me alone.”

“...this is my house.”

“I’ll leave.”

This is what they are now. They’re handfuls of interactions and fleeting words and promises, but not anything fucking permanent. Not in the ways that matter. Maybe he’s overexaggerating but fucking Prime, there was a point they could talk about anything, right? Perhaps this was never the case. Tommy feels like he’s the one who does all the talking sometimes. But Tubbo’s never complained. Maybe that’s why they’re so fucked up.

Tubbo sighs.

“I invited you to live here for a reason, Boss Man.” The sofa dips a little. Tubbo settles a hand on his shoulder awkwardly. “I want you to stay. You’re welcome here. I just wanna know what’s up.”

And how can Tommy answer, when he himself doesn’t know?

Shyly, Tommy glances at him. He’s sincere. His eyes are kind and big but not in a staring bug-eyed way. His mouth is softly quirked up and his eyebrows are furrowed not because he’s confused but rather because he’s fucking trying and wants to show it. And he looks like he’s barely hanging on.

Suddenly, Tommy’s overwhelmed by it all.

Seldom does his friend actually lie, he realizes. He’s not like him. Or Ranboo. Because while he adores Ranboo, he’s starting to think he’s a liar just like everyone else. Only instead of like everything else Ranboo just likes lying to himself instead. It’s how he deals with this fucked up-ness of it all.

Can Tommy really blame him for hanging with Wilbur? Because Wilbur breathes purpose into life where there once wasn’t any. And Wilbur manoeuvres the raging rivers that build up behind his eyes into easy streams that feel fucking safe to float on. The facade surrounding him is a feeling of security. He’s the lighthouse in the storm. But because Ranboo is so kind and was there only for the note’s resolution and not the chaotic bridge, he doesn’t fucking understand that Wilbur, too, is the creator of that storm.

Tommy turns towards Tubbo. He doesn’t sniffle because he’s fucking above that, but he does wipe at something in his eyes and rest his legs against the sofa cushions. Tubbo doesn’t make a move to shuffle away. He doesn’t mind the closeness.

“I-” he stars. “I feel like I’m getting in you and Ranboo’s way,” he quietly confesses. “I feel like I’m fucking you guys up all over again. Like last time.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“That’s Wilbur,” Tubbo whispers. He shakes his head. “That’s him. Not you, Boss Man.”

“No.” Tommy wetly smiles. “No, ‘cause Wilbur isn’t the cause of everything.”

I am, is what Tommy doesn’t say.

Tubbo doesn’t respond. He disagrees, obviously. Tommy just finds it fucking funny how much they’ve changed and how much their opinions on Wilbur Soot and his Big Consequences have evolved with them. Because it wasn’t so long ago that they would fretfully gather together and seek each other's company for comfort in the face of a future that adored being so ambiguous. Maybe they’re progressing and growing older. Or maybe they’re regressing and getting worse. Tommy can’t tell.

Tubbo smiles. Suddenly Tommy recalls a memory—

—they’re at the bench. And the sun behind the server’s horizon line burns the sky red. It’s coming back.

“Do you think he’ll really revive Wilbur?” Tubbo whispers. When he meets his gaze, his eyebrows are furrowing. He looks worried, almost. “He…Wilbur said he didn’t wanna be brought back.”

Tommy thinks about Wilbur and the feeling of his faint hand on his head. He thinks about the way it ruffled his hair. And maybe he even thinks about his familiar scent full of cigarettes and aged books. And how his voice would sound like it belonged to his brother and his greatest enemy at the same time. And how there was warmth in his chest that sparked every time Wilbur decided to love him for what he was, and not what he could be.

And how after Wilbur died, Tommy found his coat folded in his chest beside his bed. Almost like he left it there for Tommy to find.

(“A villain is a hero you haven’t convinced yet,” Ghostbur says, only this was long ago. His voice was kind. Airy. He was loving. And Tommy’s eyes burned.)

“I…I don’t want him back,” Tommy says eventually. He’s stern. Careful. Maybe he’s even sad. “Wilbur wasn’t… it’s not worth it.”

“Yeah,” agrees Tubbo. He smiles, though it’s quite weak. “No, yeah. You’re right. Wilbur sucks.”

Their tree rustles when the wind passes. Tommy almost wants to close his eyes. The server can create civilizations and set them on fire, but still, one thing will remain the same: Their tree will always return greener than before. It’ll reach the heavens long before it dies, Tommy is sure.

Though, maybe when Wilbur comes back, it’ll be the first thing he burns.

“But he isn’t the villain,” Tommy whispers. “Not really.”

—Tubbo wraps his arms around himself. He humourlessly smiles.

“Isn’t he, though?” he says, and Tommy can’t find it in himself to disagree.

—Tubbo smiles. He sets a hand on Tommy’s.

“We’ll fix this, Boss Man,” whispers Tubbo. “We always do.”

Sometimes Tommy wishes he knew when this fucked up feeling of grief was supposed to be over. Philza isn’t much help when he asks.

Grief, he had said, is something that gets easier with time but never goes away. Personally, Tommy thinks it’s bullshit. Because it’s been months and he thinks he still grieves Wilbur. It’s never gotten easier. He clings to the old Pogtopia coat his brother had given him and he finds himself wanting to burst into pieces all over again.

And listen, Wilbur isn’t dead, obviously. It should feel like a gift, but when Ghostbur had taken his place it felt like the shittiest thing ever. The worst and best parts of his brother can never coexist, it seems. Tommy wishes so deeply to be burned alive for it. See, because the Wilbur he knew and loved was both incredible and cruel. That’s who he misses. That’s who he still craves when he’s staring at his ceiling in the middle of the night. Because truly, he’s still but a child. And his body is growing too fast for him to catch up with.

It’s silly, but when Tommy’s really missing Wilbur, he’ll remember the way he could so easily apologize and mean it. He remembers crying when he was little after Wilbur threw a cup at his head. He remembers fearing him and wishing he was better. He remembers Wilbur gathering him in his arms and hushing him. He remembers feeling safe.

“I never meant to do that,” Wilbur would say. He would clutch him close and his embraces were comforting. Tommy felt like he could melt into them and emerge from them stronger. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry.”

“You always say that,” Tommy would say. Wilbur would pathetically laugh.

“I always mean it,” he’d whisper. “I swear.”

Tommy wonders how Tubbo does it. See, because Tubbo has loved and lost and known pain oh-so fucking much. They found him in a box. He was fourteen and Wilbur was still kind, and they found Tubbo in a fucking box near their home. What had Tubbo known? What had he lost? Tommy doesn’t know. Tubbo doesn’t talk about it.

Yet, he seems fine with it.

Shroud hisses. Tommy turns over in bed. The ceiling is fuzzy and the world is spinning. Everything is repeated in his mind. Like the stuttering of a disc.

His communicator is buzzing. Tommy reaches for it.

“Ayup.”

“Tommy. Hi!” It’s Tubbo. “Are you busy?”

Is he? Tommy rubs his eyes and sits up, alert. His uncomfortable bed creaks in protest.

“Am I busy?” Tommy wonders out loud. He mulls over this because he really doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he even knows what day it is. “I don’t think so.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I dunno.”

“How do you not know—”

“What do you want, Tubso?” Tommy grouses, plopping back down onto his pillows. Tubbo audibly sighs over the line.

“You need to check on the trees today. I’ve kinda just been letting them grow and they don’t really have a shape.”

Tommy tries to interpret this. He doesn’t really know what ‘check on’ or ‘shape’ means or entails. Does Tubbo want him to cut them? Grow more? Tommy scowls.

“I’m not gonna go to your place just to look at some oranges,” he decides to say.

“No—” Tubbo starts, snorting over the line. “No, Boss Man. I need you to bone meal some. Plant some new seeds if any are dead. Ya know, take care of them. Garden.”

“Sure,” Tommy sighs. “You could have just said that.”

“You know how to take care of trees, Tommy.”

Tommy pulls the comm away from him for a moment, baffled. “No? Fucker, literally when?”

There’s rustling over the line. Tubbo’s voice becomes clearer. “What, so you weren’t there when Wilbur taught us how to take care of apple trees with Techno?”

Tommy feels something inside of him stop working.

“No?”

“...oh,” Tubbo says. There’s a pause, and then— “Oh. We—oh, yeah. That was Nikki and me.” An awkward laugh. “Sorry. I mixed you guys up. I—sorry.”

He can’t gauge Tubbo’s state. He’s being weird now. Overly cautious. Tommy pulls the communicator away from himself to stare.

“Just bone meal?” Tommy finds himself asking. Tubbo hums over the line. “Alright, Tubbso. I got you, King.”

“Thanks.”

Tommy sets down the communicator. He rubs at his eyes and forces himself out of bed, but that’s a good thing. Without the grove, Tommy is sure he’d spend most of his time sleeping the day away. Fatigue weighs down on him a lot, but even what’s even heavier is the fucking boredom. Mining and grinding isn’t something worth living for. Not even the threat of Dream’s escape makes him want to.

And maybe that’s a little depressing.

Shroud hisses as Tommy lazily pats his cage. He washes his face in a cauldron nearby, trying to force energy back into his step. When his dumb eyes stare back at him from the water’s reflection, Tommy turns away, and rubs his face dry with the front of his shirt. His white hair spills over his forehead. Tommy shoves it into a hat.

It takes ten minutes to reach Snowchester. By now, Tommy knows the path to Tubbo’s home by heart, and he feels almost whole seeing it come into view again.

He’s safer here. He doesn’t know what particularly led to Tubbo and Ranboo offering a room to him, but he’s grateful for it, definitely. People don’t bother him deep in the mansion. Quackity does, sometimes, when he likes to talk and ask for things, but Quackity is someone he trusts and who Tommy knows has his back. He’s earned bothering Tommy.

Snow has melted further away from the mansion. It’s good for the trees, surely. Keeps the soil fertile. And the bonemeal will do them good, too. He and Tubbo will have a healthy grove.

Tommy approaches from the front of the house. There’s someone near the garden’s gate, staring into the back. Tommy almost doesn’t recognize it until the figure turns.

“Tommy!” sings Wilbur, those little maroon eyes of his squinting up in amusement. They’re a handful of metres away, but even from here, Tommy can smell the nicotine on his sibling. It seems Wilbur’s been restless.

“Wrong address,” Tommy deadpans. He fumbles with the front of his cardigan, pulling it closer as the wind blows by like some taunting fucking witness, and turns. Wilbur grabs him by the wrist. Tommy yanks it away. “Don’t you fucking—”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m just here to talk.” Wilbur soothes, pulling away and raising his hands in mock surrender. There’s a cigarette in between two of his fingers. Tommy eyes it disdainfully. Wilbur seems to catch on, and flicks it away from his hand, stomping it down with his boot. “There. See? Now, let’s—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I know I taught you better decorum than that,” Wilbur scolds. Tommy grits his teeth.

“Wil.”

Wilbur regards him, wiping something off his nose. He looks unimpressed; bored, maybe. Tommy shifts under his gaze, and when Wilbur shoves his hands into his pockets, Tommy breaks eye contact, uncomfortable. It’s like Wilbur is Prometheus with hands large enough to put out the fire he lit inside of Tommy.

Wilbur sighs, almost disappointed.

“I was trying to reach you. I need gold. You know, if you’re trying to avoid me, you’re doing a pretty shit job at it,” Wilbur says. “I could give you a few pointers next time, if you want. A silent treatment tactic might work better if you’re really trying to show me, but knowing you, I doubt you’d be able to keep quiet for so long—”

“Something is up your fucking ass,” Tommy hisses. “Keep fucking talkin’ Wil. Keep being a pussy-ass bitch and see where it gets you. Because there’s a whole lot of server that doesn’t like you and—”

Wilbur barks out a laugh.

“Go on!” he easily says. “Go on and get them Tommy. If threatening me makes you feel better, then go ahead. ”

Tommy freezes, baffled. “I’m not—I’m not fucking threatening you, Wil—”

“Good.” his brother says, pulling back with a quickly relaxing expression waving over him. “No, of course. You don’t have that in you.”

Something is wrong. Really wrong.

“What the hell,” Tommy says. He snorts, only it’s on instinct—this fucking thing his body is doing because he thinks he’s in shock. “What the fuck.”

Wilbur purses his lips, and observes him for a moment. His eyes snap from here to there and it’s obvious he’s jotting down little notes in that crazy mind of his. He seems like he’s holding himself back from something.

“Saw that little grove of yours,” Wilbur says after a moment. “Pretty impressive. I didn’t know oranges were in season. Or native to the server.” He hums in thought before his eyes are widening and he’s snapping his fingers. “—Ah. Imported! Who’s got the connection? Can’t be you—you don’t even know where France is. So let me guess: Quackity?”

Of course. It makes sense that the conversation would naturally lead back to Wilbur’s enemy like that. Wilbur has always had obsessive tendencies. Tommy rolls his eyes.

“You know what—I don’t fucking care anymore. I’m leaving,” he says, and he makes it one step—two, three—before Wilbur is shoving roughly at his shoulder with his palm. Tommy spins around, hand digging into his inventory for a weapon. “If you don’t—”

“Your impatience pisses me off,” Wilbur admits. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m not here to piddle around, man.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

Tommy wants to laugh.

“Oh yeah?” he spits. “And what I’ve been up to? ‘Cause it can’t be any fuckin’ worse than trying to murder innocent sheep or blowing nations up for the hell of it.”

Wilbur coolly regards him.

“If you’re not over that by now,” he’s told, “then that’s your own pity party to throw. I’m not enabling you there. I’m no Ghostbur.”

Fuck him. Fuck Wilbur, for treating this like a whole game. For making it seem like it was all some small little thing when it wasn’t the biggest part of Tommy’s life. Like it wasn’t the catalyst to Tommy’s descent into realizing he really doesn’t fucking deserve to be here.

Tommy shakily inhales. “No,” he forcefully says. “No, you definitely aren’t.”

Wilbur smacks Tommy’s head. It’s hard.

Tommy startles, and pulls back, eyes widened. It’s like he’s eight again.

“Dye exists,” sighs Wilbur, fingers twitching. He flicks a lock of hair out of his face, eyes tracing the hill beside them erratically before snapping back to Tommy. A sneer builds on his expression. “What, can you not manage that, at least?”

His hair. Wilbur is looking at his hair. As if that’s his newest priority now.

“Dye doesn’t fucking work on me,” Tommy spits.

Wilbur frowns. “Shame. I like your blond hair. It’s better on you. Now you look like some withered old man.”

Tommy slaps Wilbur’s hand away, and grabs at his hat, pulling it onto his head more.

“I know.”

Tommy turns away. He tries not to think about it too much. Because like many things, Tommy thinks he’s in the mourning process for his hair too. Sometimes he wakes up and hopes he’ll find himself back to his normal self again with blond hair and all to greet the day, but that’s never the case. And the realization tears him apart every time. If Wilbur fucking knew that—if he knew how much he hated it, too—maybe they’d both finally reach an understanding somewhere.

Because Tommy feels like an outsider more than ever. Like he’s farther from a friend or family member and more like a walking and breathing ghost but nothing more to say. Tommy used to adore his hair—because, in truth, when Tommy was a child, he liked to imagine himself as Philza’s son. He knows he’s adopted—Wilbur has always made that very clear—but reality can never stop a child’s imagination, and so the hope was always there regardless. The blue eyes, too, helped a lot since Philza has his own pair. And it felt so fucking good to be part of the group. It felt like he was loved sometimes, because of it.

And like, sure, Wilbur was Philza’s son by all means, but Tommy thinks Wil would have fared better in his Lady Mother’s arms than Philza. Maybe then Tommy could have been Philza’s as a result. Like Techno was. Is.

“Not that it’s ugly,” Wilbur says. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is racing so fast he feels like he’ll have a fucking heart attack. “I mean, it’s no Dream, but it definitely makes you look like you’re trying to say ‘hey, look wh—”

“Stop,” Tommy pleads. “Stop. What are you doing? What the fuck—You’re being fucking weird.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Christ. You act like I’m not allowed to speak.”

“You’re being weird,” Tommy insists. “What do you want, Wil?”

“What, indeed,” Wilbur says. He gives a lame smile. “I dunno, Tommy. I think I’m rather more comfortable if you told me what you want.”

“What.”

“It’s all rather funny. First you’re telling me I’m not allowed to be friends with Ranboo, and now I hear you’re yelling at him over comms because he wants to work. You seem taken with the idea of guilting him.” Wilbur leans down, eying him curiously. “Isn’t that so?”

Tommy swallows. He averts his gaze, hands curling into fists for a moment. “Ranboo is my friend—”

“So you’ve said. And you know what, Tommy? Jealousy is an ugly beast.” Wilbur’s eyes are widened. “It’s an infectious little creature and it’s a rather bad habit to let it grow the way you have.”

Tommy doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels the breath being sucked out of him—he feels the world tremble under his feet and he hears the skies scream like they’re beginning the seven trumpet’s march to the fucking end. Wilbur, unsurprisingly, has fucking pulled something from him he didn’t know he still had left to give. Even after all this, he still takes.

Wilbur pats his cheek gently. Almost like it’s an apology for before.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says mildly. “And trust me—sabotage isn’t your forte, Toms. Leave it up to the professionals.”

What is he even— Tommy’s fist trembles, but he hides it in his sleeves. He swallows. “I don’t—”

“You’d be surprised how quickly a tree takes to one flame,” Wilbur whispers. “Now I see why they push for forrest fire prevention in schools. I mean—who could have known, really? I swear, it was only one cigarette. How was I supposed to know your fucking trees would eat it up? But I guess that doesn’t really matter, does it?” He hums, and perks up. “At least we can put this whole thing to rest now. And really, I’m trying my best to be better—honest! But I don’t need you fucking messing it up for me, Tommy. So this? Consider it a well learned lesson from the two of us. You get it, right? You’ve always been so smart.”

“What—” Tommy says, startling, but that’s when he sees it. Smoke. He twirls on Wilbur, horrified. Wilbur’s gaze switches to the sky as well, and he’s fascinated. “What did you do.”

Wilbur is smiling, but he seems like he doesn’t even fucking mean it. He seems like he’s upset. Regretful. Wilbur seems like he wants to die all over again. But then, it’s all gone. And Wilbur is back to square one, grinning just like he used to do.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers uselessly, and from his pocket, he pulls an orange. Wilbur places it into his palm, curling Tommy’s fingers around its cold skin. “They’ll grow back.”

Tommy doesn’t dare feel bad. He’s the one who moulded this evil out of clay.

It’s the smell of dry soil and irritating grass blades staining his skin that make it feel real. This weird little feeling of nostalgia and youth; this gentle fear sweeping over him when bees pass by too closely—maybe it’s a stranger. Maybe they only exist in those fleeting moments where he misses being a child.

Sometimes, Tommy feels like a recreation. Sometimes these little things remind him he’s not all gone yet. See, because his hands are still sweaty, his hair is still a mess, and his trainers are just as dirty as they’ve always been. And his bench still creaks when weight is pressed upon it, and his Tubbo still laughs in that wheezing way he does when joy overwhelms his small body. It’s not all gone. Not yet.

He and Tubs are at the bench today. They do that sometimes: sit under the tree, observe the SMP, and enjoy each other's presence. They’re quiet more often than not nowadays though, and it’s definitely more awkward-feeling, but Tommy thinks he’s grateful he can have this anyway. He was so close to losing Tubbo not so long ago. Dream has a penchant for the dramatics and that includes cruel-and-usual punishments.

“I hear he only gets potatoes,” Tubbo says from beside him, and those oak tree green eyes of his are squinting in glee. It seems like he’s been trying to find something to say for a while. Tubbo waves his hand. “Heard Sam talking to Bad about it. Karma, huh?”

“It’s what he fucking deserves, innit?” Tommy snorts. Tubbo exhales, his amusement almost palpable.

They’re on about Dream again. Lately, Dream is a topic they resort to quickly when they’ve run out of things to say. It’s easier that way, but still, Tommy wonders at what point this whole them thing got so hard to navigate. Tommy sometimes thinks they’re like the smallest two boats set upon dark waters, with waves calm at first but just becoming bigger and bigger as the days fly by, with their boats drifting further and further apart. But maybe that’s just Tommy being paranoid again.

“Friend eats more than that, though,” jokes Tubbo. “I like potatoes as much as the next guy, but just potatoes?”

“He’s gonna be shittin’,” says Tommy.

In the background, Cat is playing. They’re back to old habits, or at least, they’re trying to be. It all seems off, though. Every so often, the disc will stutter and reveal itself as a fraud. Broken, but still playing—unmoving, familiar, but not theirs. Tommy loathes it.

Tubbo grins. “He’s lucky you can do so much with potatoes!” he exclaims. “Cook em, fry em, bake em, mash em. Shoulda been carrots.”

Tommy’s nose scrunches up in thought. “You can mash potatoes?”

Within the jukebox, the disc whines again, but Tommy tries to pretend he doesn’t hear it even though it grates on his fucking nerves. Tubbo shifts. He eyes him, then squints.

“Yeah,” he says rather slowly, “they’re called mashed potatoes.”

Tommy blinks. “Oh.”

He’s never had them.

Tubbo rolls his eyes. Cat seems like it wants attention because it does its annoying little fucking skip again. Ignore it, Tommy thinks, but then it goes again, and he can’t stop himself from frowning.

Tubbo reaches for the jukebox. “Man,” he sighs.

“It’s scratched,” Tommy complains, reaching as well. He gets to it before Tubbo can because he’s closer. Cat the disc pops out. “Mate—I told you, Tubs! It’s ruined now. Dream fucked it up.”

“Nah,” says Tubbo. He takes the thing from him and holds it carefully in his hands. “We still can fix it! We can’t let a disc get in the way of our fun, man.”

Tubbo is surveying the grooves within the disc. He breathes on the surface of it and wipes it with his sleeve. The scratch still remains. Tubbo frowns, contemplative. Just like Wilbur, Tommy recalls. He had this look about him when he was in thought. He’d furrow his brows and click his teeth. Tubbo looks kind of like him sometimes; they have the same hair colour, though Wilbur’s is a lot more dark chocolate than almond.

“I told you,” says Tommy. Suddenly, he thinks the oak leaf he’s holding is rather interesting, so he scratches at it and finds the green surface building up in his fingernails. “I told you he’s ruined it now. I told you it totally fuckin’ was—”

“It’s not,” says Tubbo. He holds the disc up against the sky. Tommy feels himself grow quickly irritated. He knows Tubs is trying but there’s something about the discs he doesn’t want to salvage. Either they’re in pristine condition or forever lost—this little in-between doesn’t sit well with him. It’s too similar to himself.

Tubbo snaps. “We—we can find clay and cover the scratch! Or-or, we can find another—”

“It’s ruined.”

“It’ll be alright,” Tubbo soothes. “Dream can’t fuck this up too.”

Tommy gives him a look so he can fucking drop it. Tubbo purses his lips, and huffs out, almost frustrated with him. He hands the disc back, slumping in the seat. Whatever, Tommy thinks. They both knew this wouldn’t last forever.

“You still have Mellohi,” Tubbo says as consolation, but Tommy doesn’t want to think about that either. He adores (or rather, adored?) his discs, it’s true, but Mellohi isn’t his anymore—just like Cat, just like the bench. It’s all fucking changed now. Tommy remembers that Mellohi has been held by Dream’s hand the most because Dream has always liked the disc more. It was so dramatic, he had said. Tommy has never understood his fascination. Even now, he still really doesn’t.

So: “Mellohi isn’t the same,” is what Tommy says in reply. Tubbo shrugs because he doesn’t get it.

“Oh-seven,” he says. His mouth quirks into a smile when Tommy glares at him. “We’ll find more, Toms. Our own—”

“It’s not the same,” he insists. Tubbo blinks but then narrows his eyes at him. Tommy holds his gaze for a moment before turning away in shame. Tubbo kicks his feet back and forth.

“It’ll be better,” he says eventually. “You’ll see. It won’t all be fucked up forever.”

“Dunno what you’re on about. It’s already better,” Tommy mumbles. “I’m out here and he’s in there.” He jabs his finger in the prison’s direction. “His shit’s all safe, though.”

“I have his armour!” says Tubbo, straightening. Tommy grits his teeth.

“It’s not the same,” he says again. Tubbo sighs.

“Yeah, yeah,” he groans. “Not the same. I know. ‘Cause the discs are all that matter.”

“That’s not—” Tommy starts. He snaps his mouth shut angrily—because no, no, he isn't going to be fucking misunderstood again when he’s so tired of this, of having to defend himself—and then opens it again. “Dream doesn’t give a shit about anything,” he bites out, “and these are fuckin’ mine and he ruined them, okay? So it’s not the same. Fuckin—” he stumbles, “shut up, Tubbo.”

He’s doing it again. Tommy snaps his mouth shut and clenches his fist on his lap. That was uncalled for, he thinks. He’s being ugly—awful, shitty, and a neverending piece of real fucking work. Dream wouldn’t ever have let him get away with it. Neither would Wilbur. Tommy sucks in a nervous breath.

Tubbo frowns.

“You’re being mean,” he quietly says.

Tommy says nothing, wanting to slump into his seat. This is too different, he thinks. This, them—the bickering. It’s so different and yet exactly what they used to be. But Tubbo doesn’t deserve this; he doesn’t deserve their old habits. It’s what drove to Tommy have nightmares about the deep sea and sand and lonely winter parties.

It might be the pattern they have that moves him. It’s all so hard to get into sometimes. Because after everything, the familiarity and the growth and the defeat and the victories feel barely manageable. They feel like they’re held in fistfuls at a time and seldom bring the same comfort they used to. Maybe Tommy’s grown too quickly for them to grow with him. Maybe he needs to take a page from Wilbur’s book and shut up forever.

Tommy mentally slaps himself. No. Stop. This is pathetic.

“Sorry,” Tommy eventually mumbles, giving himself a slight slap on the cheek. He turns towards Tubbo. “Sorry. Misdirected anger.”

“S’alright,” says Tubbo. Tommy gives him a strained smile. Tubbo tries to return it.

Tommy finds himself back in Las Nevadas without really meaning to. At first, he was surrounded by grassy plains, but then it was snow and then, ever so slowly, it descended into this sea of sand that threatened to pull him under completely. Tommy keeps tripping all over the small dunes. He’s not thinking straight.

It’s funny, how this is where he ends up. It’s like somehow, for some reason, his body knows the rational path from home to safety is from Snowchester to Las Nevadas. It’s like it’s fully aware he’s just following Tubbo’s footsteps to and fro.

Tommy stumbles again. Sand spills into his shoes.

Las Nevadas’s buildings stand tall. They’re these goliaths of hope and a capitalism Tommy thinks he’s missed. The Needle burns itself within his mind, and maybe he has half an urge to wander over and force himself to its ledge, but he decides not to. The buildings behind him burn hotter, he feels. Calls at him like some siren he remembers Wilbur swooning over ever so long ago.

The door chimes as Tommy slips into Tubburger.

“Tommy,” says Quackity, blinking in surprise. He’s sat at a booth near the register, with papers spread across the surface. There’s no Tubbo in sight. “Tommy, welcome! I wasn’t expecting you to visit.”

No, of course not. Tommy himself doesn’t really know what he’s doing here either. He just knows he can’t be around the mansion right now. And maybe he wants to see Tubbo, but now that he knows Tubbo isn’t here, he thinks he feels actually relieved about that too. Because maybe he still has time now. And Quackity is always so fucking kind and helpful to him. Las Nevadas, he realizes, makes him feel safe in a way he’s never felt in L’manburg. It’s a different feeling entirely.

Quckity’s hands grab onto Tommy’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey, hey—” Quackity steadies him, his grip tight. He leans down to catch Tommy’s gaze, frowning as he’s inspected. “What happened? Are you okay? If you’re…” Quackity pauses, scowling. “If someone did anything—”

“No.” Tommy sniffles, and squeezes his bleary eyes shut for a moment. He blinks the fatigue away from his mind so he can properly think of a response. “No. Nobody did anything. I—” he laughs, pressing a hand against his face. “I’m sorry, Big Q. I think I’m really fuckin’ tired—”

“Let’s sit.”

Carefully, Quackity guides Tommy to his booth like he’s some dumb little cow. In another situation, maybe Tommy would have indignantly batted him away, but right now he feels like he’s fallen so fucking far that he maybe needs this now. Life is easier when people can just tell him what to do. He’s impulsive, it’s true, but he’s never been much of a good leader. Not for others, not for himself, not for fucking anything.

Tommy resists the urge to melt into the booth once he sits. He scratches the surface of the table and bumps into a paper with his nail. He embarrassingly startles.

“You alright?” asks Quackity.

“Yeah, Big Q. I’m, uh—” Tommy’s eyes flicker to the documents on the table to his face. He feels like he’s just run a marathon. “You doing some business shit?”

Quackity sighs and nods. He runs a hand over a face, and suddenly, Tommy notes how tired he really looks. He feels bad for even coming over.

“Yeah,” says Quackity. He smiles. “I’m working around some budgeting. Fundy said he wanted a flower shop or something. Or maybe it was a cookie shop? Either way, he wanted to expand the market. No idea why he’s all of a sudden so invested but I’m not complaining. Good for the economy.”

That’s good for them, Tommy thinks. It’s good that they’re finally trying to be happy.

“Wilbur and Ranboo are expanding too,” Tommy remembers.

“So I’ve heard,” Quackity says. “Let them. They aren’t any of my business and I trust Ranboo not to get too wrapped into it. He’s a good guy.”

Tommy quietly nods. His first instinct is to agree, but his actions have been so contradictory to that opinion he feels like he has to disagree due to just obligation alone. It’s the fucking pride, he’s sure.

“And uh. Listen, Tommy,” Quackity quietly says. “I don’t know what’s up, but if Wilbur did anything—”

Tommy’s throat closes up.

Why was that Quackity’s first immediate reaction? Is—are Wilbur and him so interconnected that Tommy can’t be upset without him being the cause? Is this all so obvious? Is Tommy not Tommy without a taller ghost of his brother behind him? Maybe, Tommy thinks. Because sometimes he and Wilbur feel so fucking close and with their fates so interlocked he doesn’t know where he starts and Wilbur ends.

Tommy is aggressively shaking his head. This isn’t the point.

“I just need oranges, Big Q,” he says, voice hoarse. He scratches at the table again, pace rapid. “Do you have any left? I—well, I know you were trying to start a new mini market and I—uh…”

Quackity is making a face at him. Tommy’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach. “Oranges?”

“Yeah…” Tommy swallows. “For your… For cakes?”

Quackity is furrowing his eyebrows before something hopeful flickers in his expression. “Did you want to start a bakery?”

“What? No. It’s for Tubburger.”

“I don’t know anything about oranges for Tubburger.” Quackity says. He sits up, placing his forearms squarely on the table. “What’s this about, Tommy?”

“I—our grove. Me and Tubbo had a grove, and—” Tommy pauses. No. He can’t. He can’t tell Quackity what Wilbur’s done. He wants to talk about it so bad, but Wilbur is like a fucking little insect and every one of his actions always has a million consequences caused by the fucking eggs hatched. Tommy imagines that the buildings would only grow taller if he told Quackity. He imagines that Tubbo would work longer hours and Ranboo would grow even quieter to make space for Wilbur’s incessant chattering. He imagines Michael would fight over the communicator more and he imagines the sky would be so full of cigarette smoke it’d suffocate them all. Tommy grits his teeth. “I burned it down.”

“On purpose?”

“Sort of,” Tommy says. “I just—I need seeds. To replant.” He wraps his arms around himself. Quietly, he whispers: “I messed up, Big Q.”

And he has. He’s the one who pushed that first fucking domino and led Wilbur to this point. Tommy, for some reason, has caused something within Wilbur even from biomes away. Maybe he’s impressed by his own feats.

“Do you have any oranges at all?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Just one. But it’s fucking nothing compared to everything and—”

Quackity snaps his fingers.

“Aha! I have bonemeal. Shit tons of it. You have it, Tommy. Plant those seeds and you’ll have more in no time,” Quackity says. Tommy feels warmed by that, but he doesn’t know how to explain that it isn’t the same at all.

“But it’ll take forever to grow,” he quietly says. “And Tubbo needs those oranges soon.”

Quackity slowly nods. “Because of Tubburger.”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” says Quackity. “Well, listen Tommy, I didn’t know that’s what Tubbo wanted to do. Dunno why he can’t just sell normal cakes like I suggested he do but I guess orange cakes or pies or whatever can work too. Either way, the oranges aren’t a priority. He’ll be alright.”

“But Tubbo said you told him to do that,” Tommy says.

“Do what? Make orange cakes?”

Confused, Tommy nods. “Yeah?”

Quackity pulls back, crossing his arms as he mulls this over. He looks confused for a moment, and then his eyes are widening like he’s had an epiphany. It’s almost like Wilbur, but no. Tommy knows Quackity is so fucking different. He’s normal in his movements. Not kind or gentle, but normal. Nonthreatening and safe. Tommy feels something in his heart grow fond of his friend for some reason.

Quackity smiles but looks like he’s trying to hold it back. Like something is amusing him so much he doesn’t wanna show it. He pulls closer, and leans in.

“Tubbo loves you a lot, man,” he tells him, voice soft. He exhales and relaxes, eyes tracing some of his document’s outlines. “You know, sometimes I’m jealous I don’t have what you guys have, you know? It seems like Tubbo would do anything for you, just to see you safe and happy. You too. It’s fucking nice, man.”

Tommy swallows. He doesn’t understand.

“Anyways, that’s besides the point,” says Quackity. He stands, clapping his hands cheerily. “Come on. Let me show you the chest."

He doesn’t put out the fire. He lets it burn, but makes sure to cut down the ones too close to the mansion. Then, he fucking goes inside and buries himself under his blankets. He screams into his blue pillow and tries not to be upset because this is the consequence of his actions, but still. He lets himself curl up in a fetal position anyway. Sometimes it’s okay to be a child.

Most days Tommy thinks that he’s truly getting over this entire death thing, but sometimes the weight of it manages to be impossible to bear. Like maybe he can’t breathe and Dream is beside him with his hands clenched into fists all over again. Like maybe every little shadow passing him isn’t a tree but rather a person, angry at him and at all the mistakes he’s made.

Tommy finds it a struggle to forget what it means to be afraid. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. Because now instead of TNT, instead of fists, or obsidian, or the sea, it’s fire. Fire and oranges and the ever-familiar napalm sky it creates. And it never stops being the colours of an angry sunset.

When Tommy next opens his eyes, Tubbo is there, panting.

“I’m not upset,” says his friend. Tubbo sets down his coat and inhales. “I just. I just want to know why.”

Tommy sits up. His mouth is dry. It’s like his voice has been stolen from him—taken and crushed into a little stone that’s been lost within their raging sea. If he tries to dig his hand into the water, his fingers only barely brush the surface.

“Is it—” Tubbo swallows. “Is it because of the other day? I thought we were good, Tommy.”

“We—” Tommy croaks. He swallows. “We are.”

“Then why?”

I don’t know, Tommy wants to say. I just want to save us all and I keep fucking failing. I’m sorry.

But he can’t. Because while Wilbur burned everything down, wasn’t it Tommy, really, who led him to that point? Because Tommy can preach about being better and being a good person, but at the end of the day, he’s still all the parts of Wilbur he loathes about himself. And Wilbur is still all the parts of him that Tommy wishes he could burn away as he does with the loose threads of Wilbur's old brown Pogtopian coat.

Sometimes, Tommy thinks these are the little ugly things that define adulthood, maybe. Sometimes he’s angry that Wilbur never prepared him for it, though, really, there’s so much more to be angry at Wilbur over. That anger, that rage that pushes him so close to screaming and crying—it lives in the heart of the nation his brother fucking blew up. Tommy tries not to feel upset over it because it doesn’t matter—not truly. Because he’s learned his lesson now.

Tommy sometimes finds it funny how much left he still has to learn.

Nobody understands how hard it is to move on when the past takes to being the dry soil that grows a spoiled future. When that future is only promised to spread like an infected vine because the gardener is too attached to restart. When that gardener still lies in wait, like a lazed lion, besides its crops and watches it all fall apart. Because it’s easier to let them do as they please than put in that effort.

Tommy forces himself to stand.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He blinks, and his eyes flicker up to Tubbo. “It was an accident.”

A lie. A fucking lie.

“It’s—” says Tubbo. He smiles, but it falls short. He’s quiet. “I’m not mad.”

“You should be.”

Tubbo shakes his head. He sits down on Tommy’s bed. “I saw you replanted them. So you tried to fix it.”

Tommy quietly nods.

“It’s okay, Tommy.”

Tommy scowls. He can’t help it.

“Tubbo, I—” he starts but stops short. He’s emotional, all of a sudden. “Something is fucked up about all of us and I don’t know what. Something is fucking wrong all of the time and I dunno what to do.”

“Yeah?” Tubbo asks.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “I-it’s like I’m some fuckin’ tree waiting to get struck down or something. And Dream is the lightning and Wilbur is—he’s the fuckin’ thunder and they’re just waiting for me to mess up again. Like I already have—did. I’m just—” Tommy wetly laughs. “I’m fucked up, Tubbo.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo says. “It’s alright.”

“I burned down our fucking grove.”

“And I forgive you,” Tubbo says.

“It was ours—”

Tubbo shoves Tommy. “I forgive you, Tommy. Stop it.”

“Why?” Tommy asks. “Why do you fucking not care that I’m a bad person?”

Tubbo aggressively inhales. “Because there are no bad people,” he says. “It’s not all black and white. Because there are the bad things people do and then there are the things they can do to fix them. And yeah, you fucking fly away from me sometimes and do your dumb stuff, but you always come back. And we always fix it. That’s what we do.”

Tommy laughs. He can’t help it. Some things don’t change. Some things will always be there to surprise him. Like fucking Tubbo and this realization that he’ll never hate him the way Tommy thinks he does when he’s feeling insecure. Like this gentle comprehending that Tommy will always wish he was a better fucking friend to someone who deserves so much more than him. But maybe that’s just what they’re meant to be—the newer, better, less fucked up violent reprise of the musical duo he and Wilbur used to be so long fucking ago.