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It's when they're preparing for yet another war that the penny finally drops. Somewhere before the battle, in Techno's vault, amidst the clattering of armor. They root through double chests in twin motions.
Tommy pauses as he shuffles a stack of golden apples into his inventory.
"You never-" He gives Tubbo a funny look, tilting his head as if the realization has only now clicked in his mind. "You never cried. After the festival."
Tubbo hums. He doesn't look up, trains his eyes- eye on the glittering emeralds lined up in neat rows in the chest. He fakes naivety.
"Didn't I?"
"You didn't."
Tommy's gaze is locked on him. It burns, an all-encompassing blaze like he's been out in the sun too long. It's comforting in some way, familiar as fire always is, but too much.
Tubbo hates more than anything that he can't stomach Tommy's attention anymore. He hates more than he's ever hated in his life that it has become too suffocating for him to bear.
He doesn't meet Tommy's eyes. He closes the chest. When his bandaged hand bumps against the wood, he doesn't feel it.
"I guess I didn't."
Something tenses minutely in Tommy's posture, and Tubbo clocks it without even turning his head. He supposes that they'll always know each other in this way.
"You--... I think, y'know, maybe… I think you should've."
Tubbo finally turns, a laugh in his voice, ready to return a clipped, 'What does that mean?' in reply. The question dies on his tongue when Tommy beats him to the punchline.
When referring to a 'punchline', Tubbo really does mean something that punches. Something that socks you in the gut, sends you reeling backwards and leaves you all alone, heaving on the pavement. Something that swings and makes such potent contact that the static shock seems to shuffle around your insides, until your heart is where your head should be and your lungs seem to have gone missing entirely.
"You used to cry all the time."
And the world seems to stop turning.
Part of him wants to wail at that statement alone. Part of him wants to crawl into one of those double chests lining the room, curl up where nobody can see him, and sob until there's nothing but an empty pit left in his chest where working human parts should be. At times like these, where all of the cogs stop turning at a moment's notice and his whole world grinds to a halt, he feels like a broken machine, forever doomed to repeat a function that was programmed into him wrong.
Some weak, terrified part of him will never adjust to that new programming. He will always be achingly aware of swords that are too heavy for his hold, armor that doesn’t fit him right, small hands laced with bandages that he can’t feel against his skin. He will always be aware of summers perfect for picking flowers, first snowfalls, and the resignation that comes with going to war on those days in spite of the whole world begging him to lay down and rest for just a few moments. And he will always be aware of the fact that if he gives in, he will never stand for battle again.
Another part of him, an angrier part, wants to just sock Tommy in the face and run. Another part of him wants to scream, scream at Tommy for dragging him along, scream at Technoblade for loading that crossbow, scream at every single person in the world for letting two kids go to war.
But Tommy's nose isn’t fully healed from when Techno broke it in the pit. There’s still an only-partially-healed cut under his eye. His lips are split in several places, and bitten to hell and back from late nights of agonizing over Tubbo’s injuries alongside Niki.
So Tubbo doesn't move. Someplace in his head, the cold, mechanical part of him wins. The cogs click back into motion, and he wishes this conversation was over.
Tommy pulls his gaze from Tubbo's glazed expression and back to the chest in front of him, which he closes.
"I don't mean that in a--... I don't think that's, like, a bad thing. I think you should be allowed to cry. I think we should be." He uselessly reorganizes his inventory, tugging at his hair. "'S like. Emotions and all that. Y'know," As if that explains everything.
Tubbo has no fucking idea what he's on about, if he's being honest. He hums in agreement anyways.
Praying that Tommy will just drop it and move on, he stands from in front of the emerald chests and crosses the room to a row of armor stands covered in shimmering netherite. Echoing footsteps follow him across the room, and he elects to shrug a chest plate over his head rather than look at his best friend.
"Do you remember that time you fell out of a tree and cracked your head open?"
Tubbo snorts. "I did not crack my head open. Eret said it wasn't even that bad. A tiny cut, is all." He catches a glimpse of Tommy out of the corner of his eye as he turns to adjust a strap or two on his chestplate. He's shoved one of the helmets over his head, golden hair sticking out awkwardly in all directions from the brim of the dark metal. He looks stupid.
Tilting his nose up, Tommy shakes his head.
"Nope. He was just lying so you wouldn't freak out. I saw it myself, brains everywhere. Completely lost the whole thing all over the grass."
"Oh, yeah, for sure," Tubbo drawls. Then, as if he's genuinely curious, "And we're sure this didn't happen to you? I mean, a missing brain would explain some things."
Tommy barks out a laugh and attempts to lightly shove Tubbo, but recoils when he only connects with cool netherite. Tubbo snickers.
"No, no, shut the fuck up, there was a point to this. You've gotta follow my thought process here."
"Mhm."
"Look-- okay. The point was- the point was that--... Well, the point was that you cried then. And you were crying so hard you couldn't even talk, and then I started crying because I was little and I thought you were gonna die, and then Eret came. And that's sort of--"
Tommy pauses to try and collect his thoughts. He bounces between the balls of his feet and his heels, still fluttering about in a constant state of movement that matches his ever-running mind.
"It's like babies, man."
A surprised laugh slips from Tubbo's chest, and he pauses in pulling on netherite boots to press a hand over his eyes. "Are you likening us to actual babies, Tommy? Actual tiny babies. Toddlers."
Tommy waves his hands about wildly as he tries to regain Tubbo's attention.
"No, no- shut up, stop being a bitch and listen, I told you there's a point to this. It's like how babies cry to tell people that they need something. Y'know?"
Tubbo opens his mouth to mutter another joke and Tommy cuts him off before he can make a sound.
"It's-- okay, I know this is not my most profound train of thought but I'm right. The only reason Eret knew to come was because we were both bawling our eyes out. And if he hadn't known to help then we would've lost your brain to the weeds and you probably would've, like, died or something."
"That is usually what happens when the weeds eat your brain."
Tommy ignores the interjection.
"The point was that I think it's okay to cry because- because at the end of the day it's just a way to get help. And I think sometimes you need help and it--" Tommy's constant movement stills for a moment, and he stares hard at the floor. "I think sometimes you don't tell me when you need help."
Tubbo stills, clutching a netherite helmet he has yet to pull over his head. He's tempted to reach up, see if he can still find the jagged scar behind his ear from the day Tommy is talking about. He remembers it surprisingly well, considering how long ago it was now. Funny how time works.
He remembers scaling the high branches of one of the trees in L'manberg alongside his best friend. He remembers the sun dancing across his hair and skin, leaving freckled shoulders and noses pink-tinted. He remembers letting go of the branch, hovering an arm over his head to block the sun and grinning at the golden-green fields dotted with wildflowers, bordered by walls that he helped build. And he remembers being so proud that this was his. Though the land hadn't yet been officially claimed and the revolution not yet over, he remembers knowing that these people were his. He remembers knowing that they had to win.
And he remembers a boom from below. He would later come to find that this was just Fundy and some of the other rookie demolitionists trying to figure out some new TNT traps, but at the time it had made him flinch just hard enough for his hand to slip from the branch.
He remembers nothing but suddenly being in the grass, golden-green, surrounded by wildflowers. He remembers noting how nice the purple looked next to the gold.
Tubbo considers reaching up and searching for the scar, but he knows that all he would feel is bandages. He knows that in a few months time, it'll have disappeared entirely, written over with speckled burns gained from the aftermath of what his people became.
If Tubbo was a poet, he might say that there's something tragic in losing a scar like that. If he was Wilbur, a songwriter, he might say that it's erasing a part of your history, a part of yourself or a memory. Tubbo isn't a poet though, and hardly a songwriter, so he can't find it in himself to remark on it.
Tubbo doesn't look at Tommy, and Tommy isn't looking at him either, and he has never missed the sun more than now.
Tommy reaches over to take Tubbo's hand, the unbandaged one, and laces their fingers together. At first he's so glad he can feel it, but then it's burning, burning, burning, too much, TOO MUCH, and-
Tubbo jerks away from his grasp.
He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry and words do not come easily.
He wishes he could tell Tommy that he's already helped so much already. He wishes he could understand why they're still clinging together, why Tommy is still reaching for his hand when Tubbo will always, always pull away. He wishes he could stop being such a dead weight, quit pulling Tommy further and further down into a place he knows he won't return from. He wishes he could make Tommy understand that this boat is sinking.
He wishes he could ask for help, and he wishes he could tell Tommy that he doesn't remember how.
He tries to speak again, tries to spew the nonsense pouring from his head, but what comes out is a garbled mess of noise that can't be constituted as words. He hears Tommy shuffle closer to him, clattering of armor giving away his movement.
"You don't have to talk about it, you know. If it's too hard. That's okay."
Tubbo nods as clearly as he can manage. As the static starts to clear from his head, he realizes how rigid his posture has gone and makes an effort to relax. His bandaged hand aches from clutching at the netherite helmet which he's realizing has been in his grip the whole time. He reaches up to slide it over his hair, wincing when the metal catches on the points of his horns.
Looking around the room, Tubbo can see that most of the other people in the vault have ascended the exit ladder, presumably to reconvene on the railway above. Praying that the conversation is finally over, Tubbo turns towards the ladder to make his way up himself.
He stops short when Tommy loops a hand around his arm and pulls him into a hug.
Every bone in Tubbo's body screams that this is too much, too much, too bright, and--
Everything burns. He's too close to the sun, and it's too much. Everything burns, and the terrified, angry parts of him are begging him to pull away. Everything burns.
Everything burns, but he's so tired of being afraid of the fire.
Tubbo is just very tired.
Tubbo is sixteen, already covered in burns, and he is so tired of shying away from the sun.
He hugs his best friend.
Tommy is gone before he knows it. He beats Tubbo across the room, and turns back towards him to flash a bright, warm grin before ascending the ladder.
"Come on," he says, "We've got a war to win."