Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Whongg nyeem a coop e"  Tommy slurs the song as he does a weird dance along the prime path.

Some song called Intern by... Burnman. Bom Burnman?? Tommy wasn't sure- Not that it matter since he was officially stealing that song.

Actually the song wasn't even finish! So therefore he has a good claim on the song now!

That's how copy-works-right law works, to Tommyinnit at least.

With a swing of his tail and the whisky on his hand he continues singing, this time more coherent than the last. "..free. just like me!"  The boy makes a dramatically half turn to his right and uses the whisky as a makeshift mic to sing the line.

He swings his hips as he tries to sing the right tunes, halfway forgetting, halfway realizing he was right on his last attempt, and once in a while just pausing to breath in air. Having flushed cheeks was better than blue ones.

Even if blue is a cool color.

"You- hiccup!- ahll hay go byack to your- blrgh" the boy leans to a pole mid way in singing.

Damn the whisky was really getting him now. Yay! Tommy cheers mentally despite his body's drunken situation and how it was definitely gonna get him hurt. He likes this part of drinking- or just doing the very illegal things he's been doing lately. And these one's weren't even in a list for war crimes, so there's that.

Why did he think that??

The boy looks at the whisky bottle.

Probably the whisky's fault. Or cause he's a cirty crime- no fuck you. He scolds the thought and takes another swing.

Breathing in, Tommy continues his montage of his singing- " and since you can't pay a more-thingy you just tor-palapar kapa bwah room-"

Tommy takes a deep breath, ready to makes the most blood curdling scat (the music) to ever come from someone's throat when he gets slapped.

That was mean, Tommy vaguely thinks as he falls on his.

Too drowsy and too drunk to consider being polite or just generally nice, Tommy swings his whisky around while trying to shove his blue wool cardigan on his shoulders. He looks around to find the assualter (is that a word) but all he finds is a chunky bird.

Caw!

It squaks.

"The fuck are you lookin at bitch?!" He squaks back.

The thick bird squacks back at him, nipping the air as it hops towards him. Still understanding whatever language birds spoke, Tommy interprets a conversation with the feral little thing.

He gasps, "What do you mean your not a bitch?!" Somehow, he had concluded the bird didn't like being called a bitch and decided a twitter level controversial chat was befitting of this odd situation.

Kneeling down, loud thack is made as the whisky is placed on the floor. He flinched, but opts to focus on his new found companion- or temporary one. Speaking of, she (if the last bit logical part of his brain was right then the bird was a she) squaks again.

"Oh, yes yes" the boy nods. "You are a madam! Forgive me I- hiccup -oh shit sorry- ahem."

The bird tilts her head.

"Forgive me madam for I have insulted you!" He dramatically yells, making the bird hop back at the noise. "Oh miss.. uh.... Crow!-" he mumbles: "your a crow right?" And continues to shout "what shall i do to forgive a sinner like me?!"

He was a sinner. Not just cause of the unreasonable conclusion he made earlier but- yeah. You probably already know.

The bird quickly hops closer to him. Tommy watched with dizzy eyes as it gently nips his hand-

The one holding the whisky.

SHE WANTS HIS WHISKY???? THE FUCK???

"No! Fuck you! This shit is mine" he swats the bird, though his intentions were to hopefully push the bird away, his swatting didn't even reach the flying creature.

She nips his hand again, he blinks and she's on his lap.

The blonde sighs. Fine. She can have the whisky.

His thoughts must've poured through his mouth as he watched the little thing squawk happily. Claws already reaching for the bottle.

But jokes on HER!

Tommy quickly gulps the drink down even as it burns his throat like fire was racing down a tunnel. He faintly hears the bird squawk and bite and nip him but he doesn't care! No! No one gets the last laugh but Tommy! It's his turn to have the last laugh.

What felt like hours, Tommy finally finish the drink.  His throat burns as his lungs pumps for air and his nose clogs as the escaped drops of whisky leaves his lungs and out his nose.

"There! Now- " he fights the urge to barf. "Blrgh- fuckfuck shit- take it ya damn bird!" And turns and leaves.

He doesn't bother to stay or watch as the bird takes the empty bottle with ease and flies to the tundra.

Chapter Text

Today is a smoke day. Tommy decided.

After waking up with a migraine equivalent to Ex-dee fucking bonking him with a sinner stick and finding his whisky stash has been broken into by a bird. He took a small breath in yodeled to the Aether realm a song of curses for the gods.

Those were hard earned- well, more like hard stolen but uh- whisky bottles from Quackity! The bird hybrid had for some reason entrusted his alcohol vault to Charlie, the very odd slime being that had a too good memory but a lack of understanding in feelings and communication.

All Tommy had to do was tell Charlie a wandering villager was selling slime and two llamas would be found wandering the lands of Las Nevadas and a certain blonde an inventory filled with alcohol and maybe a diamond or two... blocks.

But that's besides the point! ... not that he had one... fuck what was he talking about?.

. . .

Whatever! He's smoking today.

Unfortunately, Tommy had woken up not just with an annihilated stash of dizzy juice, but also smelling like rotten apples and booze.

From his cardigan to his shorts, Tommy had no choice but to change clothes. There goes his waiting to throw his laundry with Ranboo's (not like the tall bloke minded if the tiny notes and flowers always left on his bed with his clothes folded says anything about it.)

So like a feral raccoon he rummaged through his drawers and chest for clothes.

His search was a success and he did find clothes.

Only they were ones didn't necessarily belonged to him.

A thick blue cloak with a taunting AE stitched with a slightly darker blue, none would see but if you knew it was there it was hard to unsee.

A white sweater.

And.. .

An emerald earing.

He really shouldn't have brought it out. Not like he meant to anyways. Whilst pulling out the the coat out of the ender chest, the tiny trinket had fallen off. It was almost like an insult- or a taunt.

Where there is Technoblade, There is Philza Minecraft. And where there was Philza Minecraft, there was Wilbur soot. His son. Biological.

(Not bond. Blood. Bound by blood yet not by features. Is that why Philza was quick to kill and revive Wil? Because he would bend the rules of reality for a man with the same strands of DNA in his body flowing through him naturally?)

It made him barf. Or the migraine did. He doesn't know.

Minutes pass and the withdrawals of being sober started kicking him in the ass. He needed a to smoke- to feel the nicotine scratch a part of his brain none like other. Feel as it burns his lungs whilst his eyes swirl in the hazy pleasure of the drug.

He punches the wall- where's the hoodie he once had? Was all his clothes seriously dirty- and his whole house shake at the action. The small tings of bottles clicking makes him raise his head. A moment of confusion and he realize something.

His whole house had shaken.

Meaning some of his furniture too shooked.

He put the box near his puke bucket fuck fuck fuck-.

And he's racing to the mirage of trash piles like his house had turned into a point a to b line that stretched far- too far. Part of him prayed to the gods that it didn't fall- that it's fine and he can quickly light the damn thing up and he'll be in the heavens 5 minutes tops and!-

It fell.

What the fuck. Did the gods hate him that much?

Pale hands grip what once was golden strands. His body sinks, knees buckiling, back slouching until he's sitting in his haunches with a bitten lip and tears begging to fall. He wants to cry.

He really does.

The realization of what he's doing smacks him head on, for what seems the hundredth time. He's 17, reaching the ripe age of adolescence. And yet wasting away in a dirt shack.

Instead, he's been left;

Alone, as his friends laugh and have fun. As they stay oblivious to what once was a shining star, now left to be a small peice of nothing.

Misguided, as he drinks and smokes his problems away. No one there to tell him the dangers of his choices because why would they? He's surrounded by fuckers who drown themselves in these very acts and yet none point to their actions simply because they were adults.

His lungs convusle. Not because he's found a new pack or whisky went down the wrong throat. He's sad. There. He said it.

He thought it, really.

And it made him sob harder.

He was so alone. He's been discarded and replaces like another plate to a collection. Not because he's broken- he is, but only after he was replaced - no no no he damn well knows he was only removed because- because.

Something. Something he wants to know. Because he can fix it! They just have to tell him!

Was he too loud?

Was he too brash?

Was he too impulsive?

Irresponsible?

Stupid?

Useless?

So many words and so many meaning he might throw up- or it's another round of whisky after thoughts- if not for the fact he hears a familiar sound of wood creaking. He holds his breath.

Don't make a sound.

(They'll think your pathetic and dramatic)

Not too far that his cries were, hopefully, not heard but close.

He stops his sobbing, wiping away half heartedly at his tears as he stands up. He grabs the white sweater and puts it on- it's big. Too big it reached his knees and he realized this was Technoblade and he doesn't give a shit- he needs to look fine because he is fine.

He doesn't need anyone. Much to the contrast of his previous thoughts.

So he puts what he can on.

He couldn't even asses himself before a knock is heard and he stops.

It was for him.

For him.

Him.

It was for him!

He wipes more of his tears out from his cheeks. His house is darker- hopefully it could shade off the swelling on his eyes. That way he can look nice and people can hang out and he wont be alone and-

"Mate..? You hom-? Oh"

Oh.

He's open the door before they could leave- before he could tell it was.

Philza.

Shit-

Tommy was only peaking at his door, but the sight of the fluffy coat and the other borrowed fabric he found earlier was on perfect sight for the avian hybrid. He knew that Phil was studying him. Who wouldn't? He was wearing clothes that anyone expect to either be burned or returned.

And the earing? The tiny trinket Tommy idly fiddled with on the very had that was outside his door pretty much yelling "Hey I still have an emerald that given to me as a sign of friendship from a man I betrayed!" To the wide world and to his literal bestfriend/ally/dad.

Phil makes an awkward cough, prompty ignoring the style he's chosen. "Uhm... Hey, I was wondering If you'd like to have dinner later? I got a pretty good harvest on my farm."

What?

"Yeah, It good to good actually haha, Ranboo and Tubbo will be there, don't worry. It'll be a calm dinner."

What?

"You'll be there, Ranboo, Tubbo too... Me.. Techno- oh and Wilbur too!"

Had the old man really gone senile? Bonked in the head? Finally fell down the stair of his shit eye sigh- actually no Phil was a bird. He had great eye sight, but his perception on glass was questionable so maybe he walked in to a glass wall.

"Toms..?"

He grips the door tighter when his legs nearly gave at the name.

Toms.

Toms.

Toms. Toms. Toms. Toms.

Call me whatever just please call me

Tommy fights the urge to shiver and let the tears fall at the thought. The boy was well aware how desperate and whiny it sounded. Bile fills his throat and he nearly vomits as he replies to his guest- er, .. visitor? Whatever.

"I- I'll think about.. .it.." he replies, part of him already descending back to the darkness of his abode.

"Oh, good! It'll be in my house- the one beside Techno, I'm sure you know." Phil smiles, a hidden message behind those pearly whites of his. One that Tommy wants to claw at him to know. "It'll be around 9- 10pm at the latest since Tubbo and Ranboo said that might be have things to do last minute." He does a half hearted bow.

Turns.

Waves.

And leaves.

Tommy gently closes his door, and with a soft thud of it his knees buckle and he quickly starts throwing his things around, looking for his best friend. (And his worst enemy)

.

.
.
.

.

Tommy was happy.

He was doing absolutely amazing!

Luckily, he found a chest with stray sticks- probably of when he tried finding one in the dark and spilled a few.

So. He was skipping lunch in favor of smoking. Getting high.

Wasting his potential, po-tato, po-ta-to. Call it whatever.

The coat felt softer than usual as he puffed smoke cloud after smoke cloud. Part of him wondered if it was alive. With the way it seemed to make a mold perfectly into thr shape of his body, he'll bet it is alive.

Maybe it was him just wanting someone to hug him. Who knows.

He's been in this field for hours now, he thinks.

Actually, He's been for so long it would be about 9pm.

9pm.

"It'll be around 9-10pm-"

FUCK- THE DINNER!

Quickly getting up and nearly tripping from the cape, Tommy springs up and brings his things and fits them to his inventory. He cursed at himself for making things a mess, how is he supposed to hide anyone was here?

What if someone finds things with him and they call him  about it (CALL ME CALL ME )

He takes a shuddering breath. Stop. He tells himself as he continues collecting cigarette butt after cigarette butt. Riding of any evidence anyone was here nor did they do any illegal things.

Once he's satisfied, he pulls out a bucket and pours it on the left over ashes. Sweat beads off his pale turned face as it mixes with the liquid and the ashes of his sins.

He's a horrible person. He can't help but think.

He should tell them. (And call them-)

No. No, they'll judge him. Both personally and possibly lawfully. He was still a minor after all!

A minor with no guardian.

Or proper income.

Or a healthy lifestyle.

Or lov- ah! Fuck!

Habits really die hard, Tommy bitterly thinks as he flicks the cancer stick off his fingers. Grabbing a random stick of wet leaves from a tree, he hastens his pace and rubs the oak leaves sent on his body.

Intensive thoughts tickle his fingers.

A tiny bite? Ah-

Blegh.

Ew.

Tommy blinks and he sees a squirrel skitter off.

Oak tress rustles as he inch closer and closer at the meshed biome of oak forests and the tundra. Cold wind bites his skin and he holds the cloak tighter while the smell of mud and dirt fills his lungs far before they grow numb by the cold.

It's really cold.

He has a lighter-

And a box-

The blonde pace is still fast but each and every step grow heavy and strong- it borders the line of stomping but before he could even cross it an unexpected guest break his thoughts.

Well, Tommy was the guest so more of a..

Unexpected owner

"Is that my cloak?"

Of all estate owners it had to be the fucking pig in a crown.

Chapter Text

The cloak felt cold.

Maybe it was broken. Techno was probably shit at making cloth- yeah that had to be the reason. The thick cloth must be failing at keeping his body warm as every millisecond passing made him feel too much like a living corpse (not that he isn't one already).

Or maybe the nicotine was still soaring through his body. Rather than numbing his brain it was numbing his senses.

Either way, Tommy was fucked.

"Theseus, why do you have that cloak" It was not a question. But a statement demanding a response.

But Tommy doesn't answer. He was too busy wrapping his mind at the statement.

Theseus? The word is repeated on his brain like fish swimming around his head.

Technoblade said his nickname. A name bestowed by him with malice on a day he lost his false-brother, but does that matter? It was a nickname. One made for him. One given to him.

One he never thought he'd hear again. (Be it out of love, or hate. This was neither)

And then there was "That cloak". Techno didn't say mine, nor "yours". It was a cloak up for grabs so that must mean he was simply asking Tommy why he had it. No extra strings.

He mumbles with dry and cold lips- "..cold..".

He could feel himself lean closer on the cloak. Be it by instinct or his non-sober mind, Tommy wasn't sure.

He tries to apologize. To beg Techno to let him keep the cloak until he could have his own- one made by his own calloused hands. But far before he could think such thoughts, hoofed feet crunched against the snowy grass.

Blue eyes shut tight. Expecting a harsh tug of the cloak, a rip of the green gem that hung hidden by the white fluff of the clothing article.

Anything bad.

Instead, a warm hand is placed in his forehead. Techno's face is shown to be indifferent. But Tommy knows. There's something in his eyes he's hiding.

Malice?

Anger?

The schemes to kill him so that he wouldn't be at fault?

Tommy wanted to know, but at the same time not. He wants to bask in the warm touch of a man he once considered a brother, yet he feared he'll be falling into the cold touch of death. The thought makes the blonde freeze, realizing Techno was big. He could squash Tommy's head like a tomato.

He pulls away, and Tommy keeps his dulled eyes down, Hands reaching to unclip the cloak and shove it on the warrior's chest.

and run. Dinner be damned- a dinner he was invited to- a gathering with people who once loved him (and he too loved back),

There's a sigh, and time to to go back. Or reality is revealed from Tommy's harsh imaginations. "Keep it. C'mon, Phil is probably waiting." Techno says nonchalantly. (Tommy didn't see the pain that painted the pinknette's face when he pulled away. Nor the way Techno clenched his hand as though to fight the urge to pull the skinny blonde close).

The blonde looks up. He could see Techno usher his horse, Carl, close. Tommy doesn't move as he watched Techno get on the horse, not until Techno stares at him with waiting red eyes did Tommy realize Techno had his hand out to him to get on. Hesitation jitters through his body as he takes it. Large rough hands pulls Tommy's wrist gently as he gets on the mammal.

The ride was eerily quiet.

For Tommy.

Techno? Oh he thought it was awkward. Now that the two are close, he could smell it.

Nicotine and alcohol.

It was so much Techno wondered if he was hallucinating they were in the tundra and in reality in the cold humid depths of Pogtopia. Actually, now that he'd mention the wretched place, the smell was exactly like then. He doubt the cold was influencing his sense of smell- not when he sniffed the polluted air every time it was just Techno and Wilbur alone. Which was quite often as Tommy always hated enclosed spaces.

Did.. Tommy go down there? 

*He probs did lmao*

*NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO*

*Should've just exploded it too then*

*Yeah but memories*

*You mean trauma?*

Shut, Techno mentally said to the voices. Some obeyed the order- others rebelled and did not. Nonetheless, Techno ignores them as the he lets the sound of snow crunch circle his mind as he thinks.

Why would Tommy result to such means?

He heard Tommy had an exchange with the Egg, but the thing was gone now.

The blonde's hotel was more or less highjacked by Jack during that time he was gone, but he got it back did he not?

But what happened when he was gone?

What did happen? Techno dreadfully wondered. What happened as he and the syndicate laughed at the mere idea the words Ranboo had uttered were true?

Surely not?

He feels something tap his shoulder and the hot breath of the blonde break his line of thought.

Techno realized they were back. The familiar and only building from the clearing helped Techno realize they should get inside- to which Tommy voices. "Uhm.. ca- do we go down now..?" he asked softly and quietly.

The pinknette doesn't answer as he huffs a blow of hot air. He drops down and pats the excess snow that had clumped on his hood- pausing halfway when he notices Tommy try dropping down himself, earning a raised hand in a stop motion from Techno (Tommy only froze in miscommunication, not like Techno would've known)- and shortly after grabs the blonde by the armpits and gently drops him to the ground.

When they entered the humble cottage, the smell of spices enter Tommy's nose. The crackling of a flame is mixed by soft chatter of what Tommy could assume to be the other participants of the dinner. He shudders as Techno closes the door and probably helps Phil finish setting dinner.

Tommy's flat shoes nearly make no sounds as he walks to the other room- not without giving Steve a well-deserved pat- to see the chattering people on the table. He grips the frame as his feet stay glued just by the border to the kitchen. He watched the horrifyingly domestic scenery before him as splinters prick his fingers.

Techno had shrugged off the cape and simply wore a poet shirt, pulled up to keep the sleeves clean as he spoke with Phil. The older blonde wore a simple robe- green, his usual color- with a skintight turtleneck that he always seem to wear every day. They chopped and throw about vegetables and move pots to ovens or the sink. Occasionally he sees them put some in a large bowl and placing it far away from the work area. The young blonde expected the two- and he dread the idea of eating with just them.

"Tommy, you're here!" High, slightly strained voice pops into his hear. His head snaps to the side and he sees the familiar fluffy mop of brown hair. Goggles idly sitting atop his head and the faint smell of gunpowder lingers in his nose as he took a shuffle forward then back.

Tubbo.

His heart clenched, how could this boy look so happy? He thinks with bitter jelousy as the brunette smiled. Half his face descecrated by grafted skin and faint burns. The glass eye twitching - oh, it's... is that a mechanical eye- as Tubbo tilts his head.

"You ok, mate?" He chuckles awkwardly. The same way the boy would ask if Tommy was fine- still nervous with that fearful bit of being embarrassed that Tommy was ok. The type of tone that Tubbo partly knew Tommy would always be fine amidst every scrape he'd get when they'd run through the rugged lands of the SMP, yet still fearful and concerned for him.

Usually, he'd love that tone. He'd adored how Tubbo always had that sprinkle of care in every bit of his words and actions. A constant fluffy and soft reminder that he was *loved.*

But he hated it now.

Where was this when his head banged against obsidian?

Where was this when he pulls himself out of the water- waters that surely moved yet tasted so bitterly familiar.

Where was he when he needed him?

A sting- hot, warm and burning- meets his arm and Tommy's train of thought snaps as the snap if electricity of Tubbo's gloved hands faintly reached towards his marred ones. 

"Are y-"

"I'm fine."

Tommy grunts out, the sound of skin meet leather echoing with the fire crackle. He could feel eyes.

Phil's unrecognizable ones.

Techno's furrowed ones.

Ranboo's confused ones.

Wilbur's curious ones.

Tubbo's.....

He nearly pushed the boy down with his shoulder as he slithers out of the area. 

"Call me when dinner starts"

And like some guilty teenager in thanksgiving, he runs to the bathroom upstairs and hides.

Prime, this is gonna be a long dinner.

Chapter Text

Tommy was fine, he'll be ay-okay! 

"It's just a dinner..." he murmurs, brushing his hair back, numb fingers feeling through his oily muck filled hair. "Just shovel it all down, and you'll..."

He'll what? Be fine?

Ha! As if, Tommy knew in his very soul that something would go wrong if he planned it out. Just like his business, his dreams, his—

'The discs, Tommy'

Oh, Prime, he felt hid whole body shiver at the mere word. Why did the green shit stain just have to have a name that was also a common word? Improper, if you asked him.

Don't be harsh, he was your friend!

No he wasn't, he—

Gave you an island? went to your party?

He-he's the reason I'm alone!

No he isn't. You were just meant to stay alone.

A choked sob leaves his lips as he nearly toppled over the miniature balcony, his teary eyes already feeling icy as the cold wind blew over.

But what really hurt was his head. (Liar, its your heart.)

The seeping green glow of it, the cool yet also warm wound felt like an unwelcome hug to his brain. He could still feel Dream's hand on it, mashed potato messing with his hair when the man just kept.. experimenting. 

Move on,he tries to tells himself as he stumbles back, finding himself near the chimmney. Techno must've installed an underground level, probably to warm up the villagers underground..

Good. Means he could kick find a hole and if anyone sees him...

Whatever. Tommy doesn't even think as he flicking a lighter open, grabbing a half burnt cigarette as he leans back.

And as the nicotine burns, his mind practically warps like a dog salivating after hearing a bell.

This is good.

Tommy was good like this.

His lungs filled with smoke, his kind swirling with little thought. It meant he could be quiet, better, 'preferable' to others. Sober him hated this side of him, but who fucking cares? Him being high as the pillar he made meant he could soar away from his problems.

Even if it meant dropping as he did back then.

"Haha.. I'm gonna die alone." Tommy sniffled, wiping his nose as he blew a puff, his dull eyes mirroring the smokey air.

Maybe he should go in there like this.

Wilbur could be happy for him! He'll be just like his big brother!

Philza and Techno might argue about it, scold him even but thats fine. They'll like him like this, droopy and numb.

Oh, but Tubbo and Ranboo might grow more distant of him, they looked like two vegetarian environmentalist protesting couple. That's good for them, get rid of the bad influence, get a sober life free of a fuck up like him.

Just as he was sitting down, Tommy felt a bump in his back pocket and finds—

A cannister? When did he...

Opening it, he tooks a whiff and his brain buzzed.

Alcohol. The one... the one he stole from Sam's cabinet. The man caught him at the time, believing Tommy was just out to scavenge his things for scrap, and the boy played it off like that.

He really did regret stealing it. Wanted Sam to be there for his 'first' drink as an 'adult'.

But Tommy was sure of it. He doubt Sam would reat normal if he didn't react the first time he tried the hard pure alcohol he owned. 

That, and Tommy would never grow up.

He'll stay as a child. One that everyone hates, one that'll chase and chase until he rots in a hole, alone.

So he tales a swig, the taste burns his lips like the first time, but it was welcome. 

He'll probably puke it up later, he realized, remembering he hasn't eaten jack shit.

Whatever, a problem for future Tommyinn—

"Theseus!.... Toms?" A british voice calls.

Wilbur.

Tommy practically sobers up in an instant, kicking a rock off the chimney as smoke pratically assaults his nose. He curses as the cigarrete falls right into it, but at least he's burned off the evidence.

He's left a coughing mess though, with Wilbur immeadietly catching his curses, as he stumbled into the snow. Cannister hastily shoved to his pocket as he flailed like a fish.

Hands. Leather and warm, scoop him by the arm pits. 

Did Wilbur grow taller? And stronger? Man's built like a twink, he doubts that after being revived he'd.. change.

For the better.

Unlike him.

"Hey, hey..." He's helped onto his feet, hastily stumbling back away from his...his... from Wilbur. "I got– ah, okay." He chuckled like wine.

He was always a wine guy, before Pogtopia.

Wilbur was a sophisticated man, it was why he was into what Tommy called 'rich guy hobbies'. Theater, poetry, the arts of any kind he.... Wilbur had that put together aura that he always admired.

Because he was the adult that took his scrappy ass in. Laughed at his mess, and cheered at his smallest accomplishments.

His brother. His.. false-brother.

Wilbur died when he lost that election, this... this was a man that shouldn't exist.

"I know I'm technically dead, but c'mon, Techno made sure I'm not a zombie." He tries to joke, but Tommy doesn't buy it. Like some spunky cat that was standing still with raised fur, Tommy gripped the cloak closer, tried to put his angry face on even if his mind craved to relax.

"Don't care, still hate you."

As if he had the right to hate hi..

"I... understand, but can't we talk, sunshi—"

Sunshine, sunshine, sunsh—

"Don't... don't call me that." 

Wow, was he seriously tearing up from a nickname? 

"Right, sorry... I—"

"And for the record.." he walks towards him. "No." He hissed, bumping shoulders.

Tommy wasn't sure where to go, he's practically heading into Carl's stable, but he wanted to get away from Wilbur.

One, because he wasn't ready to have a one on one with the man that first took him in.

Second, because he could still tell he had that cigarrete smell.

He didn't mean to walk up to Wilbur, the anger in him just wanted to... push. To grab him by the collar and yell— hell, maybe beg— him for answers for why did he just... have to go insane?

Why did he die and live as Ghostbur? Haunting him with the sweetness of the brother before the SMP?

Why was his revival celebrated while Tommy's was barely even acknowledged? Wilbur barely had his marbles when he came back but Tommy? He could still recall it all.

The feeling of the cold to heat, the pain, the push and pull... his head hurts—

A scream erupts from his throat as he did indeed stumble into Carl's stables, face planting right into the haybells as the horse nudged his back curiously. The motion was sickening, with an empty stomach besides yesterdays scraps and today's bile and aclohol, he felt like barfing right therer.

Great, just fucking great.

He vaguely hears Wilbur scream— of concern? Ha! As if— before two hands are struggling to help him out of the haybell.

He probably thinks Tommy was being useless again. A menace, a little shit that couldn't do anything righ—

A hand, larger, warmer, pulls him out and he's mrt with Techno's poet shirt. His long hair loosened down to a half braid as he stared down at him.

"Dinner's ready, freshen up." He chuffs, dropping him unceremoniously as he tells Wilbur to fix up the table.

Tommy was left by Carl's stable, the horse gently nudging his messy locks as his stomach debata on whether or not he should puke.

Dinner's definelty going to be great.

Ranboo had to call out to him when he wasn't inside yet, the tall bloke even tried to offer to help inside when he saw Tommy stumble up the stairs.

Obviously, he declined, despite feeling bad when he saw the enderman wilt at his rejection.

Fucking deserves it, he reasons, that's what he get for replacing him.

He's heard everyone praise his presence, his awkward gimmicks and kindness. Ranboo, as enigmatic as he was, was beloved the way Tommy wished he was.

Hell, he wished Ranboo never visited him when he was in exile, maybe hating him would be easier. At least he was married or whatever to Tubbo, the jealousy of that fact was enough to make him want to claw his heart out as a congratulations gift.

Warmth was not a welcome feeling to his senses as he came in, his body convulsed at the sudden shift of temperature, which only made him want to puke even more. But he held back, luckily, doing his best to walk straight as one hand subtly held the cannister while the other used the wall as support.

Tubbo was the first to notice his presence, perking up with a smile that did little help to his already swimming stomach. The hybrid was helping Wilbur set up the table, which the latter seemed to be trying to recall how it looked as he stared down at different sized forks in dumbfounded confusion and focus.

Meanwhile, Ranboo slips past him to help Philza set out the food in equal portions as Technoblade finishes up something.

Tommy doesn't bother helping, not like it looked he could nor was anyone telling him to move to do something.

'Cause you're a puppet.' A disgusting voice whispers in his head as he sinks to the wooden chair, watching as everyone seemed to just move to a rhythm. A pattern or familiarity that he was intruding as each time they'd glance or pass by him they'd stumble as if recalling he was a variable out of their control. 'Can't do anything right, like a kid that needs a step by step manual by the second.'

Yeah, so what if he did need help. He.. Tommy always did things wrong according to everyone anyways! He's not.. He's not hard to handle, everyone was the ones being confusing!

Or maybe he got revived wrong. Hit too much maybe a piece of his brain flung out to the lava, burned some vital piece for his brain to work right. 

Yeah, thats gotta be it.

"You still hate carrots?" Phil's voice perks up and he shoots his head up to meet ocean blue eyes. Carrots. Right he...

"I'm not a kid." Tommy scoffs

"I know, mate, just saved some soup for you without em." He smiles, placing a bowl of soup to his right. The steam perfectly filling the air with warmth like a soft blanket to his face as he sniffed it. 

It was Wilbur's recipe. Or maybe Phil's. Either way, it was one Wilbur made when food became a bounty-filled bunch. One that he always ate at midnight when the wind was blowing too cold and he'd hug him oh so tight—

Shut up, shut up, the hands that cradled him then were stained in blood.

But they held him, no? Does it matter? They were still hands that caressed him... and... 

He shakes his head, forget it, he tells himself as he takes a spoonful. With some of it spilling to his shirt— oh crap, he hasn't done his laundry, well Ranboo's here anyway— and his chest blooms with the familiarity before he's huffing at the burn on his throat.

"Careful, mate!" Phil chuckles, in that playful but worried tone. No, just playful. The man should bask in his pain, they were enemies. Ex-family.

(Gods, he wants a family. His family.)

Tommy's depressive spiral was prematurely paused as Techno held a tray to his shoulder. Something hot and warm filling the air..

It was strangely... familiar. 

And not in a good way, no, this.. this was different. A bad type of familiarity. 

He couldn't fully recall why, the dinner thing with Bad's Egg Empire or whatever had food but nothing like this.

Pogtopia? Maybe? But Wilbur always left the cooking to Techno, and the only crop there was..

..potatoes..

"Whatcha cooked Techno?" Tubbo pipes up, finally sitting down with Ranboo as Phil set down the last bowl of food to the center. Wilbur was still fidgeting to the side, trying to decide whether he should sit with Tommy or Phil.

He hopes it's Phil. Not when Tommy's assum

"Pfft, what else?" The piglin shrugs, giving everyone a plate before leaving the last one for Tommy.

"Mash Potato with my own special twist."

Mash potato. Hah. Ironic.

He was about to eat the very thing that killed him. Maybe eating it would heal him, he once thought when Puffy was explaining some therapy methods, that facing his trauma is a way to heal. But not like this— he.. Tommy had plans. He really did! He wanted to be the one to sow the plant— you reap what you sow and all that!— be the one to cook it. Be the one to choose it.

It'd mean he's in control.

But right now? Far from it.

Bile bubbles up his chest, and he keeps his lips shut as he stares down at the mashed spud. A bit of iron and he swears he'd be back in that god forsaken prison, rotting and living simultaneously like some fuckass quantum theory or whatever that cat is called.

He feels a hand on his shoulder— Techno— and he nearly flinched as he moved away. 

"What? I know we're enemies, but you loved my potatoes." He huffs, sitting down beside him with Phil. "I have enough pride not to poison you." He grunts, earning a scold from the man beside him. And as if to prove it, he placed a glass of milk for Tommy before gingerly taking some of the veggie soup Phil made. 

Phil looks at him, leaning on his elbows to the table, tilting his head. "Ignore him, let's dig in." And everyone did.

Except Tommy.

He really tried. He swears, he's intruding a home he broke in before, meddling with a family that pushed him away, and now he was invited as if things were... fine. Normal, even. So he does try, to grab a spoon and take some.

But the way it moves, the same starchy glob he saw in that heated room. The soup was looking too red, and his face was getting too wet.

Tommy pushes the dish to the side, opting to sip at Phil's soup, occasionally poking a piece of the cooked meat for a bite. The bile in his throat was still threatening to spill as everyone talked all so casually.

Was it because he was quiet they chatted along with ease? Good, stay invisible, then no one will see him leave—

"Toms." Wilbur pipes up, the room falling to a softer volum as eyes glanced at him. "You haven't even finished your soup?" And you're leaving already? Went unsaid as he bites into dish.

Stupid prick with his observant skills.

"Yeah, no, I uh.." Geez, he could make an excuse at gun point, he was seriously loosing his touch. "I gotta take care of Shroud– my little spider dude guy— so ya know..."

Tommy shrugs, trying to slowly stand but Techno stops him.

"No, sit down. Lets talk first before you leave." 

Bitch.

So he sits, bile still threatening to spill like fireworks set to explode.

Tommy though it was Techno who was one to open up, but of course, he was just playing messenger as Phil coughs. Face irked at the two brothers before smiling at Tommy.

A smile that said he knee something.

"Toms, I know everyone in this room has been... distant with you lately." He explains, slow like he was a child that couldn't understand.

Or maybe a small animal that was easily frightened. 

He continues. "I understand you're 17, you and Wilbur—" he points at the man who barely moves, like he knew something too (why was he looking at him like he was a kid?) "—practically raised each other but.."

Phil stands, taking something from his inner pocket. "Thats not an excuse— hell, a reason— to drink and smoke your life away."

His cannister.

How- but—

He looks down and sees a crow feather.

Crow.

The birds.

Oh 

No.

No no no nonononono—

"Tommy you've been what—"

"W-wait I thought– isn't that unhealthly and illegal—"

Tubbo's spluttered as Ranboo stands abruptly in shock at the reveal, but Tommy doesn't care. Not when crows reveal themselves from over the cupboards, dropping ciggarete butts and red lighters.

Phil stands away from his chair, slowly walking towards him as he gestures Ranboo and Tubbo to quiet down.

"I'm not mad." Yeah, right.

He had to be. Or maybe he wasn't. Tommy never really could read the man.

"–we're all just worried about you mate. This isn't healthy—"

"Why do you care?" He snaps.

God why is he snapping? Phil is caring– cares about him right now! 

That itch, the stupid sting in his head was burning to be tamed. To finally ease, relax, and feel the way he felt all those years ago before L'manburg or Pogtopia.

He stands– because he's a big man, even if Phil could tower him with his presence alone— hands slamming on the table as he barks out; "You're not my... I'm an independent adult, mind you!"

"You're still a child, Theseus." Techno grumbles, slowly standing, his shadow casting over him to the point Tommy felt his whole body shiver. "Just listen to Phil—"

"No!" Tommy cries out, chest heaving as his emotions swirled in his head.

They don't get to– to.. berate him! Nor scold! 

Phil never checked on him after Techno sent out those withers— actively called him Theseus with so much venom Tommy got weak in the knees.

Techno made that shallow truce– yeah. Maybe he was partly in the wrong but.. he just wanted his home back! His bestfriend!

And oh, Tubbo. He replaced him. Tubbo got rid of him as his friend, he could see it in since he came back. The way Tubbo hitched his shoulders or inched to Ranboo.

Ranboo was a manipulator too! Burrowed into the empty holes of everyones hearts where Tommy once resided in. Now no one loved him.

No one even checked on him when he died.

Not Sam, who should've kept him safe from Dream.

Not Jack, who stole his hotel.

Not Puffy, who walked on eggshells around him.

Someone touches his shoulder and Tommy could feel himself falling. Heat engulfs his body, the smell of potato stinging his nose as blood fills his head.

He's gonna die.

They're gonna kill him!

He doesn't wanna go back there.

Ripped apart and put together until he isn't even sure if the pieces used were his original skin.

So he pushes.

Wilbur falls, but Techno catches him, and Tommy's mind registers this to push the table over at Phil who squaks as Ranboo and Tubbo try to stop him.

But he's quick. He always was. Maybe not as quick as before but– the sting. The burn. That tells him he's in danger! That his heart was going to be ripped and he neede dto leave!

Run! His mind weeps as he stumbles out the door, hitting his shoulder and hip in the process as he scrambles out the house like a raccoon.

The cold should bring him back, but that makes him panic more.

Was he dead?

God the potato smell—

"Fuck!" He screams, falling off the railing as he barely registers it. His stomach gets the blunt of the wood, toppling him over as his stomach sloshed with alcohol and he couldn't hold it anymore.

His guts spill out, alcohol and what little soup he stomached spills to the snow as someone shouts his name.

"Toms!"

"Shit— I got gapples—"

"No, get the splash potions, Tech'"

"Got some already–"

"Ranboo hold him down–"

Tommy snaps his head up.

No one gets to touch him. Not the hands that wounded him, no, they don't get the pleasure of killing him. He refused—

"Don't touch me!"

"Toms.. your..you—"

"..Tommy how do you have..."

Why was Phil and Ranboo looking at him like that?

Who was he kidding. Everyone looked at him like that. Like he grew horns and finally turned into the demon he was. 

He feels blood trickle down his face.

Did he hit his face hard? No, the snow was pretty soft so...

"C'mere, sunshine, everything is alright. We just wanna talk..."

Sunshine! He called him sunshine!

He shivers at the nickname. Focus Tommy. They're liars! All of them! 

No one loved you before you died, no one will after you were revived.

No one.

"Don't call me that." He hissed, wobbling back as he fought the urge to puke again, hands gripping his hair as his visions blurs and swirls.

"Mate—"

"Tommy—"

Useless.

Who's speaking?

"C'mon we'll patch you up—"

"..those... rn..s.."

Everyone's voices was echoing.

It hurts.

His head.

His stomach.

His back.

Everything.

'Just take me back to before everyting.'He prayed, to who? He wasn't sure anymore, but one thing was sure.

He was definitely heard.

For one moment, the cold bit his skin, and now stone engulfed his body.

Its dark.

Did he die?

That'd be nice.