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Tommy’s scared of a lot of things. Small spaces, Dream, losing the people he loves. However, there’s one fear nobody knows about, because Tommy never brings it up.
He is absolutely fucking petrified of heights. He never was before, and he blames exile – blames Dream for the quivering, cowardly mess he’s become.
He’s never told anyone. Not even Tubbo. So, when he and Wilbur travel to Logstedshire, and they begin towering right next to the structure that could have been his grave, he has to fight to maintain his composure.
Wilbur notices. Of course he does.
“Tommy?” The small platform of dirt beneath Wilbur’s feet crunches as he shifts his weight. “You alright, man?”
Tommy swallows; forces a smile. “‘Course I am, big man.”
Wilbur crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Right.” His lips quirk up into the tiniest of smiles. It’s lighthearted; teasing, and Tommy knows that, but his heart still sinks. “Good to know your lying hasn’t gotten any better.”
Tommy keeps up the act; doesn’t let the mask slip. He scoffs. “Fuck off, Wil, I–”
Then, his gaze drops to the ground far below him, and everything flies out the window because oh fuck he’s really fucking high up holy shit that’s a long drop.
Wilbur follows his gaze, and his eyes widen in recognition. Without saying a word, he takes more dirt blocks from his inventory and begins connecting them to the side of his tower, creating a bridge which dips slightly to meet Tommy’s own. Careful not to accidentally knock either of them off, Wilbur takes Tommy by the shoulders. Tommy flinches, and Wilbur squeezes; a feeble attempt at comfort. He notices Tommy’s breathing has grown more erratic, and the colour has drained from his face.
“Tommy, look at me.”
Tommy’s gaze snaps up to meet Wilbur’s. His eyes are glazed over.
“Don’t look down, okay?” Wilbur’s hands move to Tommy’s arms, slowly rubbing up and down. “Keep your eyes on me. You’re alright, I promise you’ll be alright.”
Tommy doesn’t speak. Wilbur pulls him close, takes out a shovel, and gets to work digging the dirt out from beneath them, slowly lowering them to the ground. Even after their feet meet solid terrain, Tommy stays clung to Wilbur for several seconds before hesitantly pulling back.
“...Fuck,” he eventually breathes, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Shit, I’m sorry Wil, I–”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Wilbur snaps, regretting it immediately when Tommy flinches. His voice drops to something lower; quieter. “You were scared, Tommy. It’s normal.”
Tommy averts his gaze. “Yeah, but– but not for me.”
Wilbur frowns. “What do you–”
“I’m scared of heights, Wilbur.” Yeah, as if that isn’t already painfully obvious. “And… I wasn’t before.”
Wilbur crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “People develop new fears all the time, Tommy, it’s–”
“Yeah, but I doubt those fears come from jumping off a big, fuck off tower and nearly ending it all.”
Wilbur freezes. “What?”
Tommy gestures to the tower in the distance. “You want to know what that is, Wilbur? That’s where I went to kill myself because of what Dream did. The bottom of that tower almost became my grave, and so whenever I’m too high up, I just– I think about this and the fact that I let Dream worm his ugly Teletubby ass into my brain and mess with my head. So… yeah, I fucking hate heights now. Are you happy?”
Wilbur isn’t listening anymore. A more accurate phrase would be he can no longer hear Tommy; can no longer hear anything. Tommy’s voice and the sounds echoing throughout the SMP have all faded into white noise, and Wilbur finds himself in a place he vaguely recognises, surrounded by obsidian walls on every side. Behind him, he can hear the bubbles and pops of lava; feels the heat on his back.
“Wilbur?”
And there, standing in front of him, trapped in the lone prison cell, is Dream.