Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a shame the one time something in Tommy’s life goes right, he dies.
He’s been planning this with Tubbo for only hours, nearly a day while cooped up in the nuke silo with his ex-best friend.
Still, when the nukes descend on the prison, their loud droning bouncing off the obsidian walls and deafening its three inhabitants, he feels terrified.
Even more so when he realizes Dream is too.
In the years he has known the man and watched him slowly turn into the cold-hearted, manipulative bastard he is now, Dream has never shown his emotions.
The man’s mask is long gone, lost sometime between their fight and his confusing confessions. For the first time, his freckled face is wide open for anyone to read.
His green eyes are blown wide, face shocked. He’s screaming something at Tommy, but he can’t hear over his own panic and the impending nuke.
Punz stands stock still, staring at nothing.
And then, heat.
That’s all Tommy processes first.
He suddenly thinks about summers in exile, and how they always felt this hot.
He’s thrown forward, painfully landing on some debris from the wall. He duly processes it through the haze slowly filling his mind.
(How did it even get there?)
The darkness encompasses his limp frame like a warm blanket, and he has two thoughts that concern him more than he’d like to admit.
First, he can’t feel anything.
Second, he can’t see anything.
He’s had this experience before, so Tommy recognizes death as it creeps up on him. He’s already gone, mentally, so he barely fights it as the comforting aura of nothingness suffocates him.

He’s dead.

————————————————————————

Tommy, unfortunately, has been dead before. He was in the temporary void before being condemned to his limbo, talking to his long-dead brother and other inhabitants that met an untimely end. That time, he was in the void for a day. A whole day with Wilbur’s voice to comfort him.
To Tommy’s glee, it hadn’t been the Wilbur he was familiar with.
Not the Wilbur that left him, alone, only months ago for fucking Utah.
Not the Wilbur that blew up their nation.
No, he was Tommy’s Wilbur. The Wilbur that comforted him after he had bad dreams. The Wilbur that started a nation because he had a vision for a nation separate from Dream’s power-hungry scheme.
It was complete and utter bliss for Tommy's broken spirit to be comforted by the brother that left too early.
He was given one day of what he thought heaven would be like.
Wilbur’s voice, not laced with poison or gilded lies, surrounded him, asking him concerned questions, loving him.
Then he was gone.
Tommy, now alone in the void once again, thinks that is what hurt the most.
He had only gotten a day before his brother was ripped from him once again. He remembers Wilbur calling out, saying it was alright and he’d be back. Bold of him to assume Tommy would stay there.
He evidently didn’t come back, because Tommy was alone now; but then again, Tommy and Wilbur were both revived, so it was stupid for him to think Wilbur would be here. A small part of him longed for his soothing voice to bring Tommy out of the foggy trance of constant memories he was cycling through. He tried pushing the memories out of his brain enough to the point where he could focus on his temporary position in the void.
It was pitch black and an endless sea of ankle-deep water, which confused Tommy the first time he was there.
He had assumed dying meant he lost his senses, but apparently part of limbos hell was feeling things.
Not pain, thankfully, but his other senses were mostly intact. He could feel the water soaking into his simple black T-shirt and gray sweatpants. He hadn’t walked into the prison with anything but that on.
He could hear his shallow breath, and the void didn’t have a smell, so at least two of his senses worked. He knew he couldn’t be blind, based on the fact his original limbo was watching the story of the SMP for days and days.
It surely was a stark difference from what he had expected, based on Wilbur’s stories of train stations and being plagued by whistles and the inevitable feeling of being trapped. He began wishing it was a train station after a few days, though.
It was a perfect hell for him, he supposes.
Seeing how much better everything was before he and Wilbur moved there.
Tommy sighs, which takes effort because there’s not much air in the void.
He doesn’t need it, not anymore, but he continues breathing anyway. It’s too much of a habit to break and it gives the boy something to do. Tommy spent his life speedrunning various tragedies and wars, so he isn't used to sitting around without a purpose. He huffs again, pushing artificial air through the atmosphere of the void, which feels something akin to pudding. It's an odd experience, to say the least, and he quietly hopes he's moved soon.
Last time, he was moved to his limbo within forty hours.
This time, if his internal clock was functioning at all, he’s been sitting here for twelve hours.
Three of those he spent having a panic attack over absolutely nothing. Or maybe it was something, but he couldn’t really tell you. Tommy’s strong suit had never been emotions, he was more of a shout-now, pay-later type of guy. Hence why he had major emotional crashes from time to time.
Panic attacks in limbo were somehow worse when you couldn’t breathe. It was the feeling of not having breath in a body that no longer needed to breathe but wanted to. Air is sucked in and out at a speed unknown to man, and he’s all alone. All Tommy had was his thoughts, his panic, and the unexplainable feeling that he was going to die.
Ironic, because he already was, but he wasn’t about to start questioning the logic of panic attacks. Especially ones that lasted three fucking hours.
Of course, twelve hours in the void could be seconds in the real world. He doesn’t know how it works, only that Wilbur’s years in limbo were nearly double the amount he was actually gone. He assumes time is warped in some way to make limbo more of a hell.
Still, Twelve hours in the void was days for Tommy’s restless body. Although it wasn’t the young vessel of energy it used to be, so he wasn’t running around aimlessly and going crazy about not having something to do. That was wrung out of him in the months he spent in exile with nothing but the same boring cycle over and over.
Still, it was starting to get mind-numbingly monotonous.
So he did what he learned to do, and blocked it out. He spent the time that he was not freaking out over insignificant memories disassociating.
It was a trick he learned over the years, something to escape the pain of living a life burdened on his young conscience.
It was funny he was still doing it now, to escape death.

————————————————————————

“FUCK YOU!” Tommy yells for maybe the seventh time in no particular direction, just generally at the void. His throat scratches from the force he shouted it at, and he listens to the voice echo out before doing it again.
“FUCK YOU, AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING EXCUSES!”
So he’s gone a little crazy. Anyone would after two days alone in a pitch-black void. He was starting to hate the feeling of always being wet. It was painful in a way only limbo could be, cold and lonely.
“Fuck you,” Tommy weakly says, collapsing to the ground with a splash.
He doesn’t even know who he was yelling at.
Dream? Wilbur? Maybe Tubbo.
He did do that a lot in the past, in exile. The hours he spent yelling at no one, nothing, and hallucinations are countless.
He groans, rubbing a hand over his ice-cold face that’s completely wet now. He’s given up on being dry, not an inch of himself staying so. Not much he could do to even attempt to make the discomforting experience of being soggy much better, so now he was laying in the water like he had done for nearly a day before he got up and started yelling at the void.
He liked the way it echoed through it, the way he pretended someone could hear it.
As far as his knowledge of limbo goes (not very far), everyone newly dead could.
That amuses him for a moment, a grin sprouting on his scarred face. Imagine dying after a long and fulfilling life just to have some older teenager annoy you with his god-awful screeching and swearing.
It almost motivated him enough to get up.
Almost.
But he doesn’t because he’s exhausted. The bone-deep type of exhaustion that he’s only felt once in his life.
Only this time, he has no blocks to build a tower.

————————————————————————

When Tommy found out Drista was the guide to the departed souls, he almost laughed. It was comical, really, how much work Dream was causing her. Of course, Dream hadn’t known and never had the pleasure of knowing. That is until Tommy killed him; he’s inevitably going to find out now. He still has mixed emotions on the whole killing matter, some pride, some grief, and a whole lot of confusion. Sure, he’s attempted to kill before, and has during the Lmanberg wars, but its somehow worse when he was responsible for the death of two close friends.
(Not close,) He has to remind himself now, shifting his legs in the water and listening to the splash.
Punz’s betrayal was still relatively fresh, but Tommy wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t uncommon for his friends to end up stabbing him in the back, take Tubbo for example-
“Fuck,” He says, mostly to snap himself out of thought, but also because Drista had just fucking appeared in front of him.
Now he blinks at her, still sitting on the ground of the void.
She looks the same, even though it’s been a few years since he last saw his friend.
He supposes she doesn’t age. She is something akin to a god, and the limbo rules apparently apply to her.
She has a mask that looks almost exactly like Dreams, which she removes when Tommy flinches at it. Her face is a softer, more pleasant-looking face than her brothers. It lacks the scars and the bright green eyes he carried.
Her freckles are tiny, scattered like stars. Her eyes are a deep green, the kind moss and deep forest trees are best known for. Her hair is blonde, a flat color instead of the golden halo Tommy’ once was.
Among the straight locks, she wears a dandelion crown that Tommy weaved for her during the visit she paid to him in solitude; a skill he picked up from the countless times Tubbo would mindlessly weave them. The small crown rests on her brow, unwilted and fresh as if it was still hours old.
She had evidently put her own enchantments on it though, as it now radiates light enough to illumine her.
“Tommy,” She greets, frowning down at her friend.
He nods at her, looking down.
“I told you to never come back,” She says, pouting as she plops herself next to him. Her white gown frills out upon making contact with the water, and Tommy flinches when it hits his knee.
His senses are blown to almost a hundred after days of nothing. His eyes are suffering from the light as well.
If he could feel pain, he would feel the soft glow burning his eyes and the small pinpricks the contact initiated, but he’s stuck with phantom pain instead. Undoubtedly it’s from his revival.
“Mm,” Tommy answers, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to soften the light, “I had no choice,”
Drista smiles sadly at him, although he couldn’t see.
“Oh, but you did, Tommy. You really did.”
He opens his eyes and meets her gaze. It's something protective and sad, and he can’t figure it out.
“You’re here to take me to my limbo,” He softly reminds her when her stare continues. She blinks and smiles.
“Right,”
And with that, she extends her arm towards him.
He knows better than to deny it, so he grabs onto it. Her warmth leaks into his chilling body and he soaks it up eagerly.
They walk for a while in a random direction. Tommy had no idea if it does anything, if his limbo is actually in the void, or if Drista does this to confuse him.
“Dris?,” He asks while slipping for the millionth time on the stupid fucking water.
She hums in response, steadying him.
“I-,” He stops talking, going over his words in his head.
“Never mind. It’s fucking stupid,”
She stops, glaring at him. He wearily looks back at her.
“Tommy,”
She has a sad look in her eye that Tommy would’ve hated if he had the energy to care.
“Right. Sorry, not stupid,” He mutters.
Drista has always encouraged him to speak his thoughts, unlike her male counterpart. She always hated when he dismissed himself for nothing.
“Um. Do you think- Or, do you know-“ He stops again. It really is a stupid question, he doesn’t know why Drista wants to hear it.
He opens and closes his mouth again.
(Goldfish, my little sunshine,)
Drista stops walking, turning around to face him.
“Yes, Tommy. I know what your limbo is this time. And no, I cannot tell you, but because it is your final one, I can say it is not the same,”
He ignores the sting he feels at the words ‘final one’. Tommy’s sent himself to this fate, he reminds himself quietly. He chose this.
“Okay,” Tommy lets go of her arm and gestures forward.
Drista smiles at him.
“This is as far as I go, Tommy.”
“Oh,” He says like the fucking moron he is. No, he is not disappointed, not at all.
Almost like she senses his mourning, she walks up to him. Her dress sways with the water, the bottom slightly dragged down.
Drista is, much like always, shorter than him by quite a bit. She used to complain about it incessantly.
“Don't worry, Tommy, you won’t be alone,” She says cheerily and reaches for her crown. She takes it off her head, and Tommy watches as the flowers turn a bright blue. It reminds him painfully of Ghostbur. The glow has significantly shrunk into a soft blue hue, and it illuminated her arms and face in the light. Tommy watches as the light warps as she stands up on her toes, reaching up, and is startled when the flower crown comes to rest atop his curls.
Drista backs away, crown lost, and nods at him.
Tommy doesn’t process what she had said until he’s weightlessly falling through the void.

————————————————————————

Tommy doesn’t know how long he fell for before he hit the ground with an ‘oof’.
Again, it doesn’t hurt, but his body reminds him of what it would feel like with a jolt.
He groans, eyes trying to adjust to the sudden light and new scenery. The light is a huge adjustment to the hue the small crown gave off.
He’s kind of scared to see his final limbo now. If it’s anything like the last, he’s going to cry until Drista takes pity on him and moves him.
Maybe he could just use the void water and put it on his face like tears.
Tommy reaches down habitually to feel the water but is met with the rough grain of wood.
It’s enough to snap his eyes open, and he looks down fast enough to theoretically snap his neck.
There’s no water, he realizes. Only a wooden floor.
Drista wasn’t lying, it was different. A small smile grows on the boy's face, and he exhales, letting go of some of the stress he had been holding in.
His last limbo was just another boring void with moving pictures of the SMP and even more fucking water. It even rained sometimes.
Now he looks up and is met with a lot of things at once. The first thing he notices is the amount of beauty in the room. It looks like the inside of a cathedral or a castle, almost like Erets. Dark wood floors and pillars is meeting the sloped roof with arches, Cream colored walls, and large stained windows streaming sunlight. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a long, long time. Most importantly, the whole thing is covered in vines sprouting flowers of varying colors and species.
It’s enough to put a genuine smile on Tommy’s face.
He’s always been fond of nature.
The second thing he notices is less fantastic.
All but behind him, along every wall, there are statues. They are all eerily standing in the same blank position, all the same height. They look to have the same build and the same golden hair-
Wait.
Tommy cautiously gets up and walks toward the nearest wall of statues. As he draws nearer, he realizes his initial thoughts were correct. They all were carbon copies of one another, save a few details.
And they all have his face.
“What the fuck?” Tommy scrambles away, eyes rapidly still trying to adjust to the sunlight and process what he’s seeing.
All the statues are him. Well, not him, because he’s right there, but they all look like him. They have his face, his golden hair, (though some appear to have braids), and even his scars. Some even have ones he doesn’t have. Tommy wonders for a minute if they are statues because their skin is his color and they look….. like what he’d look now.
None of them look alive, just frozen at the moment they died. Or in the moment he died?
That couldn’t be right, because no two statues are the same although they all look like him.
He wearily walks back to the nearest one.
It’s him, which is still fucking creepy as shit, but not exactly him.
It’s his face, his features, his height to an uncanny tee. But it’s not his scars, his clothes, or his eyes, which is peculiar because he’s always had bright blue eyes.
This figure has grey eyes. They’re faded to the point of the color of cobblestone. They have two large scars spanning across their face, almost like Quackitys’. Its clothes are ripped, in some places left open and in some patched. And the most noticeable detail is the fact they have a shattered compass hanging on a leather cord around their neck.
Tommy recognizes it immediately as the compass Ghostbur made for him during exile.
Why was it on this look-alike? And why was it… so eerily like him?
“Tommy?”
A jolt went through Tommy as the voice shook his very core.
It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t fucking possible.
He was gone. He was fucking gone.
Tommy’s brain was working overspeed, body and brain frozen. His arm was still outstretched, grabbing for the compass on the neck of the figure to check for the telltale inscription on the back.
“Oh, my god. Tommy?” The voice was closer and more frantic.
Why the fuck was Wilbur in his limbo?
Why the fuck was the brother who had promised, who had sworn he was not killing himself, here?
Tommy was terrified to turn around, to see Drista standing there, saying he heard things because Wilbur wasn’t fucking here.
He did anyway because he was tired of staring at the statue and trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.
He squints at the tall figure standing near him, face open in shock. He has brown curly hair, circular glasses, and surprisingly enough, no stab wound.
Tommy’s expression mirrors his a second later, more in panic than shock. His brother is dead, again. He had just left. He had promised he wasn’t going to kill himself. He couldn’t be here- he shouldn’t be here.
Tommy swallows.
“Y-you promised you wouldn’t kill yourself, Wil. W-why are you here?” He hates the way his voice shudders around the words like they’re poison.
(They're not, he’s had the unfortunate pleasure of drinking some.)
Wilbur’s face flashes, confused.
“What?”
And oh god, how wonderful it is to hear his voice, laced with kindness and without malice-
Tommy’s expression steels.
“Wilbur. Fuck off. I don’t want to deal with your games.”
He spits at him, as much as it pains him, but he’s had enough manipulation in his life. He doesn't want it in his eternal limbo, no thank you.
He should've known the beautiful church was too good to be true.
“No, Tommy, what are you talking about?”
Tommy notes how genuinely confused he looks wearily. They used to play this game in Pogtopia, Wilbur would lie to him over and over and say he meant something else, and Tommy would believe him because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? And then Dream began doing it, and it was more noticeable, but Tommy played along until it drove him to that blasted tower.
“Wilbur, you were revived by dream, remember?” Tommy says, monotone, “And then you left me, again.”
Wilbur’s face falls.
“Tommy-“
He scoffs.
“I don’t want to hear it. It obviously did you no good because you’re here-“
“Tommy!” Wilbur interrupts him, eyes pleading, and voice sounding pained out of all things, “Toms, I’m not him. I’m not- that manipulative, insensitive prick I let myself become. Okay? I died long before he did.”
Well, that was new.
Still, Tommy was becoming increasingly annoyed at this stupid game. He wraps his scarred arms around himself, looking down. He’s shaking, but he can't fathom why.
“Stop, Wil. We’ve done this before. I don’t want to do it again”
It comes out as barely a whisper, and Tommy readies himself for the lash out, the snap that will inevitably come.
Wilbur’s going to give up now, yell at him, tell him he’s no good-
What he doesn’t expect is for Wilbur to run forward and hug him.
He jolts at the sudden contact and then realizes he can feel it. And it doesn’t feel like what he remembers their last hug being like.
It feels like home. The hugs Wilbur gave him in lmanberg after days of labor. The hug he wrapped him in after he lost his second life.
The hug he wishes he got before Wilbur left.
“Tommy,” Wilbur's voice is wavering. He’s crying, Tommy realizes, “I’m not him. But I know what he’s done. I’ve watched every moment, here, and it’s the fucking worst. I have to watch myself push you away over and over until I blow up the nation we built together.”
“What?” Tommy says through his shirt.
“Toms. Pogtopia wasn’t me.” He stopped and thought for a moment, oblivious to Tommy's obvious confusion.
“Well, obviously it was, but…. not really. Fuck, I’m not explaining this right. The moment we were exiled, that night in the ravine? I woke up here after I spent hours wallowing in self-pity and hatred.”
Oh, right. Sure. No chance in hell he was believing this bullshit.
“Fuck off,” Tommy says, pulling away from the embrace.
“Tommy, I know it sounds insane, but I need you to believe me, I've been waiting here for so long-“ Wilbur was basically begging, which was so unlike him-
He roughly pushes away from Wilbur, anger lacing his features. He’s not a fucking toddler.
“Stop it, Wilbur,” Tommy harshly grits out, backing up and seeing the tears still leaking from Wilbur's face.
“You’re lying,” Tommy says. No way Wilbur died in Pogtopia. He was very much alive, just.. empty. Tommy would've known if his brother had fucking died.
But… this Wilbur’s face was pleading so openly for him to believe him, with so much pain and guilt that Tommy was taken off guard. Wilbur hadn’t looked like this for years.
There was a part of him that needed to believe him, that longed for the brother he lost so long ago.
The more rational part of him made him step away more and stare at Wilbur with a glare.
Wilbur’s face falls again in obvious grief, and Tommy’s heart swoops with how easily he can read his brother. He hasn’t been able to do this since before the exile.
Tommy almost snorts at the fact it lines up with whatever bullshit story this Wilbur was trying to tell him.
Wilbur stays unmoving where he was standing, looking crestfallen, and so much like the brother Tommy used to pray would come back.
“Fuck off, Wil,” Tommy spits at him again, turning around.
He starts walking away from Wilbur, without a particular place in mind. He wonders if the chapel-looking building they are in has more than one room, preferably with a lock so he can keep out whatever the fuck was here with him
“Tommy. Tommy!”
And Wilbur’s running after him. Fucking amazing.
Tommy groans inwardly, turning around despite his brain yelling at him to just ignore him.
Maybe he missed his brother more than he thought.
“Tommy. Look, I know it sounds crazy, and I know you don’t believe me. But I can prove it to you.”
Wilbur's eyes burn with a passion that even Tommy hadn’t seen before.
Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the longing in his heart that had gone so long without an answer, or maybe the fact he resembled the younger, happier-looking Wilbur that had been gone for so long that made him agree. It was a fucking stupid idea, but Tommy was so, so tired of everything. Of the lies, the manipulation, and he knew the chances of this being a trick was so fucking high, but…. he needed this. He wanted a chance for it to be right, even if it was small.
“O-okay. Yeah, fuck it. It’s not like we have anything better to do,” Tommy responds, whipping around, and once he notes the hope that echoes on his brother's face, he adds more to it.
“But if this is one of your fucked up bullshittery games, Wil, I’m making Drista take you out of my limbo,”
Tommy subconsciously readied himself for Wilbur to go stoney, emotionless, just like he did when Tommy would try and call him out for being the fucking manipulative prick he became.
But this Wilbur just nods ferociously.
“Yeah, Toms. Of course. I’d kill myself before I’d do something like that too you,”
Tommy winces, and of course, Wilbur notices, because why wouldn't he?
“Oh my god- sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry-“
And it was just like Tommy was ten again, and Wilbur was mad, and he had made a joke about Tommy’s parents. And his guilt-ridden brain mixed with his crippling anxiety would plead with Tommy hours after he had forgiven his brother. The nostalgia made him so dizzy he stumbled. Wilbur reached out to catch him, and it was too much- too fast, he couldn’t breathe, (obviously, dumbass, he was dead, but his body liked to pretend he was dying again).
This Wilbur was pretending to be who Tommy longed for half his life, he was here, he was dead, and Wilbur was here, but he was alive-
“Tommy!” Wilbur’s concerned voice broke through his thoughts.
He was dazedly sitting on the floor. He had no recollection of sitting, but here he was.
Wilbur was hovering over him, squatting, much like they did in Tommy’s early teen years.
Wilbur's hands were on his shoulders, slowly squeezing, the way Tommy used to prefer to be grounded.
Now it just reminds him of too-tight grips guiding his shoulders away from the country he had sacrificed his life for-
Oh, fuck no. He was not going into another panic attack.
“Wil.” Tommy choked out, “stop squeezing my shoulders,”
Wilbur must’ve heard the desperation in his voice because he immediately drew back with a concerned squeak.
(Much like he used to when Tommy was hurt)
With the unwelcome memory-inducing touch gone, he was able to calm himself down with steady breaths. It was harder considering he was fully ready for Wilbur to lash out, say he was weak-
“Fuck, sorry, sorry, Tommy, fuck, I should’ve thought about-“
“Don’t” Tommy spat at him.
Wilbur’s eyes flashed sadness as he dropped his hands away.
“Sorry.” He whispers again.
Guilt is wrapping around Tommy’s consciousness like a snake. Here he is, running his (apparently) dead brother's limbo.
So he does what he does best, and deflects.
“You said you’d prove it to me,” Tommy mutters, running hands up and down his biceps.
Wilbur looks up, eyes creased in worry.
Tommy hates the look of pity, he reminds himself. It was the one rule he had. No pity. But the type Wilbur was so easily showing on his face was comforting for an odd reason.
“Right,” He stands up, offering his hand, which Tommy takes with little thought.
“Well, okay. I can’t exactly prove it to you,” Wilbur laments.
Tommy narrows his eyes.
“So it is just another of your fucking stupid manipulation-“
“No, no, gods, Tommy, no.” Wilbur shudders despite the absence of cold, “ I hate that I turned to that when I died. I fucking ruined whatever chance he had.” He says it like it wasn’t the one thing Tommy had been dreaming about hearing ever since the first tnt mishap. Like it wasn’t the confession Tommy had fantasized about happening for years.
Wilbur continues, oblivious to Tommy’s inner battle.
“- I can’t show it to you, though. All I have is this limbo and stories. And myself.”
That was enough for him, Tommy thought, but instead shook his head.
“Wil, I’m gonna need solid proof you aren't…. him. You. Whatever.”
Wilbur looked conflicted for a moment, then brightened.
“The void. I told you I’d be back, didn't I?”
Tommy's breath caught in his throat as he rambled on,
“I was so sad when you left. Dream, the cunt, he took you back so unfairly, all because of that stupid revive book- and you didn't deserve any of it, but of course, he didn't fucking care-“
His eyes lit up suddenly, and he reached for his hair, making Tommy flinch from the sudden movement.
“Look.” He exclaims like an excited child.
Tommy did.
“Yeah, dickhead, your curly hair-“ He rolls his eyes.
“No,” Wilbur interrupted, a triumphant gleam in his eye, “No resurrection streak,”
The words shuddered Tommy to his core. He was right, of course, there wasn’t a resurrection streak anywhere to be found on his scalp. Tommy reaches up quickly and deflates when he can see his own streak of white hair in his eyesight.
So it wasn't a hoax.
And now that he saw that, he realizes Wilbur doesn't have the obvious blue oozing stab wound Ghostbur had on display, or the blue blood seeping from his mouth, or the burn scars.
“What the fuck,” Tommy breathes out, moving closer.
And Wilbur doesn’t even bat an eye.
And that was enough for Tommy to look at him, really look.
And he looked nothing like the Wilbur that left Tommy on the beach.
And he looked nothing like the Wilbur that was in Pogtopia.
“It’s him, you know,” a voice shook Tommy from his observations, eyes tracing the voice to the figure sitting in one of the windows.
It was Drista, and she had a bittersweet smile on her face. Her gown splayed out on the rounded nook, the stained glass painting it different colors. Her hair was braided, and the mask was gone, along with the flowers that sat still nestled on Tommy’s head.
“It’s your Wilbur,” Drista tells him firmly.
A split second passes, and then another, in which Tommy’s head entertains the idea, and he’s longing for it to be true. He wants it to be true. He needs it to be true.

And Tommy rams himself into his brother, who squawks indignity and then wraps him in his arms.
The Wilbur he knew had lied and manipulated, but Drista had never. She had no reason to.
And Tommy was going to accept it either way. He had too much of a hole in his heart now, built after years of abandonment and loneliness that he couldn’t survive a limbo alone, and Drista had known that.
So she granted him the small gift she could.
She gave him his brother back.

————————————————————————

It’s been hours, maybe a day since Tommy made the wonderful connection that he was going to spend the rest of eternity with his big brother.
Which, in hindsight, wasn’t proving to be working out at the moment.
“Why do you have the Theseus scar?” Wilbur asks from his spot standing in front of him.
Tommy winces at the reminder of the nickname.
Techno had been the only one to call him that.
Wilbur had been looking at his face intently for minutes now, and Tommy hadn’t thought much of it, because he was doing the same. Soaking up every inch of the brother he lost.
That was until Wilbur had stretched out a finger and suddenly touched the scar that stretches from his cheek to his collarbone.
Phantom pain had raced up it with a chilling sensation, and Tommy had flinched away quickly.
Something like desperation filled Wilbur’s eyes as guilt dropped his features.
“Tommy, why do you have the Theseus scar?” He repeats.
“Fucks that supposed to mean?” He asks, confusion twirling his thoughts. He’s also trying to push away the memories of getting the scar, but apparently, he can't have both, because Dream's face and axe dance behind his eyes tauntingly.
Wilbur looks at him, perplexed, then seems to realize something.
“Oh,” He breathes out.
“You don’t know,”
Tommy scowls at him. He hates being out of the loop. Wilbur knew that, or he used to, but ever since Pogtopia-
Tommy realized suddenly this was pre-pogtopia Wilbur. Therefore, he should know that he fucking hates it when he leaves him out.
“The statues?” Wilbur says, like he knew that Tommy needed clarification, hands twisting nervously in the yellow jumper he's adorned in, “You don’t know what they are.”
It wasn’t a question.
Tommy just nods. He wasn’t sure if Wilbur wanted an answer or not. In the back of his mind, he knows Wilbur won't care either way, but exile had ridden him of most of the social norms he used to know, so he wasn't going to be relaxed.
Wilbur regards the lack of response with a tick of his jaw.
“They-“ Wilbur winces, hands ruffling his brown mop.
“Primes, I don’t know how to say this,”
Tommy rolls his eyes and crosses his gaunt arms.
“Wil, hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen you die by our fathers' hands, our country blew up three times, and my own death. You’re not going to phase me,”
Wilbur looks at him with a sad glance.
“Right, sorry. Um, they’re representations of all the different ways you’ve…. Died.”
What the fuck? Tommy’s only died once before this, he was certain. There were at least fifty statues and that was an estimate by the glance he had taken at them.
“Wilbur,” Tommy cautiously says, “I’ve died twice. That’s it.”
Wilbur rubs a hand over his face, disgruntled, then suddenly pulls Tommy back into his embrace with strong arms.
Well then.
“Not for me,” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy probably shouldn't be able to hear it, but he does.
Tommy froze.
“What the fuck, Wilbur?” He says into his jumper.
Wilbur continues encircling him with his arms, the rough texture of his trench coat digging into Tommy’s bare arms.
“My limbo. Until you’ve got here, that is. It… was just watching all the different ways you die. The statues appeared one by one after that.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose. He is fucking confused.
“Wilbur, your not making sense,” He informs him, grumbling into his soft sweater. It’s quite comfortable on his face.
Wilbur chokes out sobs, momentarily scaring Tommy. He forgot how emotional his brother used to be.
“I know,” He says simply through whatever breakdown he’s having, holding Tommy tighter.
“Wil, please explain,” Tommy timidly asks, bracing himself for rejection and wrapping his arms tightly around Wilburs' waist in case he tries to pull away.
But of course, he doesn’t get it.
Wilbur does pull away, but instead of leaving Tommy, he slowly switches the hug to holding Tommy’s hand, like he was three again.
He didn’t have the heart to pull away, as much as the tugging on his scars hurt.
Or ached, he knows theoretically you can actually feel pain while dead.
Wilbur starts walking, still holding Tommy's hands, and silently drags him across the floor, on a mission to somewhere. The mysterious statues are all around, all still uncannily looking like him.
He walks into Wilbur’s back when the lanky boy abruptly stops in front of one.
Tommy notes the fact he’s looking up at the statue with a sad expression.
Tommy mirrors his gaze and jumps at the familiar face again. It's so fucking weird.
Mostly because this one carries the same facial scar as him.
“The fuck?” He mutters, staring at it. It looks fresh on the statue, still inflamed and torn from the axe. Tommy hates the flashes of memories that tore through his brain once again.
“The Theseus scar,” Wilbur said sadly, clenching Tommy’s hand harder.
Tommy was busy wondering why the statue looked so familiar. It has a compass around its neck, much like the first statue he had seen and had his exile clothes on.
His hair was also Dutch braided down the nape of his neck.
Tommy shudders as the memories of rough fingers tugging his hair into the braids, tauntingly humming a familiar anthem emerge.
“I- I don’t get it, Wil,” Tommy says, “it looks like me, like-“
“Exile,” Wilbur says simply.
Tommy jumps. How the fuck did this Wilbur know about exile?
“Wait, your not supposed to know about that-“
Wilbur sadly turns toward him.
“As I said, Tommy, my limbo hasn’t been fun.”
He returns his attention to the statue and Wilbur follows his lead.
“I named this death ‘Theseus’. It was the twenty-seventh death.”
Well if that wasn’t fucking ominous.
“I didn’t die in exile, Wilbur,” Tommy slowly corrects, brain trying to comprehend what the fuck was happening.
Wilbur faces him.
“I know. But I saw the deaths that could’ve happened.”
It suddenly clicks in Tommy's head all at once; Wilbur’s limbo was like his, except all he’d see over and over was the different ways Tommy could’ve died, but didn’t.
“Oh-“
He chokes, spinning around madly, trying to take in the tens of statues. They were everywhere, all him, all-
Nausea rises in his throat.
He was fucking nineteen.
And he had died over fifty times in different lives.

Wilbur was there, suddenly, soothing him with nice motions and words. He was calming him down, and all it served to do was make Tommy feel worse.
Tommy pushes him away after a moment more, not registering the hurt that Wilbur displayed.
He breaths for around five minutes before Wilburs' voice breaks his consciousness.
“Tommy, I’m so sorry, I should’ve- I shouldn’t have told you-“ Wilbur was crying.
Again, it is so jarring compared to the cold-hearted brother he was accustomed to.
“Wilbur.” Tommy reached out to his brother.
“It’s fine, Wil. Just shocked me, is all,” He assures softy, hand circling Wilburs wrist.
He shouldn’t have been surprised when Wilbur pulled him in for another hug, but alas, he was.
What a fucking weirdo.
He was still saying sorry, but Tommy couldn’t care less. He was more intrigued if anything. Whoever ran limbo was fucking crafty in their torture methods. Wilbur’s perfect limbo was apparently watching him die over and over, which is kind of touching considering Tommy didn't think Wilbur ever cared for him after all the things he did.
(That was a lie, he knew Wilbur had loved him once, and still does in his twisted-up way)
Interrupting Wilbur in his continuous apologies, he looks up at the Thesues statue.
“Wil, how did… this… I die this time?”
Wilbur stops his rant in confusion.
“What?”
“How did- how did I die in this one?”
The words were harder than he thought to get out for some reason.
“No, Tommy, I really fucking shouldn’t-“ Wilbur begins, obviously not wanting to talk about it.
“I jumped, didn’t I?” Relaxation settles through Tommy as he stars at…. himself.
The scar looks new. He looked half dead already, bones poking out. The compass. Wilbur had referred to it as the Thesues death.
He had just built the tower.
“I jumped off the tower,” Tommy repeats.
Wilbur freezes, and Tommy looks up at him.
He looked so guilty, so sad.
“Yeah,” He breathes out.
Tommy grimaced and then nodded.
“There’s your answer, Wil. That’s why I have the Theseus scar.”
“What- but you-“ Wilbur scrambles, trying to make sense of his words.
Tommy was too tired to register the pleading look Wilbur gave him, in an attempt for him not to confirm his fears.
“I built the tower, Wilbur. Right after I got the scar. And I jumped, but I didn’t aim for the ground.”
Wilbur let out a hurt noise.
“Were- were you going too?”
Tommy realized maybe this limbo would eventually be a happy place. It wouldn’t remind him of the life he was burdened to live after a few decades, but for now, he carries the trauma with him.
He surprises himself when he actually answers honestly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I was,”
He didn’t even flinch when the warm embrace envelops him again.
“Tommy,” Wilbur tightly hugs him l, sobbing, “I destroyed everything for you,”
Tommy couldn’t say he was happy to hear those words out of his brothers’ mouths.
It was one thing for Tubbo to tell him, for Ranboo to try and explain how Wilbur had hurt him, but from it to come from him-
It was the best apology he would ever get.
Tommy dug his head into Wilbur’s shoulder with a sob of his own.

————————————————————————

“And that one?”
“Tommy, I really don’t think-“
“Did I jump in front of Tubbo?”
Tommy asks, turning around to see a shocked Wilbur.
“Yeah, actually, but that’s beside the point. I really don’t want-“
Tommy moved past the statue he had been referring to, the one that he looked younger in and covered in burn scars nearly identical to Tubbos.
“That one?” He asks, pointing, much like he had been doing for the last hour.
Wilbur sighs and looks at him with a pleading look.
“Tommy, please, I don’t want to do this right now. I fucking hate thinking about them.”
He’s been dragging Wilbur around for the last few hours asking him about the multiple deaths. He’s been noting differences and similarities between stories and scars since the original Theseus one; it is providing wonderful morbid entertainment for Tommy.
“What else are we supposed to do?” He avoids Wilbur’s exasperated look to stare at the statue in front of him. This one has two arrows embedded in it, one over the heart and one right through the forehead.
He’s young in this one as well and in the L’manberg getup. Even worse, hope seems to be eternally etched into this one’s face.
“Toms-“
“Dual?” He asks, spinning around to look at his older brother. Wilbur looks about ready to cry again.
“I’m guessing the green bastard didn’t play fair and killed me twice somehow?”
He’s getting pretty good at this.
Wilbur bites his lip, glancing up at the statue and shuddering.
He grabs Tommy's arm abruptly and starts dragging him toward the front of the church.
Or building.
Tommy doesn’t really know what it is.
“Wil, I wasn’t done!” He complains, “You didn’t even tell me if I was fucking right!”
Wilbur doesn’t answer, just continues dragging him through the long structure.
Tommy gives up trying to resist after a moment.
They duck through a stone archway covered in vines located at the back of the room. It opens into a smaller room, absolutely drenched in greenery.
It looks nice.
There’s a small pile of blankets and pillows, feathers, and coats.
Wait a second.
“Wilbur.” Tommy stops, staring with horrified fascination at the nest-like structure.
Wilbur turns around, visibly relaxing now they were out of the room full of statues.
“Yes?”
The nest is scattered with yellow and brown feathers.
For not the first time that day, Tommy is hit with the realization this isn’t Pogtopia.
This Wilbur is from before.
“Do you have your wings?”
Wilbur looks at him quizzically for a moment.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I-“
It seems to hit him the same time it hits Tommy.
For different reasons, obviously. Tommy is delighted and Wilbur is horrified.
“Oh my fucking prime,” Tommy says, giddily rushing forward and trying to see the wings tucked under the trench coat.
Wilbur stands, stricken with the realization Tommy’s only seen his wings in their childhood and before he blew them to smithereens in L’manberg’s explosion..
He had ‘died’ with them, and had been revived without them.
Speaking of which.
“Tommy, did you never get wings?”
Wilbur asks, turning to look at the teen who is still jumping around trying to see the feathery appendages.
Of all the deaths Wilbur had witnessed, only two did Tommy have wings.
He freezes.
Tommy swallows as the memories overwhelm him again, threatening to send him into a panic.
(Calm, calm, calm, he reminds himself,)
“No, I, uh, did,” He tells him, suddenly still and quiet.
Wilbur grins.
“Can I see them? What color are they? Are they like Dad’s?”
Tommy swallows.
“They’re gone, Wil.” He quietly drops his outstretched hands and bows his head in shame. He feels the flower crown shift, and he adjusts it with his hands.
The grin falls off Wilbur’s face.
Oh, shit. Tommy wasn’t going to tell him that.

Chapter Text

WILBURS POV
Now that he thinks about it, Tommy hadn’t even shown one avian instinct since he arrived, unlike Wilbur, who was constantly chirping and making noises in his throat.
Tommy, even as a little boy, would constantly chirp and flap his arms like he was hybrid; though he never showed signs of being one.
So what the fuck does his little brother mean by “gone”?
He doesn't understand.
“What?”
Tommy looks away, eyes watering for the first time since his arrival. Pain is etched in every scar and every small inch of his face. The scar Wilbur had noticed at the beginning, the Thesues one, stretches with his grimace.
Wilbur still doesn’t want to think about what that scar implies for his baby brother’s past.
“Dream, uh, cut them off,”
Wilbur stopped everything at his words, heart dropping to his stomach. He saw red.
“He fucking what?”
“Cut them off,” Tommy repeated, voice wavering. “ In- in exile. Didn’t want me to…. fly away, I guess,”
It took everything in Wilburs power to not demand the little angel to take him back to life so he could fucking murder this cunt.
Woah, where did that come from?
“Tommy-“ Wilbur breathes out.
Tommy shrugs.
“It’s alright. I got them in exile too, you know? Didn’t even have them six months.”
Wilbur let out a squawk of dismay, one that spelt pain and empathy, not that Tommy would know.
Still, his anger was burning like an inferno, and Wilbur was trying hard not to let it show.
“He- he cut off a fledglings’ wings?”
(‘My fledgling’, He adds in his head)
Tommy nods, fidgeting with his hands, before taking a deep breath like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the courage.
Wilbur reaches out gingerly, squeezing his wrist in reassurance.
“Yeah. I still have the stumps, but that’s it. Phil never knew, in case you were wondering, unless Techno told him,”
Wilbur let out a disturbed chirp. The thought of Tommy, his bright little sunshine, going through the pain of his limbs getting ripped from his back sickens Wilbur to his core.
“Oh, baby-“
And he couldn’t stand it anymore. His baby brother was here after such a short a time, and he had been through four lifetimes of trauma and abuse. Wilbur used to have half a hope he would turn up here in his late years, happy and content, saying died in his sleep.
That thought was weeded out quickly once the deaths he saw became at least two a day. The day the Theseus death appeared, he had died six other times.
He rushes foward, praticaly knocking the two of them into the nest, covering Tommy in his embrace.
He was never going to let Tommy go. And he wasn’t going to stop showing his affection, and asking questions until he made sure Tommy felt loved again.
They had eternity, after all.

————————————————————————

Tommy’s POV
The days in limbo began passing faster and faster. Most of their days were spent recounting their past, Tommy accidentally spilling something that was apperently traumatic, and Wilbur having like fifteen different breakdowns because of it.
Tommy’s forgotten what feeling cared about was until he died.
The irony of that whole situatuon was really funny to him, but Wilbur didn’t share the sentiment when he voiced this opinion a week ago.
He had simply tucked Tommy back into that familiar spot in between his arms.
Tommy had found that spot was the best place to fall asleep after long days, the good and the bad alike.
He also found waking up and feeing safe was an expirence he’d never want to forget.

————————————————————————

“Wil,” He asks for his brother wearily, eyes scrunching at the light spilling from the stained glass.
“Hmm?” Wilbur mutters from his spot in Tommy’s hair.
“Touch,” He barely gets out as memories overwhelm him, and thankfully Wilbur gets the memo, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s thin torso.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t eaten much before he blew himself to smitherens.
Speaking of which, the nuke was the reason he was asking Wikbur to ground him now. Despite becoming a very anti touch person after exile, limbo was a whole different expirence.
His mind had completely surrendered to old habits and allowing Wilbur to do everything he used too because it was Wilbur, and this was Tommy’s limbo.
Drista wasn’t a bitch enough to put Dream or Punz in here with him, and his brain was subconsciously aware of that on some level, because it was allowing for him to do things like this.
Tommy breathes in and out while focusing on the arms lightly squeezing his waist.
Thier both laying in Wilbur’s nest, and he had woken up to be immediately overwhelmed by the phantom pain and memories. A shit way to wake up, if you ask him.
“Toms?” Wilbur tentatively asks into his hair.
“Yeah,” Tommy replies although it takes quite a bit of effort.
Wilbur breaths a sigh of relief.
“Good. I was just wondering if you were back yet,”
Tommy hums wearily back. He had litterally just woken up, and the fatigue was dragging his bones down enough to the point where talking felt like too much.
Wilbur just tucks himself into Tommy’s back, freezing slightly when Tommy’s wing stumps flutter from the contact.
Tommy does as well.
There’s a moment where the two brothers are quiet, one lost in memories and the other in sorrow.
Tommy has half a mind to speak up and say something about it, whether it was for his or Wilbur’s sake was still to be determined; but decided on just turning around and tucking himself into Wilbur’s chest instead.
Wilbur thankfully drops it and just wraps an arm around Tommy, and let the himself be taken hostage by Tommy’s snuggle grip once he drifted off.
They nap for a while, neither really falling asleep, but it’s enough for Tommy to regain his energy enough to talk.
“It’s not a big deal, Wil,” He says into the yellow sweater.
Wilbur gets the feel that Tommy’s used this vague dismissal about his missing wings many times, and its said in a casual way; an easy way to say that he’s over it.
Too bad he knows him better than that.
“It really is, Toms,” He frowns, “It wasn’t in anyone’s rights to take your limbs from you.”
Tommy shifts slightly in his arms.
“It’s fine,” He mutters with a slight edge, obviously not wanting to talk about it in depth.
Wilbur sighs.
“Okay, Tommy,”

————————————————————————

“What was your favorite death of mine?” Tommy suddenly asks, turning his head so they were practically nose to nose.
It was another lazy day in their limbo, and both the boys were perfectly content laying and enjoying each other's company.
“What?” Wilbur asks, confused.
“You said you watched every death of mine. What was your favorite?”
Tommy wasn’t sure if it was his own morbid curiosity or a need for conversation that had him asking the question.
“Tommy.”
“What?”
“I’m not answering that.”
Wilbur was looking at him with a sadness lingering deep in his gaze.
Tommy pouts, “Wilbur-“
“No”
Tommy flops back into the nest with a huff, causing some stray feathers to float away.
“It was a conversation starter,” He huffs, picking at the threads in Wilbur’s sweater.
“Toms, I don’t think your go-to conversation starter should be about death,” He says, his chest soothingly rumbling as he spoke.
“It always worked when I was alive. That’s all that we were worried about,” He says, and Wilbur stops the hand that was stroking his hair comfortingly.
“Fucking hell,” He breaths out, propping himself up on his elbows, effectively cutting off the contact Tommy had with him.
Tommy whines at the loss.
“Tommy, you had a fucking shitty life. I’m not going to sugar coat it. You were delt the worst hand as a kid.”
Tommy frowned up at his brother.
He couldn’t deal with Wilbur’s therapy today.
“Yeah, okay, Wilbur,” He says, and turns around.
“No, Tommy,” Wilbur tugs his shoulder so he faces him.
“I need you to listen to me, okay? Nothing I did was okay. Nothing Dream did was okay. Nothing anyone did was fine. We all had issues, and we didn’t seek the help we needed.”
Tommy grumbles half heartedly although his heart was screaming at the confessions.
Wilbur continues.
“We had a family, Toms, we did. I don’t know when, or why, but we all stopped trying, didn’t we? And I didn’t try hard enough to give you the life you deserved.”
Tommy frowns. This wasn’t going in the direction he thought it was, and it was nice, but he was wrong.
“Wilbur, your litterly so fucking wrong,” Tommy interrupts in a slightly louder manner than was needed, but whatever.
Wilbur looks at him with an open mouth.
“Tommy-“
“No, Wil, you don’t get it. You tried hard, but it was me. I couldn’t-“
“Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fucking dare put the blame on yourself,” Wilbur’s eyes were shining with unshed tears as he fully sat up, sticking his pointer finger in Tommy’s chest.
Tommy shadows his actions, sitting up to face him.
“But-“
“No,” Wilbur had sorrow painted in every part of his face, “Tommy, nobody helped you guys. We were the kids forced to grow up too fast, and we thought we were acting like adults, but we were wrong. All we did was press the same fate unto you guys,”
Tommy wrinkled his eyes in confusion. This fucking maniac was nuts.
“What the fuck, Wilbur-“
“You were the unfortunate kids who did what you needed to in order to survive the life we plagued you with. Don’t apologize for that,”
Tommy was lost. Maybe Wilbur had really gone crazyz
“But, Dream-“ He cut himself off. He thought he weeded those thoughts out years ago, yet here they were. Wilbur was making his life (or death, he supposes) much more confusing than he thought.
“Tommy, you don’t have to believe me now, okay? Thats totally fine.”
He drags tommy into his arms, hugging him tightly. Tommy hugs him back, albit still confused and reeling from Wilburs’ words.
“You don’t have to believe me, sunshine, I have an eternity to convince you,”
And Tommy had the horrifying thought that he was okay with that.