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“Shit.”
Tubbo hisses, wincing as he drops his ukulele on the stony ground next to him with an odd echo only a string instrument can make, gripping his shaking, still bandaged left hand in his right.
Niki said this’d be good for him, get some feeling and motion back into his fingers so he can actually use them, she didn’t mention it’d hurt this fucking bad.
He lets out a shaky breath and feels around for his ukulele next to him, letting out a little hum when he hears a short, errant note and picking up his scratched-up, unironically well-loved ukulele. He lets out a humorless laugh at the thought of accidentally knocking it down the ravine and onto someone’s head.
Killed by falling ukulele, he thinks, swinging his legs a little over the chasm. What a way to go.
The tuners on his ukulele are dented. The body has scratches all over the corners and the backside. The fret space has a gouge taken out of one side.
And it’s his, and it’s beautiful.
Tubbo sighs, looks down as far as he can to place his throbbing left fingers on the correct strings before his neck starts to burn again, takes a deep breath, and strums the strings.
It’s a C note. Echoing and reverberating down the expanse of Pogtopia.
He can feel a cold, early morning breeze on his back, and he shivers the way he’s learned to in the past week or so, without disturbing any of the left side of his body.
A C note…what song does he know that starts with a C note…
He knows a song.
He’s doing what Niki asked, it’s not cheating, he’s playing his ukulele for physical therapy, the beginning notes are just all the same one. It’s using your resources. Making it easier on yourself ‘n shit.
Tubbo strums with his right hand, holding his left pointer finger in the right place even as it starts to sting a little, kicking his legs over Pogtopia.
“Oh, mama-”
He chokes, coughing, shoving his face into his elbow so as to try and muffle it.
He didn’t mean to have his mouth open as Technoblade shot that damn firework.
One final shout of “WHAT THE HELL-”
‘I’ll make it as painless and-’
“Nope, shut up, brain,” he mumbles, clearing his throat and taking his face out of his elbow, ignoring the feeling of small bits of spit on it.
He’s glad Tommy gave him a t-shirt to borrow. Most of his are either ruined completely or back in Manberg.
Tubbo sighs.
Music.
Focus on the music, and nothing else.
He starts strumming again.
“Oh, mama, don’t walk away.”
Moving his fingers to the F on the ‘walk’ hurts like a bitch, but whatever. Power through. Pog through the pain, as Tommy would say.
“Pog through the pain, Tubbo,” he whispers, before continuing.
“I'm a goddamn sore loser,”
Fuck, the G. That fucking G was gonna be the death of his fingers.
Oh well, he’s committed now. It’s either finish at least this verse or have the whole song be stuck in his head for seven more hours. Plus, the next one is back to a nice, simple C.
“I ain’t too proud to stay.”
Fuck, his voice is so hoarse now.
Well, Tubbo reasons with himself, I did get a mouthful of flaming gunpowder and chemicals and then didn’t speak for, like, four days straight. And also screamed my lungs out beforehand-
Enough reason, he decides. Fuck reason.
“And I’m still thinking ‘bout you,
And I’m so lonesome without you,”
AM, D7.
Think about the notes.
Think about the rhythm of the strumming.
Nothing else.
“And I can’t get you out of my mind.”
His left hand is throbbing now, he can feel the skin between his fingers pull beneath his bandages and when he winces, he forgets to only wince with the right side of his face and now holy shit his face is on fire again-
“Tubbo? That you, big man?”
Tommy.
“Y-yeah,” he calls out, voice rough and tinged with pain no matter how much he tries to hide it, they’re worried about him enough. “S’me.”
Tommy’s head peeks over the top of the stairs, relief painting his soot-streaked face over the shrapnel wounds from the festival, some covered in ugly scabs, the other with gauze hastily taped over them. He pointedly ignores the shiner underneath Tommy’s left eye in the shape of Technoblade’s knuckles. “You good?”
“I just-” he picks up his ukulele by the neck in place of a verbal explanation. “Niki said t’ play.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy mumbles, shaking his head of blond curls to get himself back on topic in a gesture Tubbo knows well. “Speaking of Niki, she made breakfast. Want some help getting down?”
“How about just getting up first?” he grumbles, making Tommy laugh a little.
It’s been so long since he’s heard Tommy laugh-
“Yeah, that’d be helpful, innit? Come on,” Tommy responds, putting one arm underneath Tubbo’s right one and hoisting him up, letting his feet scramble a little for his footing on the ledge.
Tubbo sighs, closing his one eye that he knows works for a bit of respite. “Thanks, man.”
Tommy scoffs lightheartedly. “Anytime. Now, come on, Niki was able to smuggle some stuff in and she made pancakes! Small ones, but still.”
“Oh, fuck, yes, get me down there right now!” Tubbo laughs, grinning with the right side of his face despite the fiery throbbing on the left side and the acid pumping through his fingers.
“Be patient-”
“You can’t tell me that, you are the most impatient person I’ve ever met-”
“Respect your elders, bitch!”
“I’m literally older than you!!”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m hanging off of you?!?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tubbo is shaking.
And it’s not just from the cold.
He doesn’t know how he’s managed to stay standing for this long, to be completely honest.
He’s standing in front of his best friend’s grave.
And it’s his fault.
It’s
All
His
Fault.
His one seeing eye has been bloodshot and watery and surrounded by purple-yellow eyebags for the past…however many days it’s been.
Has he slept at all?
He doesn’t know.
He’s alone.
For the first time in he doesn’t know how long, he’s completely alone.
For the first time in he doesn't know how long, he actually feels completely alone.
He lets his chest stutter with sobs as he kneels, leaning against Tommy’s gravestone.
It’s cold, like ice against his cheek.
Cold.
Cold like a body, cold like the snow falling against him, cold like the absence of his best friend echoing and stabbing into him like daggers of ice.
He doesn’t have his ukulele with him. It’s back in New L’manberg.
“Oh, mama,” he whimpers through hitching breaths, curling his hand against the grave. “Don’t leave me alone.”
Tubbo’s voice cracks in odd places, breaking on the last word, it’s permanently raspy from all the explosions he’s been in, it’s ugly and raw and completely, utterly broken.
Just like him.
Scarred. Burned.
A fucking monster.
Some fucking friend he was.
He made his best friend jump.
What kind of monster does that?
How could he have exiled his best friend? He second guessed himself again, he always did, but he didn’t know what would’ve happened if they’d gone through with Tommy’s plan, L’manberg might have fallen again and who knows who would’ve died and of fucking course, here he is, second-guessing himself AGAIN AS ALWAYS, because he’s nothing but a yes-man who nobody has any respect for.
He used to have someone who at least respected him, but guess what!!
He’s fucking dead! He jumped off a fucking tower!
And it’s Tubbo’s own FAULT.
“With my soul shut down so tight
Just like a stone cold tomb.”
Tommy, who was so raucous and loud.
Tommy, who could make any situation better just by being there, with his steady warmth and a calloused hand in his.
Tommy, who he had sent right to his own spiraling self-destruction.
He’s sobbing so hard his head is aching from hitting against the gravestone.
“Ain’t it clear when I’m n-near you
I’m just dyin’ to hear you-”
He cries out, curling up into a ball and shoving his head into his knees, clutching at his greasy hair and yanking on it as his elbows hit into the frozen dirt.
He can’t even say the next lyrics, but his mind supplies them, making him whisper them into the ground between hoarse, gut-wrenching, sniveling sobs.
“C-calling…my name o-one m-more time…”
He sniffles before wailing into his knees, one more time.
If someone pulls him away a few hours later while he’s barely coherent, leading him to a house, laying him on a couch and drawing a blanket over him with chilled, lanky, two-toned hands, he can’t tell if it’s real or some kind of hallucination.
Wouldn’t be the first time, the back of his mind says as he falls, falls like Tommy, he’d deserve it, into oblivion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Oh, so don’t pay no mind, to my watering eyes…” Tubbo whispers, staring numbly into space, absently registering the buzz of bees around him and the sweat beading up in his armpits.
Tommy is alive.
He’s not dead, he’s not, he’s not, he’s alive, the empty grave Tubbo made for his best friend has no weight.
He’s been glad for Ranboo, helping keep his mind from thinking for too long by building the bee dome with him, walking around with him, letting him mourn.
But now he’s alone. Sitting on the edge of a flower box, wood digging into his ass.
His right eye is still bloodshot and swollen, left one stinging from attempting to produce tears that he knows won’t come any longer.
Tommy is alive. He’s okay.
He’s not dead, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not.
But…
Why is he with Technoblade, of all people?
He’d fought Techno in the Pit for him, hand to hand, wore the bruises around like red badges for weeks afterwards.
Techno had used the withers…blown up L’manberg…
‘You wanna be a hero, Tommy? You want to be a hero, Tommy?? THEN DIE LIKE ONE!!!’
And Tommy had still sided with him.
Where had Tubbo gone wrong- nope, scratch that, he knew exactly where he’d gone wrong.
Exile.
Just the word makes Tubbo’s stomach churn.
He hates himself.
“Must be something in the air that I’m breathing,” he chuckles humorlessly, scrubbing at his right eye with his wrist and sniffling. If anyone asks, he can blame it on the pollen from the bees.
He shouldn’t be crying again. He’s done enough, it’s a wonder he hasn’t shrivelled up like a raisin or something. He’s had to use more eyedrops in both of his eyes in the past week than he’s used in a full six months for just one.
“Fuckin’ Technoblade,” he mumbles. “Why?”
Why.
What a simple word.
S’been said so many times over all the time he’s been on this server. He’s thought it so many times.
In a dark room, surrounded by chests as a sword gets plunged into his own, letting his blood flow down his ribs as they cracked and he crawled through the thick puddles on the floor, looking for any glimpse of blond curls. He and Tommy died holding hands.
In the Camarvan, as Wilbur sang softly to them, trying not to wake up Fundy as he slept restlessly. As he curled up under Tommy’s head, the word echoing through his mind with the glaring absence of someone he considered a friend throughout the dark space like the chords from Wilbur’s guitar.
“Yes, n’ try to ignore…”
As he huddled tearfully, seeing through two eyes for the last time as he stared at Technoblade’s face, still clawing desperately at the concrete walls, finding Tommy’s face and yelling a last “WHAT THE HELL?” at his best friend’s face and his situation, Tommy’s eyes being the last things he saw before being blasted into red oblivion again.
As he lay barely coherent in a small room in Pogtopia, huddled on a makeshift pallet of blankets, the only constants being pain, unconsciousness and Tommy’s hand in his, wondering when the burning of acid in his veins and the acrid stench of burnt hair would ever go away, crying in desperation when Niki opened his mouth so he could drink some water or choke down a potion because it felt like lightning was striking the left side of his face. Tommy sang a little for him once, he remembers that if anything. He was never not there.
“All this blood on the floor…”
He sniffles again, sighing.
And now he’s gone to Technoblade.
Tommy’s chosen someone else instead of him for the first time Tubbo can remember.
Tubbo yelled at Tommy earlier.
Tommy called him a monster earlier.
And he was absolutely right. There’s no denying it.
He’s right, he’s so right, but it still hits different when it’s him saying it to Tubbo instead of Tubbo saying it to Tubbo. It still hurt.
It still hurts.
“S’just this heart on my sleeve
That’s bleeding…”
No good person would exile his best friend.
What has he come to?
“Oh! Th-there you are, um…you- you good?”
Tubbo jumps, probably getting a splinter in his ass as he flinches at the sudden noise, looking up to Ranboo, who has a kerchief in hand, fidgeting with it.
“Hey, bossman,” Tubbo sighs, putting a hand on his head, trying to subtly wipe at his eye. “You scared me there.”
“S-sorry, I- didn’t mean to…um, do you want to come inside? It’s probably a lot, um…less sweaty?”
Tubbo lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re worried cuz I’m sweaty?”
Ranboo nearly drops the handkerchief, white side of his face flushing a little pink. “Uh- n-no, that’s not the only reason- I just…” he sighs, letting his head droop before looking back up, red and green eyes fixed squarely just above Tubbo’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s good for you to be alone right now, and I want to know you’re okay. Do you want to come in?”
Tubbo blinks, ignoring one of the bees that buzzes up beside him and nuzzles up to his cheek just until he sneezes. “Uh…when you put it that way, sure. I guess.”
Ranboo visibly wilts in relief. “Oh, okay, cool, I- heh, I thought it was gonna be a lot harder to convince you than that.”
“Why’s that?” Tubbo grunts as he vaults off the wooden edge of the flowerbed.
“Cuz- cuz you’re stubborn. You’re a stubborn person.”
“I am not!”
“You’re not exactly helping your point there.”
“Shut up, beanpole.”
“Oh no, another jab at my height, whatever will I do.”
The bee dome door slams shut behind them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, L’manberg.
L’manberg. Manberg. New L’manberg.
Tubbo shifts, kicking his legs over the chasm. Just like he did in Pogtopia so long ago.
It’s nighttime.
He didn’t tell Ranboo where he was going. His husband thankfully didn’t ask.
His legs are dangling over the edge of the dirt platform underneath the obsidian grid.
He has his ukulele.
He knows how to play it much better now, the skin between his fingers on his left hand having scarred and scabbed over so many times now that moving them to play a G or a D7 is hardly the biggest of his worries.
Niki was right, in the end, he does have mobility of his fingers.
Tubbo laughs.
It’s humorless.
Oh, what a small detail in the grand scheme of things.
The chasm looms low beneath him, literal water under the makeshift bridges people have tried to make.
“Oh, mama, don’t walk away.”
C, then to F on ‘walk’.
His voice is still hoarse. He sounds like a smoker with all the ash he’s inhaled. Explosion after explosion after explosion. War after execution after insanity after terrorism.
L’manberg after L’manberg after L’manberg.
And now it’s gone.
No more L’manberg.
Nothing but a crater.
The president of nothing but a crater.
Oh, how the turns have tabled.
“You leave me here a-reelin’ from the words so hard and plain.”
G to C, strumming the strings periodically between.
“Saying the love that we had
Was just selfish and sad-”
Wilbur had been selfish, he can see that now. He’d been misguided, he’d been manipulated, he’d been paranoid. He’d been dead.
Now he’s back.
‘This is my sunrise!!’
He’s back from the dead. Like Tommy.
Brought back by Dream.
“But to see you now with him is just
Makin’ me mad!”
He can’t trust Wilbur anymore. Wilbur, whether inadvertently or on purpose, had caused him so much pain in his lives. He’d even given up two of them for him.
Wilbur’s end before had been sad, waxing poetic. The crazed revolutionary, blowing up the country he had given up everything for because he didn’t see anything in it worth saving.
Not even himself.
“Oh, so kiss him again-”
The sky is starting to lighten.
“Just to prove to me that you can-”
His old ukulele is somewhere below him, nothing but dust and ashes and tuners blasted into rock and melted to stones.
“I will stand here, and burn in my skin.”
He’s burned before.
Sunlight, torches, furnaces.
Fireworks, TNT.
He can’t see out of his left eye. It’s a mess of exploded blood vessels and cataracts, the warm brown shrouded with cloudy grey and white.
His left side is a patchwork of red and brown and pink scar tissue. He can pick out where exactly the firework hit on his chest, streaks of scarring emanating from a single circular point just opposite of the stab mark from the Final Control Room.
“Yes I will stand here-”
There’s figures on the horizon.
“And burn, in my skin.”
He sighs, setting down his ukulele, song finally done.
The sun is starting to rise, illuminating a brown-shrouded figure and a lanky, slouched one that can’t be anyone but his husband.
L’manberg.
“Well I heard there was a special place-”
His L’manberg, like Wilbur’s, is no more.
Tubbo’s vision starts to waver, his eyes watering.
It’s gone. Forever.
There’s no going back.
His voice is choking up.
“Where men could go, and emancipate-”
“Tubbo?”
“The tyranny and- oh-” he sniffles once, wiping his eye with the sleeve of his old suit as he shifts his ukulele down to his lap. “Hello?”
It’s Wilbur.
“You okay?”
And for a single moment, it’s like he’s back in the Camarvan.
Wilbur’s raving about having not seen him since he was resurrected, but Tubbo’s not paying much attention.
He can’t go back.
He doesn’t know if that’s okay or not yet.