Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someone in L’Manberg is kicking up a racket. The clanging of a bell is carried up to Tubbo by the wind, smelling of salt and smoke and wildflowers. He quickens his steps, his boots thudding along the Prime Path.

It’s not the noise, really, that makes him hurry. Noise is normal for L’Manberg. Honestly, Tubbo would be more concerned if he came back to silence. No, it’s the frantic crash and clatter of a bell he’s never heard before and the shouting that accompanies it.  He’s too far off to make out any words – if there are any at all – but they are at war and he really doesn’t know what Wilbur’s alarm protocol is. If he even has one.

He hops down the mountain as quickly as he can without hurting himself and splashes across the river. The bell and shouting get louder as he approaches and he recognizes Tommy’s familiar scream and Wilbur shouting something in return. He scrambles up the steep river bank, mud cool and soft beneath his fingers, and darts to the gap in the wall that serves as an entrance. They really should put up a door or a gate or something. At least a bridge.

He ducks into L’Manberg, shivering as the sea breeze cuts right through his soaked trousers. At least they’ll dry out quickly if there’s a fight.

But there’s not a fight. No clash of swords, no bitter gunpowder, not even fireworks. Instead, Tubbo is greeted with the sight of his best friend darting around the hill, waving a bell like a madman, shouting his head off. He looks around, just in case Tommy’s sounding an alarm, but only sees Wilbur sitting under a tree nearby. Wilbur doesn’t even look alarmed – he’s got his guitar in his lap and occasionally shouts encouragement in Tommy’s general direction. It’s just Tommy being Tommy. Nothing to worry about.

A weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying lifts from his shoulders with the relief. He shrugs, and, after a quick stop in the camaravan to change into his dry uniform trousers, plods over to take a seat next to Wilbur. Wilbur spares him a glance and a smile, not stopping his lively guitar strumming. The chords clash with the cacophony of the bell – Tommy’s not ringing it to any particular rhythm or melody, and Wilbur seems to be putting little effort into trying to keep up with him. Still, both of them have big smiles on their faces.

Tubbo watches Tommy dart about on the hill, hopping this way and that, spinning and spinning with his arms thrown wide, the bell ringing with every movement. Tommy shrieks and shouts and laughs and laughs and laughs. Tubbo doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tommy laugh so much – and Tommy laughs a lot.

He almost looks like he’s dancing. And not the awkward way people do at a party when all they know is the cupid shuffle – no, he’s dancing the way you do when you’re alone in your room and nobody’s watching.

But someone is watching, Tubbo thinks, looking over at Wilbur again. Wilbur’s been here for a while, shouting out encouragement to Tommy, playing the music that sets a beat for Tommy to ignore. And somehow, he doesn’t care.

Tommy whoops and jumps, but he just barely misses the landing and slips into the pond at the bottom of the hill with a shriek. Water splashes up, soaking Tommy from head to toe, but he shoots his arm above him to keep the bell clear of the water. Tubbo yelps and darts to his feet, but Wilbur puts a hand on his arm.

Tommy sits up with a dramatic scream. “Holy fuck – that’s cold!”

“You saved the bell!” Wilbur shouts down to him.

“I saved the bell!” Tommy cackles, jumping right back up onto the grass. He launches right back into the wild dance, skipping and spinning, ringing the bell with renewed vigor. Water droplets fly off his open arms and his damp curls.

Tubbo just blinks and sits back down next to Wilbur. “What’s he doing?” He asks.

“Praying,” comes Wilbur’s easy reply as he starts up his strumming once again.

Huh?

Now Tubbo may not be a religious person by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s been around enough of them to have learned a thing or two about the rest of the server’s practices. He knows lots of them worship different gods, some even worship more than one, but any time he’s ever heard reference to the actual worship and prayer sort of thing it was always in terms of offerings – apples, dyes, bones, gold. Typical stuff one would leave at the altar.

Tubbo stares at Wilbur, then looks back at Tommy, who still dances in the sun-warmed grass. His arms spread out for balance as he jumps and spins, face turned up to the sun with a brilliant smile stretching his cheeks. Tommy whoops and shrieks again, laughing as he stumbles and runs up the hills just to jump back down, bell clanging the whole way.

He’s never heard of prayer like this before.

“Praying.” He repeats, and cringes at the disbelief in his own tone. He’s not judging Tommy or anything, it’s just not what he’s come to expect. Honestly, he didn’t expect Tommy to be big on the whole religion thing at all – not until he built Church Prime and the Prime Path, anyways.

“I know, it seems a bit odd,” Wilbur says, “but the worship of Prime is centered around celebrating the life she creates. The best offerings to her are the experiences that define it – like music or laughter.”

Makes sense, he supposes. Life would be kind of shitty without those things.

“What’s he praying for, then?”

Wilbur grins. “Victory!”

Ah, of course. He should have guessed, really.

“And the bell?” He asks, tracking Tommy’s movement. He’s getting awfully close to the pond again. It’d be funny if he fell in again, but Tubbo’s not sure he wants to deal with the whining that’ll come from a Tommy with wet clothes. Thankfully he corrects himself and jumps away, shouting insults at the water.

“A symbol of Prime. There’s one in Church Prime, too, I think. Should still be there, at least. Holy land is kinda off-limits for the war.”

“Yeah, I think Dream said something about that.” Tubbo hums.

“Green bastard did something right, for once.” Wilbur scoffs. “But yeah, this is how Tommy chooses to pray to her. He likes the noise the bell makes, and having fun is as good an offering as any for Prime.”

“Hm.” Tubbo hums. He leans back, resting his weight on one hand while he picks idly at the grass with his other. A few small wildflowers peek up from the grass, their petals rustling in the breeze that manages to get past the walls. Tubbo plucks one up from the base of its stem, then another, and another, weaving them together one by one.

“How about you?” Wilbur asks.

“What?”

“How about you? Do you have any gods you pray to?”

He shakes his head and smiles, plucking another flower from the grass. “Nah. ‘was never really into that whole thing.”

“Oh.” Wilbur’s hand stutters on the strings.

Tubbo stiffens. Did he say something wrong? Surely not. Nothing wrong with not subscribing to the whole religion thing, right? Wilbur wouldn’t kick him from L’Manberg just for not having a god right? He said he was building the nation for the freedom of its citizens. Surely that had to include Tubbo’s freedom to not believe in gods.

“That’s fine, Big T. Just don’t make fun of any of us for it, right?”

“What? No!” Tubbo whips around to face Wilbur. The breeze pushes Wilbur’s curly hair into his eyes, but Tubbo still manages to catch the slight flicker of defensiveness in his gaze. “I would never! Just cause I don’t believe in them doesn’t mean you can’t. There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s just not my thing.”

“Oh, okay.” Wilbur relaxes, but Tubbo’s sure he never would have noticed the tension or the release had he not known Wilbur well. “Thanks, Big T.”

“Yeah.”

They sit together and watch Tommy again, listening to his shrieks of laughter, the splash of waves on the bank, the birds in the trees. It’s nice, Tubbo thinks. Peaceful despite the chaos. Care-free in a way it hasn’t been since before the war started. He sits, and listens, and weaves his flowers into a string, then a circlet, then a crown.

“Prime’s gotten us through some pretty rough times, Tommy and me.” Wilbur says suddenly, when Tommy seems to be winding down. “I can take it better, but Tommy gets really upset when someone disrespects her. Just be gentle about it all, yeah?”

There’s a weight to those words, one Tubbo knows he might never grasp the meaning of, but recognizes all the same. He gives Wilbur his biggest smile. “Don’t worry, Wilbur. I’ll fight anyone who tries to bully him about it, too.”

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you, Tubbo.” Wilbur says. His hand settles on the strings of his guitar, stopping the music as Tommy slows his dance. The bell echoes its last ring, the gold gleaming in the sunlight. Tubbo looks over at his best friend – doubled over, hands on his knees, panting – and smiles.

“Yeah.” He turns the flower crown over in his hands. “I’m lucky to be his friend.”

Wilbur gives a sharp nod and starts packing his guitar back in his case, while Tommy bounds up the hill toward them, breathless and grinning. The sun dapples between the leaves above them, casting golden freckles over his best friends face and making his blue eyes gleam.

“You have fun?” Wilbur asks him, zipping up his guitar case.

Tommy flops down into the grass beside Tubbo, chest heaving. The bell clangs as he sets it gently in the grass. “Yeah. Thanks, Wil.”

“Always.” Wilbur stands and slings his guitar case over his shoulder. “Right. I’ve got a meeting with Fundy and Jack, so I’ll be in the camaravan if you need me. Tommy don’t start shit with Dream, Tubbo…” Wilbur furrows his brow and Tubbo sighs. Typical. “I don’t know. Stay with Tommy, I guess? Don’t burn the country down.”

“Bye, Wilbur,” Tommy huffs, not sitting up.

Wilbur takes his leave at that, his boots hushing through the grass before hopping across the stepping stones in the lake.

Tubbo drops his flower crown onto Tommy’s head. “The way you pray looks fun.”

Tommy grins up at him, teeth bared in mischief. “Better than the losers on the Dream Team. They’re all proper and pious, with books ‘n rituals ‘n shit.” His voice jumps up into a mocking falsetto, making Tubbo laugh. “Prime just wants us to enjoy life, and that’s exactly what I do.”

“That’s awesome, bossman.” Tubbo says, dropping back into the grass next to Tommy.

He’s never understood the appeal of religion, and he probably never will, but if it makes Tommy this happy he’ll do anything to protect it.

Chapter Text

There’s a shrine tucked away in a dark corner in the crevice Tommy uses as a makeshift bedroom. It’s small, consisting of only a bell and a singular golden apple. Tommy propped Wilbur’s guitar in front of it, where it sits untouched, dust gathering on the strings. The shrine is barely noticeable; you wouldn’t see it unless you knew it was there, and you can’t see it at all from the entrance to Tommy’s crevice.

It’s on purpose. Tubbo knows that, knows there’d be hell to pay if Wilbur caught Tommy praying in the open. He’d been there for that argument – one of them at least. Void knows he hasn’t been around often enough, but from the chip on Wilbur’s shoulder, he’s sure that’s not the only fight they’ve had on the subject. Or the only fight they’ve had at all.

“Wilbur?” Tommy had asked, shuffling forward with Wilbur’s guitar in hand. Tubbo had just arrived, and was still working his way slowly down the stairs.

“Could you…” His voice was smaller than Tubbo had ever heard from him before. It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right. “Could you play? For Prime, I mean-”

“No.” Wilbur said, voice cold. Everything about him was cold, lately. Cold eyes, cold hands, cold shoulder.

“I- It doesn’t have to be right now, I guess, but when you’re not busy-”

“Tommy I said no!” Wilbur snapped. Tubbo found himself frozen on the stairs. His heart thudded in his throat and he tried very hard not to lose his balance.

“But- Wilbur-” Tubbo saw Tommy slide a golden bell into one of his many pockets. The image sat at odds with Tubbo’s memories of the bell. Tommy was so happy ringing it and dancing in the sunlight, uncaring of who heard it. To see him tuck it away, out of sight, in this cold, dark ravine? It hurt Tubbo. He didn’t even worship Prime and it hurt him. “Prime- she can- she can protect us- she can help us!”

“Prime doesn’t care about you, Tommy!” Wilbur roared, jabbing his finger into Tommy’s chest. Tubbo flinched as Tommy stumbled back. Stones clattered down the sheer drop to the floor below. “Where was she when we needed her?” Wilbur kept advancing, forcing Tommy back. “When Dream blew up L’Manberg? When Schlatt stole the election? When we were exiled from our own fucking country!”

“Wilbur-” Tubbo hated the way Tommy’s voice wobbled. Tommy’s eyes gleamed in the light of the dying lanterns, welling with tears that Tubbo knew he’d never let himself shed.

“Shut up, Tommy!” Wilbur shoved Tommy, a solid strike that sent him careening back into the wall. The guitar clattered to the ground, the strings protesting with a discordant cry.

Tubbo yelped and jumped down the rest of the stairs, stumbling only a little when pain spiked up his ankle. He could worry about explaining his limp to Schlatt later – for now he shoved himself between Wilbur and Tommy, throwing his arms wide to shield as much of his best friend as he could.

“Wilbur, stop it!”

Tubbo shakes off the memory. He creeps down the shoddily carved stone stairs, hand pressed to the cold ravine walls. The stone scrapes his fingertips, but the vertigo prevents him from pulling away. The tall, narrow steps have no railing to keep him from falling.

He suggested putting up fences or a rope, back at the beginning, but Wilbur quickly shot him down. Railings are for weaklings. If they trip, they fall like men.

Tubbo would rather not fall, thank you.

He reaches the ground and heaves a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know how Tommy does it – prancing around on the stone steps and scrappy bridges, parkouring between levels like there was no danger in the drop.

A steady plink, plink, plink comes from the direction of Tommy’s crevice. Tubbo follows the sound, warily eyeing the smears of blue and red on the wall. Only the Void knows what that might be, and Tubbo’s not in a position to ask.

He finds Tommy sitting next to the shrine, eyes closed and lips moving rapidly as he tap, tap, taps at the little golden bell. Tubbo’s heart clenches in his chest. His best friend looks no better than the last time Tubbo saw him. If anything, he might actually look worse. The near-permanent bags sit under his eyes like a bruise, darker than they were the last time Tubbo was able to visit. There’s mud in his hair and grit on his face, and Tubbo spots several new stitches in Tommy’s shirt.

“How ya doing, bossman?” Tubbo asks, moving fully into the room. Tommy still hasn’t set up a bed to sleep in. There’s nothing but a bundle of blankets tucked into the corner, rolled as neatly as they were taught to in the war.

Tommy startles, eyes flying wide and smacking his head against the rock behind him. “Ow! Shit, Tubbo, don’t do that!”

Tubbo holds his hand up and lowers himself gently to the floor. “Sorry, sorry.” Paranoia is no stranger to either of them anymore. He understands the terror that goes with realizing you didn’t notice someone approaching. “Thought I was being loud enough. I was trying not to scare you.”

“Oh,” Tommy says. He leans back against the wall, resting his hand behind his head. “Sorry. I wasn’t- I wasn’t paying attention. When did you get here? Did Schlatt send you out or something?”

“Nah.” Tubbo scoffs. Schlatt’s almost more paranoid than Tommy and Wilbur combined. Almost. “Schlatt passed out again and Big Q’s on watch this time, so I had the chance to slip away. I only got here a few minutes ago.”

“Oh!” Tommy blinks. “I’m- I’m glad you could visit.” He sits up a little straighter for a moment, then slouches again. “Say, how are things back in L’Man- Manburg. How are things in Manburg?”

“It’s…” That’s a tough question. One Tubbo prefers not to think about. He comes to Pogtopia to get away from all of that, but it’s not like it’s much better here. “It's alright. The country itself is actually doing pretty okay. The citizens don’t seem to like Schlatt – Niki especially – but it’s not like… burning down or anything.

“And Schlatt?” Tommy asks, craning his neck again.

Tubbo grimaces. Schlatt. He doesn’t like to think about Schlatt. Doesn’t even want to talk to the man, but he’s the Secretary of State. He doesn’t have much of a choice. Especially not when he and Quackity follow him back to the White House every night and the doors lock behind them. He rubs unconsciously at the bruise on his wrist. “I don’t want to talk about Schlatt.”

Tommy’s eyes darken and flicker to Tubbo’s wrist for a moment, to the spot where dark fingers still wrap around his wrist even in absentia.

“Were you praying?” Tubbo asks, desperate for a change in subject.

“No!” Tommy yelps, instantly sitting ramrod straight. Tubbo flinches, scooting back on the rough stone floor. Tommy cranes his neck, leaning around Tubbo to try and see out into the ravine.

To try to see if Wilbur heard.

“Wilbur left when I got here.” Tubbo slowly slides back toward Tommy. “He’s not here.”

Slowly, Tommy settles against the wall. He doesn’t crane his neck again, but his eyes flicker to the crack that serves as the doorway to his room. Tubbo leans forward to bump his head against Tommy’s arm.

“You’re okay, bossman. He’s gone.”

Tommy heaves in a shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Do you wanna pray properly? He’s not here to yell at you.”

Tommy brightens for just a moment. And then he looks at the entrance to ravine again and his face falls just as fast. “I- I can’t. If he comes back-”

“I’ll keep watch.” Tubbo offers. Tommy looks so upset and Tubbo hates it, hates that he can’t do more to help, but he promised Wilbur he would defend Tommy. Even if Wilbur isn’t in his right mind, he’s not going to go back on his word. “I’ll stay up near the entrance and tell you when Wilbur’s coming back.”

“You would do that?”

“Duh. Otherwise I wouldn’t have offered. Now come on!” Tubbo heaves himself to his feet and dusts off his dress pants before offering a hand to Tommy. He hauls Tommy up and then scrambles out into the ravine while Tommy grabs his bell.

Pogtopia is quiet, now. Empty in a way it never is when Wilbur’s around. Wilbur’s always pacing, always muttering, always scratching away at his books with a dull quill. It drives Tubbo crazy when he’s here. He can’t imagine how Tommy must feel.

Their steps echo off the bare stone walls – the sharp clicking of Tubbo’s dress shoes contrast with the heavy thudding of Tommy’s boots. The lanterns flicker, sending their shadows skittering across the walls. From somewhere deeper in the ravine comes the sound of running water and the shriek of a bat.

It’s a terrible place to live. Tubbo hates that the only reason he’s not living here is that he chose to work for the man who exiled his best friend.

“I’ll just be upstairs if you need me. I’ll come down to tell you when Wilbur’s on his way.”

“Thanks, T.”

Tubbo carefully picks his way back up the stairs, cursing each uneven step. He hears the bell start clanging as he reaches the spiraling tunnel. There are steps here too, but they’re harder to navigate. Tommy said they were carved in a rush, that he and Wilbur were just trying to get away, to get down, to get to safety. They didn’t care much about making them look nice.

The bell sounds different, he thinks, carefully testing each step he takes up the tunnel. Its not quite the frantic, giddy cacophony he remembers from L’Manberg. It’s subdued, somehow. Slower. Sadder.

Tubbo’s chest squeezes tight around his breath. It’s not right. Tommy’s always been loud and chaotic. He’s never cared what anyone thought. He just wanted to have fun.

He was meant to protect Tommy. To be there for him, to always defend him. It was supposed to be him and Tommy against the world. It seems the world is a much more complicated enemy than they had thought.

Tubbo reaches the top of the tunnel. The little hole dug into the side of the hill is as claustrophobic as ever and Tubbo longs for the grassy hill and the sea breeze from the early days. Schlatt’s changed it all, though. It’s not the same as it was – the wind feels different without the walls, and the ocean’s louder, a cacophony that drowns out his pounding heart. He doesn’t think it’ll ever be the same again, even if Tommy and Wilbur manage to take Manburg back.

He dusts off the top of the crafting bench and hops up to sit on it while he keeps watch. He really doesn’t know what Wilbur gets up to when he’s not at Pogtopia. Tommy doesn’t seem to know either, but he’s worried. Something is wrong with Wilbur. Something is very, very wrong, and neither of them knows how to fix it.

He listens to Tommy ring the bell and hears a few faint thuds, but nothing to suggest anything close to the wild dance he’s used to. There’s no whoops or shouts or laughter. Just the bell ringing in sporadic bursts. Tubbo kicks his feet. His shoes thunk against the rotting wood. Even with him standing watch, Tommy doesn’t feel safe enough to pray the way he used to. Or maybe he can’t quite find the same joy that came so easily before being exiled.

Tubbo can’t bring himself to prefer either explanation.

Only an hour or so later, he spots Wilbur’s dark trenchcoat flapping in the wind. He jumps up from his seat and scrambles down the tunnel, tripping and sliding a few times on his way down. When he emerges into the lantern-lit ravine, Tommy jangles the bell at him. He’s got a smile on his face, bigger and more genuine than any Tubbo’s seen from him in a while, panting from exertion. Tubbo hates that he has to tell Tommy he’s out of time.

“Wilbur’s coming.” He says quickly. The words burn in his mouth. That used to be something he’d say so he and Tommy could go play a prank or pester Wilbur. He hates that it’s a warning now.

Tommy’s face falls. Tension pulls his shoulders tight as he nods and turns on his heel to scurry back through the crack into his little crevice. When he reemerges, the bell is nowhere to be found and the only sign that he was doing anything is the slight flush that hasn’t quite faded from his cheeks.

Wilbur’s boots come into view at the mouth of the tunnel, and then the man himself emerges. His muddy trenchcoat drifts around him as he hops down the cracked stone stairs. Wilbur takes them two at a time. He hasn’t cared much for safety in a while.

“Hello, Tubbo.” Is the cool greeting he gets from Wilbur. It’s better than most of the acknowledgments he’s gotten recently. At least he’s not being accused of being a traitor. Or being called names.

“Wilbur!” Tommy’s voice cracks. “Where’ve you been?”

Wilbur huffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, but not before Tubbo catches the smear of red dust on his fingers. “Out.” He shuffles his feet. Tubbo wonders what happened to the eloquent General Wilbur used to be. He wonders if he’s still in there, somewhere, buried beneath the tragedy. “I thought- I thought I heard a bell.”

Tommy stiffens beside him. Tubbo squeezes his hand, even as his own heart jackhammers in his chest. “No, I didn’t- I didn’t hear a- Gee, Wilbur you really must be- uh- when’s the last time you slept?”

“We didn’t hear anything down here, Big Man.” Tubbo says, squeezing Tommy’s hand tighter to stop his anxious rambling.

Wilbur narrows his eyes at them, brows furrowed in the anger that’s become far too familiar. He must not find what he’s looking for, though, because after a few paralyzing moments Wilbur huffs and turns away. “She’s fucking taunting me, then. Took her blessing from me, stole my country, and now she has to shove it in my face.”

Tubbo breathes a sigh of relief, but Tommy stands still, taut as a live wire. He’s shaking, Tubbo realizes, and a quick look at his face shows the tears welling in his best friend’s eyes.

“I don’t think anyone’s taunting you, Wilbur,” Tubbo jumps in, keeping his voice light. He hadn’t even had to think about it – defending Tommy is natural for him. The only hard part is navigating the conversation with Wilbur; it’s like crossing a minefield or defusing a bomb. Still, it’s not like he hasn’t had enough practice with Schlatt. His life’s become a practice of knowing what to say, where to step, which wire to cut.

“Then how do you explain the bell, Tubbo?” Wilbur throws his arms out, hands clawing at the air. “What else could it have been?”

Beside him, Tommy makes a muffled sound. Tubbo gently steps a little farther in front of him, just barely placing himself between Tommy and Wilbur. “I think you just need some sleep.”

“I’m not fucking crazy, Tubbo!” Wilbur cries.

Tubbo takes another step in front of Tommy. “I didn’t say you were, I just said-”

“I know what I heard!” Wilbur snaps. Then again, softer, hands coming up to clutch at his tangled hair. “I know what I heard.”

Tubbo pauses, reassesses. There’s distress in every line of Wilbur’s body, and from the repetition of his statement and the hands in his hair he seems to be doubting his own mind. Tommy and Tubbo trying to gaslight him are only making this worse.

He takes a mental step back and tries again. Defuse the bomb, Tubbo. Don’t cut the wrong wire. “Okay, Wilbur. I believe you.”

Wilbur’s shoulders ease and his fingers loosen. Good.

“Tommy and I probably didn’t hear it from down here.”

Wilbur pulls in a breath and lowers his hands. Better.

“You still should try and get some sleep, though. You look dead on your feet, man.”

Wilbur scoffs. He waves Tubbo off and trudges down the narrow ravine to his own room. “I’ll sleep later. I have work to do.”

Success. Bomb defused.

His communicator buzzes.

Tubbo tenses.

JSchlatt: wherr are you

JSchlatt: tubbo answr me

JSchlatt: where aree you brat

Quackity: tubbo get back here now

Quackity: code red man code red

Quackity: ill distract him while u sneak in the back

Quackity: say you were in the archives

Shit. The archives will explain the dust on his suit but he’s used that excuse too many times – he doesn’t know how much longer it’ll work.

“Tommy, I gotta go.” He hates the way his voice wavers. His hand trembles as he sticks his communicator back in his pocket. “Like, right now.”

Tommy sniffs and scrubs at his eyes. “Fuck, man, yeah get out of here.” He shoves Tubbo toward the stairs, ushering him up and out of Pogtopia. “Go, go.”

“Stay safe, bossman.”

“You stay safe. I’ll be fine.” Tommy stands at the foot of the stairs, arms wound tightly around his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

Tubbo stumbles up and out of the ravine, running back to the White House as quickly as he can. Void, Schlatt’s gonna have a field day berating him for this one. He’s already anxious just thinking about the drunken interrogation he’s sure to get when he gets back.

He wishes he could stay with Tommy. He wishes Tommy could come home. He wishes things were the way they used to be.

He misses the hill and the bright, shining bell.

Chapter Text

Tubbo has a nightmare the night after Dream leads Tommy away.

He doesn’t know where he is, just that it’s pitch black and cold. There’s nothing around him anywhere – no walls, no ceiling, no path. No lanterns or torches. Just an endless void that stretches on and on and on.

He can’t move. His legs don’t respond when he tries to walk, his arms don’t come up when he tries to feel for walls. He’s frozen, trapped, helpless.

The only thing he can grasp is what he hears.

He hears Tommy’s voice – except it can’t be Tommy, because Big Man Tommy Innit never sounds this broken.

“Please.” He hears Tommy beg, sobs hitching between his words. “Please, please, help me, protect me, please he’s killing me, get me out of here, please save me, please, please, I want to go home!”

It doesn’t stop. Tommy sobs and begs and pleads and Tubbo can’t move, can’t see, can’t speak. He aches to run toward Tommy’s voice, even as it echoes directionless around him, aches to find his best friend and hold him and soothe him until he stops crying.

“Please, I’m begging you, please help me, please, please-”

He tries to shout – I’m here! I’m here! – but he can’t even open his mouth. He can’t do anything but listen as Tommy weeps.

And beneath his best friend’s words is the steady, desperate, clang, clang, clang of a bell.

Tubbo doesn’t sleep much after that.

Chapter Text

Logsteadshire is in ruins. Smoke still rises from the charred walls that remain, even as the fire has burned down to little more than ashes that hiss in the rain. There’s a great big crater where the little camp is supposed to be, and another one where Tommy’s tent was, and another a little past the hill, and a million more pock-marking the land around it.

Logsteadshire is in ruins and Tommy is nowhere to be found.

“What the hell-” Tubbo stumbles back from the edge of the pit.

Towering far above the smoldering camp is a pillar. He has a sickening sense of déjà vu.

No. No, this can’t be- This can’t be-

Tommy isn’t like Wilbur. He can’t be like Wilbur.

Cause if Tommy’s like Wilbur, then Tubbo-

Tubbo’s just like Schlatt.

But he’s not!

He takes off toward the pillar, sprinting toward the only hope he has of proving that Tommy wouldn’t- that Tommy didn’t-

He ducks under tree branches and winds around a hill, blinking rain out of his eyes and struggling to time his breathing with the crashing of the waves. He trips over a root and stumbles through the mud but he doesn’t stop, he just runs and runs and runs.

He finds a little shack, untouched by the explosions but unfinished, too. Only three walls are standing. Just outside of it, there’s a dock. Grey, icy waves wash up against it, whispering as they hit the shore as if they, too, are afraid to speak too loudly here. There’s something built on the dock, too, and Tubbo squints at it, heart pounding in his throat. Facing the ocean he sees a scrappy bench, built with uneven planks of scrap wood. It’s not stained, or even properly sanded, and it certainly hasn’t been weather-proofed as the boards begin to bow with the spray of the sea. He looks closer. It has two seats. His eyes start to burn.

That’s not what he’s here for. Tubbo shakes his head, scrubbing his palms across his stinging eyes. He turns and stares at the pillar. It’s cobbled together with stone and dirt and wood – scrap materials, something someone desperate would build out of whatever he could find in his pockets. It stretches up and up and up and up and Tubbo can’t even see the top. He feels dizzy, a sickening sense of vertigo and certain dread making his stomach drop.

“No, surely not.” He pleads, even as his legs give out under him. His knees hit the wet grass, but Tubbo doesn’t look down. He just stares and stares and stares, looking for anything – a ledge, a handhold, anything – that shows how Tommy climbed down. Because Tommy couldn’t have survived that drop.

But he sees nothing, and it hits him worse than the void-damned firework.

Tommy didn’t survive that drop.

His best friend is dead.

His best friend is dead and it’s his fault.

If Tommy’s like Wilbur, then Tubbo is-

He’s worse than Schlatt.

Oh, void.

Tubbo shoves himself to his feet and stumbles back to Logsteadshire. He blinks the rain out of his eyes, but he can do nothing about the tears blurring his vision. He slides down into the pit and digs through the soot and the embers, ignoring the way the hot coals burn his fingers and the muddy ash cakes under his fingernails. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. An explanation, maybe. A note. Something.

He finds something: a chunk of wood in a far corner of the pit. It’s blackened and smoking, but as Tubbo clutches it in blistering fingers he just barely makes out Tommy’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

Pr—m- -og p-ime -f –g

It’s impossible to tell what it said before the fire, but Tubbo sees enough letters to make out the word ‘Prime’. It’s easier to confirm when he finds the shards of a golden bell next to it.

Loyal to the last. Even in his second exile, even alone, Tommy had still prayed to Prime.

Somehow, that’s what breaks Tubbo.

He scoops the golden shards up and clutches them to his chest, closing his fist around them so tight they cut into his palms. He screams, a wordless wail of anger and grief. His best friend is dead and it’s his fault and all he has left of him are the shards of an offering to a goddess he’s never believed it.

Chapter Text

Dust dances in the violet light of the church windows. It’s quiet in here. No one bothers Tubbo when he sits in here.

Probably because no one’s had the heart to step inside since Tommy died.

Tommy had helped build Church Prime. He remembers Tommy telling him that late at night during the war. They’d been sitting by a dying fire, putting off tomorrow as long as they could, and Tommy had started telling Tubbo about how he built the church and the Prime Path.

The Prime Path is still the only route around New L’Manberg and the Greater SMP. He tries not to look down when he walks on it.

He has presidential duties to attend to. People waiting for him. A country to run.

Instead, he’s sitting in a dusty pew in a dead man’s church. The bell on the altar gleams in the sunlight, taunting him. He thinks he knows what Wilbur might have felt back in Pogtopia. He never even believed in Prime and she’s still taunting him.

He pricks his finger with the needle for the millionth time and scowls at his hands. Tommy was always better at sewing than him. They’d learned during the war; it was a necessary skill with how often their uniforms needed to be repaired. Tommy always… Tommy always had to teach him the stitches again after Wilbur taught them cause Tubbo could never quite get it.

He jabs the needle back through the little loop at the top of the bell, adding another stitch to make sure it doesn’t fall off. It can’t fall off, it can’t-

His vision blurs.

It was while Tommy was teaching Tubbo to sew buttons back on that he taught him this as well.

“Listen, Tubbo. If Wilbur or I die during the war I need you to promise me something.”

“If you or Wilbur die, I’ll probably be dead too, bossman.”

“Tubbo. Seriously.”

“Alright, alright, what?”

“If Wilbur or I die… sew bells into our clothes before you bury us. Its- it’s the same as sewing buttons, really, just with a bell instead. I- I know you don’t believe in Prime, but I just-”

“It’s fine, Tommy, I got it. Why am I sewing bells into your clothes?”

“It’s like… it’s like a final prayer, I guess? They’ll ring when you put us in the ground. And, uh, so you can hear us coming if death doesn’t… stick.”

“Like zombies?”

“Something like that.”

He’s sewing bells onto an empty uniform cause they don’t even have a body to bury.

A tear falls on his hand and Tubbo’s breaths hitch. His chest squeezes tight, a keening wail escaping his throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen! It was supposed to be him and Tommy against the world. He was supposed to sew buttons back onto their uniforms, not bells! He never wanted to be sewing on bells!

“It’s not fair!” He screams at the air. His voice echoes in the empty church, mocking him. He never escapes the mocking. If it’s not the echoes then it’s his own mind. He surges to his feet, gripping the pew in front of him with white knuckles. “It’s not fucking fair! He was so good! He was better than all of us! He was so loyal!”

The stained-glass portrait of Prime glows in the sunlight. Tubbo throws Tommy’s old uniform aside and jabs an accusing finger at the goddess. “Where were you?” He demands of her. “He prayed to you every day! He loved you! He loved you! Where were you when he needed you most, huh? Where were you when everything when to shit, when Schlatt exiled him, when I exiled him, when he killed himself? Where were you?”

He cuts himself off with a wail. Prime doesn’t answer him. Why would she?

He collapses into the pew and curls into himself. He clutches Tommy’s uniform to his chest. The little bells jingle in his ear but they’re not nearly enough to drown out his own cries. He clutches his knees to his chest and squeezes tight. Everything hurts. Everything hurts. There are reminders of Tommy everywhere. He can’t escape him. Can’t escape the knowledge that this is his fault. He killed his best friend.

He weeps in an empty, echoing church under the watch of a silent goddess until he eventually cries himself to sleep.

That’s to be expected. He hadn’t slept well after he exiled Tommy, and he hasn’t slept at all since finding Logsteadshire. He was bound to pass out eventually.

What’s unexpected is what he sees in his dream.

He’s trapped again, frozen and helpless and silent. Except this time, there is no pitch-black void surrounding him. No, this time, sunlight warms his face. Bells ring faintly around him and the air smells of citrus.

Before him is a tall, bright figure. She wears a long, flowing white dress with violet accents embroidered delicately along the sleeves and collar and waist. Golden bracelets and rings and necklaces gleam in the sunlight. Golden, curling hair tumbles down to her shoulders and her bright blue eyes seem to stare through him into his very heart. Tubbo knows this is Prime. The knowledge comes to him unbidden, as if he always knew. And how could he not? She looks so much like Tommy it hurts.

He feels like she’s meant to be smiling. It’s unsettling, the unexplainable soul-deep knowledge raising the hairs on the back of his neck. She should definitely be smiling, but she’s not. Her frown cuts right down to his bones and he aches under the disappointed stare of a goddess he doesn’t even worship.

She holds a golden bell in one hand and compass in the other, and if Tubbo could cry he would because he knows that compass. That’s his compass – the one that always pointed to Tommy before he lost it in the creeper explosion. The needle points steadily off into a distance he can’t see.

“Where were you?” He hears his own words echoed back at him, his voice undercut by bells and sunlight and laughter. He aches.

She holds the compass out toward him and her disappointed frown turns to betrayal. Her lips pinch, and her eyebrows furrow, the crease making her nose wrinkle just a little. It’s the same look Tommy wore the day Tubbo exiled him. It’s the last expression he ever saw Tommy make. Stop, he thinks, stop it, please.

“Please help me!” Tommy’s voice echoes around them and Tubbo wants to wail. “Please save me! Please, he’s killing me!”

It was a warning! It was a warning and he didn’t listen because he didn’t believe in gods and he was too stubborn to see that he was betraying his best friend. She tried to tell him that something was wrong, she tried to tell him that Tommy needed help and he didn’t listen.

His best friend is dead and its all his fault.

“Please.” He manages to whisper to the goddess. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Please, bring him back. He can’t force the words from his lips but she seems to hear them anyway because her betrayal melts into sorrow like rain. Her eyes go round and soft, but all she does is hold the compass out farther. The red needle points off into the distance. Presumably to wherever Tommy went. To the place Tubbo can’t follow. “Please.” He says again as the dream melts away. “Please.” He says again as the sunlight fades. “Please.” He says again to the goddess who was always listening.

Tubbo wakes in an empty church and weeps.