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From the moment he woke up, Tubbo knew that it was just going to be one of those days .
The symptoms weren’t exactly difficult to spot anymore. A few times a month, Tubbo would open his eyes to a pounding headache, accompanied by a buzzing in his ears, blurry vision, or something else equally irritating and stupid. It usually meant a migraine was due the next day, and it definitely meant the current day was going to suck. Most people would spend days like these just taking it easy, resting their eyes or trying to prepare for whatever might come next.
However, Tubbo isn’t one to back down when his systems start to misbehave. His body runs similarly to a hastily made— but nonetheless functional— machine. The type that overclocks itself when a gear gives way, or melts from the inside if a filament slips; there's no off switch to stop the inevitable self–destruction.
Surprisingly, most of Tubbo's mechanical creations are capable of automatic emergency shutdown.
Hes out of the house by late afternoon— an impressive feat, in his opinion— wandering his usual forest trails. It’s a fine way to keep busy, he tells himself; the fresh air is good for him! Besides, there's no way he’s going to break his streak of stress-busting nature walks— he’s dead set on that one.
The forest smells of nectar and rich greens today as plant life seems to have finally found root over the spring. It must be getting fairly late in the season, Tubbo notes; the air is certainly warmer now, and upcoming summer heat keeps hair clinging to cheekbones and lashes. He grimaces at the feeling of it, and blows the fringe from his eyes. Maybe he’ll just chop it all off tonight, he muses. Surely that’d be fine. Was Ranboo going to be away?
“ Tubbo !”
An upbeat voice sails through the air, and Tubbo deftly turns to see— oh, what the fuck— it's Tommy waving at him, kneeling in a sea of plants some twenty yards into the undergrowth. His hands are caked in dirt as he stands, and his legs don’t seem much better, knees stained with green and brown from his reverence on the forest floor. Tubbo's no more bothered by that than Tommy is, though. He's more focused on the flowers dancing in droves around the tattered hems of Tommy’s pants.
They're lilies-of-the-valley, Tubbo can immediately recognize. The white bells sway sweet–scented and dainty at their feet, some with green–tinted berries just beginning to sprout from their stems. He stares at them, brow furrowed with a quiet whirring in his ears. Tubbo swears he can hear them ringing. Like tiny service bells, or clinking glasses, echoing through narrow hallways to bounce off of an endlessly high ceiling.
Heavy footfall cuts through the underbrush, mud–clad trainers breaking Tubbo's scrutiny. He waves a small greeting in the direction of the noise, cracking a grin at the violent cursing as Tommy trips himself up. Tubbo tilts his head sideways to look at his friend, whose sharp teeth are grinning back expectantly.
There's a strange moment where Tubbo can't quite speak. His throat hurts. The buzzing in his head also seems present as ever.
Luckily, Tommy kills the moment before Tubbo can stress about his own silence.
"Why're you all the way out here, man?” His brows quirk up slightly, trying to meet Tubbo's eyes through his shield of brown locks. "What, are we going on the run again or somethin’?"
“You wish,” Tubbo ribs halfheartedly, and THERE we go, his voice is finally doing its goddamn job. "Being on the run is basically your default state of existence. I think if you were allowed to stay in one place you'd like… burrow into the ground… and die , probably.”
“What the hell!" Tommy doesn't quite sound angry— maybe halfway between playful and genuinely offended? Tubbo honestly can't puzzle it out; and the fact that he can't for some reason, kind of pisses him off.
"That's fucked up!" Tommy carries on, unaware of the other’s mental predicament. "You're lucky we don't run into new people anymore, Tubbo, ‘cus I don't think you can handle another lawsuit."
"What are you even— When was there ever a lawsuit?!" Tommy's lucky that Tubbo likes to bicker with him.
"No it's true, y’know, every time i'd introduce you to someone i'd have to warn them, 'Hey guys, this is my friend Tubbo! I know he looks so innocent and pure but please, please, he can sense all of your weaknesses!'" Tubbo flips him off, and Tommy pauses to snicker. "'My friend Tubbo— You must forgive him. He knows no boundaries, only prime comedic material.'"
His eyes roll in response, but Tubbo still shrugs in on himself in slight annoyance. He's not going to let Tommy change the subject, whether it's intentional or not.
It's not like it'll be the first time they have this conversation. In fact, Tubbo can recall multiple occasions where he had— for lack of a better term— lectured Tommy on lilies-of-the-valley. Specifically, how poisonous the entire plant was, and how a single berry was probably enough to take a grown person out.
Tommy had listened to him then, but it turns out the idea of locking someone in cardiac arrest with a dainty flower was nothing short of badass, in his eyes. In short, he ended up growing even more attached to them— which was the exact opposite of Tubbo's goal, of course.
Tubbo scuffs his heel against the dirt, looking back down at the red–and–white trainers.
“We talked about those flowers, Toms.”
A loud groan sounds immediately to his right— like that was going to dissuade him— as Tommy begins to build his argument. "Yes, yes , you've mentioned it like twenty times , Tubbo! I don't need another one of your famous infodump sessions."
“Well it certainly seems —”
“Look, I know what you said about cardio–glockides and all, but—”
“Cardiac glycosides.”
There's a loud buzzing coming from the air around him, and Tubbo's eyes flit curiously from the trees to the grass. He peers at the lilies expectantly. Their little heads stay bowed in righteous silence.
Tommy huffs violently over his deadpan expression, exhaling hard enough to blow a large curl of hair from his forehead. Tubbo glances at it absentmindedly.
He evaluates the stems and flora twisting from Tommy's blond roots, vines curling jovially around his horns. Their ends host a tangle of forget-me-nots and goldilocks buttercups, as well as some pink, star-shaped flowers that Tubbo's never learned the name of. He should probably ask about them sometime. Something swirls in Tubbo's chest as he considers the spring in Tommy's step, and— Well. Who would he be, to ruin that?
"Do you wanna join me? On the walk, I mean."
Tommy's expression brightens instantly, pointy ears nearly perking up in excitement. "Oh sure! Yeah, I'll come with!" He quickly brushes his hands on his pants, dirt-covered palms printing onto the fabric. "What's our destination, king?"
"I dunno. Guess we'll see."
Tubbo swears he can feel the other tense up a bit, can feel the hesitant look cast his way— but Tommy simply nods in response, and steps right into place at Tubbo's side. "Alright big man, lead the way. But let me tell you what happened yesterday Tubbz, 'cus you would not believe the shit I had to deal with. I mean that literally as well—"
The two make their way up the path as Tommy rattles on about his farm work, clomping down packed soil and occasional stones embedded in the ground. Tubbo listens halfheartedly, running his hand over a patch of cocksfoot grass before plucking a strand to chew on. It's better than biting his nails to the quick, he reckons.
"Phil told me once that cows have four stomachs," Tommy recalls, eyeing the grass in his mouth. "Is that true? He said that's why they're better at digesting things than horses are."
Tubbo just looks at him in bewilderment.
"Now, why were you guys talking about animals' digestive tracts?"
"Because Techno was explaining how his horses work," the other drawls, seemingly annoyed by the mere memory of it.
"Okay? Why was Technoblade explaining that?" He doesn't understand why Tommy hangs around people if they irritate him so much.
"I don't know, why does Techno do anything? He's a strange man Tubbo, and quite frankly he terrifies me. I wish not to speak of him anymore."
"Okay," Tubbo says again. He knows Tommy is messing around. Still, he can't help but fleetingly agree. Technoblade's motivations aren't exactly something he understands. He had no interest in trying to make sense of the man's past actions anyways. Dwelling on that isn't beneficial for anyone.
A beat of silence. Tommy seems to be deep in thought for a moment.
"Do they really have four stomachs?"
Tubbo pauses, exasperated.
"Yeah. Goats do as well."
Tommy halts his movement to gape at him dramatically. He looks a bit like a goldfish, Tubbo thinks amusedly.
"The hell does that mean?!" he barks out, and now Tubbo has the gall to fight back his laughter. He's fairly sure he only has one stomach. Fairly. Tommy doesn't know that though, and it's funny to provoke him.
"Could mean anything, really."
"Aw that's disgusting, man!" He pulls a miserable expression, and Tubbo feigns an offended one in return.
"Don't call me disgusting, dickhead! I'm not the one with shit on my pants."
" WHAT?!" Tommy stares at him indignantly, then looks down at his pants, still marked with dirt. "No, no no no no no, that's not—" he lowers his voice, jokingly stern. "Tubbo, I have a reputation to uphold, you can't just say things like that."
"Maybe don't shit yourself then." Tubbo shrugs at him, almost doubtful in his tone.
"I didn't even— No Tubbz, listen, you're being a bastard right now." Tommy's suppressing a grin, eyes crinkled at the corners, flowers bouncing with his steps.
"Oh, you're one to talk! Mr. 'I Can Start A Fire With Ranboo's Tie!'"
"But I did do that, didn't I? I wasn't lying like the rest of us do, apparently!"
They're joking around, Tubbo knows that; hell , Tommy's smiling ; but it feels like there's a red–hot spotlight beating down on him, and Tubbo reels himself back in, cautiously selecting his next words. "That's not— I didn't lie. That's not the subject I was referring to, sorry."
Tommy's smile falters, looking at Tubbo like he'd just grown a new set of horns.
" What ?" is all Tommy can seem to come up with.
Wrong answer, Tubbo supposes.
Tubbo is clasping his hands together anxiously, tight enough that he can feel his knuckles shift. "Sorry?" He repeats. A want for clarification, as well as an apology. What is he apologizing for?
"You said something that made no fucking sense. Said— Are you feeling okay, man?" Tommy seems genuinely concerned.
"Yeah, of course." Wow, that's not even slightly true! He didn't want to say that! Why did he say that? I mean come on, it's literally just Tommy. Tommy's not going to be mad if he says it's just one of his ‘bad days’. Actually, he'd probably want to help, to walk Tubbo home or offer a distraction, or even just validate him with a 'That sucks, mate' and let them both move on.
So Tubbo decides he'll tell him, because it makes sense to do so. He'll tell Tommy what's wrong so they can talk it out; so they can try to fix the issue— they always try — and he'll tell him because really, Tommy probably already knows something's off, so it would be stupid to pretend otherwise.
Tubbo doesn't say anything.
The pair brave a length of uphill travel, with Tubbo allowing Tommy to lead the conversation. The environment around them changes quickly as they move, from tall conifer trees to thin birch and sturdy oak. Dandelions growing in the path begin to tangle with the laces of their shoes, causing Tommy to quickly tell them off before either of them trip. Tubbo hardly notices the exchange. He's only half–listening to Tommy, nodding and humming false understanding as his brain continues to loop, ' Just let him know, Just let him know.' Tubbo Just lets him speak, instead.
Eventually, they divert from the main path and move properly into the forest. Smaller trees clearly struggle to gain sunlight here, and as the plant life grows more sparse, so do Tubbo's responses. The forest floor is mainly covered with moss and weeds, the occasional patch of skeleton flowers thriving in the shade of the overhanging canopy. Tommy still follows along, grumbling and questioning where the hell they're going now; but Tubbo continues brushing him off with a semi–convincing shrug.
Sunlight glares into Tommy's eyes, unshielded by the levelling ground as they finally reach the crest of the hill. He squints through it, raising a hand to try and make out the terrain ahead of them.
Tommy follows Tubbo over short grass and speckled wildflowers, their newfound elevation setting them face to face with the afternoon sun. Wind fills their ears as they step into the clearing, causing Tubbo to shake his head uncomfortably. He hears Tommy laughing at him and swats in his direction.
"Ow!" Tommy lags behind, shaking his head woefully to the insects perching on wild blossoms. It smells earthy here— even more so than the forest did, Tubbo thinks, reveling in the freshness of it all. He loves his house, of course, but the stuffiness can sometimes make it hard to breathe.
Tubbo carries them to the edge of the bluff, continuing to lead as the landscape below becomes visible. Upon seeing what's lying below them however, Tommy stops dead in his tracks.
It's L'Manberg. Or what's left of it, he supposes, sat in its ruins less than a kilometer away.
Sunlight is flecking off shattered glass, reflections dispersed by rubble and overgrown leaves. He can identify some of the waste to be old furniture, as well as charred wood and metal, indefinitely warped by the weather of time. Tommy hadn't even realized the direction they had been going, what with all the distractions along the way. Maybe they took a weird turn, he rationalizes, somewhere along the way.
"Never seen it from here before." Tommy breathes, sounding a bit dumbstruck.
Tubbo shrugs, and Tommy stares at him, slightly unnerved by his sudden lack of presence. He lets the disconcertion linger as Tubbo sits himself down in the grass, shuffling forward until his legs are dangling over the edge of the cliff. Tommy's heart thumps a bit harder, a faint rush creeping into his ears, and he wonders for the millionth time how many lives revival leaves you with. But Tubbo is unphased— and not even looking at him now— so Tommy opts to find something to busy his hands and head.
He raises a hand with his thumb, pointer and middle finger extended, and draws a hasty, circular motion in the air. A small hologram grid appears in front of him, and Tommy runs a finger over 3-D models, scanning the items as they silently bobble in place. In a well-practiced motion, he pinches above the record player in his inventory, pulling upwards and watching it enlarge with a satisfying pop. An ender chest follows shortly after, and both are placed in the grass as Tubbo continues to gaze at nothing.
"Hey Tubzo, gimme a colour."
"...
Green."
Tommy pauses— he honestly didn't know what he had expected— then shakes his head dismissively. "Different one," he insists.
The older boy doesn't answer this time. He just sits with a quiet stoicism that Tommy can't quite decipher; either silent defiance or new type of foggy disinterest. Whatever it is, it's not helping the dizzy feeling rising behind Tommy's eyes. He scoffs.
"Fine, be that way, bitch! I'll choose one myself— for my judgment is simply impeccable ," he adds, sarcasm seeping into his voice. Nevertheless, he picks a green disc out of the ender chest, and sets it gently on the platter of the player. The clear chime of Far echoes through the air as he joins Tubbo in the grass, crossing his legs a good few meters from the dusty cliff-side.
Tommy returns to his staring, trying to figure out where his Tubbo's gaze is directed. His hair's grown so long now that it fully blocks his eyes, and Tommy would be lying if he claimed his best friend is as easy to read as before.
"You finally given up on books, then?" Tommy cracks, momentarily unsure of the silence.
"Huh?" Tubbo cocks his head to face him, and Tommy immediately wonders why he isn't laughing, or hitting him with a witty quip in return. His foot jounces a bit, running fingers through his blond curls with a halfhearted chuckle.
"Well your eyes're all covered now, aren't they?" he says, gesturing to his own fringe. "Got Ranboo leading you around now, that controlling bastard."
The lower half of Tubbo's face shifts, almost unnoticeably. He doesn't look amused at the lighthearted insult, and Tommy can feel his scowl through his barricade of dark hair.
"Sorry," he mumbles after a few seconds. Tubbo relaxes to how he was before— albeit a very minimal amount— and tries to think of something to say. On good days, his brain is buzzing with ideas, often finding it very hard not to say something interesting or unbelievably cursed. But today he can't summon a single word that would fit into a conversation. He hopes Tommy understands.
Instead of pushing each other to talk, the two study the landscape before them. It's almost peaceful in its worn down destruction. Looking more carefully, Tubbo can spot the withered remains of some blood vines below L'Manberg's glass floor. It's ironic, he thinks, that the plant had managed to worm its way into their makeshift time capsule— only to get stuck there, rotting like weeds in an abandoned vegetable garden. What a powerful adversary that was, he muses.
The Egg might as well have drunk itself to death while it was at it.
"This feels more like a proper burial now, doesn't it?" Tommy voices gently, managing to redirect his train of thought. Tubbo thanks every God that it works as well as it does.
He hums noncommittally, if only to let the other know he's not being totally ignored. Tubbo's got his eyes closed, focusing on the music in the background. Far isn't his favourite disc, but he can appreciate its general spaciness. It reminds him of adventure; of visiting familiar faces under dangerous circumstances— faces that became almost unrecognizable after everything went spiralling out of control. After—
Tubbo had run before Dream had the chance to see him. Stepping out of that portal, he can recall seeing the already haggard condition of his best friend, only four days into exile. He remembers watching as Dream strode confidently towards Tommy, how Tommy had gone meek with a dead–eyed obedience that Tubbo had never seen from anyone , let alone his hard–headed best friend. He can feel that twisting in his gut as Tommy stands less than a meter from lit TNT, allowing himself to be damaged by the shrapnel of his own disintegrated items.
Despite all of that, Tubbo retreats home in a daze, trying to choke down his own sickening guilt. Every part of him is screaming to go back, to fight Dream, grab Tommy and escape, but he's reminding himself it's all for the greater good, it's your duty to keep everyone safe. So, just get home quickly. Don't let anyone spot you, or you might as well be dead.
A smart leader should carry himself calmly. Slow down. Steady, deep breaths, chin up. Look professional. Move as if you actually have a purpose, please.
And if you return home properly, if you follow all the rules without cheating or messing up, then you are allowed a moment of exemption. And Tubbo had done very well.
So if he had collapsed into heaving sobs as soon as his door closed, bending and relenting to self-destructive tendencies for only one night, then it'd been out of spite for an incapable old man, not because Tubbo personally felt he needed to. It had been nothing more than an act of defiance and a reward to himself; still completely within his own control.
Luckily, no one was ever going to ask about that. After all, it had been Tommy, not him, who'd been forced into exile. He thinks that maybe he's thankful for that, in some horrible way. He thinks, even more horribly, that he may resent him for it.
Tubbo is guided back to the present by rippling static, indicating the end of the green disc.
Despite his best instincts, Tommy decides to speak up.
"Sooo…” He stretches the vowel longer than Tubbo thinks should be possible, making Tommy’s discomfort glaringly obvious. “Any reason we came up here in particular?"
The older boy sighs shakily, taking a moment to mentally re–enter his surroundings. He refuses to look at the person next to him.
"Not sure honestly,” he finally repines, leaning on the palms of his hands. “This is probably one of the last things I wanted to see today.” Tubbo hears Tommy stifle an indignant squawk, and almost chuckles at him. Tommy composes himself, voice forcefully level.
"Why, what's wrong with it?"
They both pause.
"Wai— Hang on, stupid question—" he sputters out, and Tubbo gasps out a genuine laugh this time, the other joining in sheepishly among his awkward grumbles.
"It's weird visiting places like this with you," Tubbo confesses. Tommy raises his eyebrows.
"How come?"
"I dunno, it's like..." Tubbo straightens up, moving his hands sharply as he does when organizing his words.
"You have this habit of remembering the good bits of things, no matter how awful they actually were at the time. You can look at this... fucking disaster of a country and— and think back to brewing illegal potions, or forming a nation, or— or— or just decorating your front lawn! But this is just..." Tubbo scrunches his nose in discomfort, surveying the rubble again. "No offense man, but all I see here is a waste of resources."
Tommy considers this, frowning to himself. It's true, he's always been more of an optimist; and Tubbo's always been stubborn.
"You still came back though," He tries, hoping to carry the idea somewhere new. No response. Tommy presses on. "Do you miss it?"
That question earns him another laugh, although this one is much more forced.
"What, L'Manberg?" Tubbo retorts, posture stiffening. A nod. He waves a hand dismissively, a bitter smirk still on his face.
"No. Absolutely not." The answer comes out harsher than Tubbo intended, but it's not like he's being disingenuous.
"Not even the people?" Tommy ventures. Tubbo seems to mull this over for a second, chewing on his nails. Contemplating, maybe.
"It's just blocking my view of the horizon."
The air stills as Tubbo goes quiet. Tommy weighs his odds, biting at the inside of his cheek.
"I still miss Wilbur sometimes," he offers. He says it like it's a secret; as if it's not glaringly obvious in every choice Tommy makes, in every thing he creates and every song he hums.
"Not this Wilbur, of course, but like..."
Tubbo nods gently. "Yeah, I get it."
"We did a lot, Wil and I. Even after everything that happened, after Pogtopia —" Tubbo feels his heart leap, and the softness is his chest is immediately stamped out.
"—I think we still did pretty well for ourselves," Tommy carries on. "I mean it was total dogshit, don’t get me wrong, but it could've been a lot worse. Even after the election, we got to come home eventually, didn't we?"
Tubbo nods, again, although it's harsher this time, his jaw locked firmly shut. He swears he can almost taste copper.
"We didn't even have to deal with Schlatt when we got back!" Tommy growls out the name in disgust, unaware of Tubbo digging his nails into the seam of his own pant–leg. "Honestly I don't know how we would’ve. But hey, even after all that shit, the fucker offed himself for us! If that's not a win for the bois then I don't—"
" Y’know ,” Tubbo cuts in, and Tommy shuts up, albeit out of sheer surprise. “I was thinking after you left. About when I was first studying bees.” The shorter of the two scoots away from the cliff and pushes himself to his feet, not looking at the other.
“Oh were you now, bee–boy?” Tommy counters snarkily. “What a surprise! Someone oughta write a book ‘bout this one, eh?”
Tubbo watches as Tommy stands with him, but refuses to dignify him with any response.
“After you left,” he repeats obstinately, “Or after you got yourself kicked out of your country — I was looking through old notes I had made.” Tommy keeps quiet. Tubbo thinks he may have flinched.
“Did you know that as soon as a worker bee climbs out of its cell, it knows exactly what job it has to do?" He interlaces his fingers, fidgeting as he speaks. "It’s like each one is born with its own redstone wiring, telling it how to act for the rest of its entire life.”
“Interesting,” Tommy offers. What else is he really meant to say?
“It is interesting,” Tubbo agrees, keeping his tone cordial. It's passive, almost cautious. “Two or three weeks into its life, a worker bee is tasked with guarding the hive— and more specifically the Queen— from any possible threats. Seems pretty young to be given such a high-pressure job, don’t you think?”
Tommy frowns ever so slightly. He makes no effort to reply.
"Guess they don’t know any better though, do they?" Tubbo thinks maybe he should stop talking.
He won’t.
"When a guarding bee’s colony is threatened, its only form of defense is to sting, right? Now obviously, that ends up killing the bee— but it doesn't really care about that. Maybe it knows the colony's survival relies on self-sacrifice." He speaks matter-of-factly, as if reciting words from a mental encyclopedia. "Honeybees all work together, but at the end of the day, each one is treated like a disposable unit. Kind of like a pawn . As long as the Queen is safe, everyone else is pretty insignificant. Y'know what I mean?”
Tommy doesn’t like how steady Tubbo’s voice is holding. Monotony doesn’t suit him, he feels.
“It kinda made me wonder though!” Tubbo’s gripping his hands together again, knuckles white and jittery. He’s stealing frequent glances towards the treeline, voice getting thinner with each word he speaks. “What would happen if a bee figured out it didn't have to be disposable? What if— What if some bee figured out that, without a Queen, it could live its life however it wanted? No rules, no responsibilities, just… focusing on itself, focusing on family; whatever else it cares about. There was actually a study similar to that, a few years back. Not exactly about their freedom but— See, if a Queen can't do her job properly, it puts the entire hive at risk. So certain bees— Well, they'll do what they're meant to do, and then find the Queen a replacement."
Tubbo finally shifts around, trying to see Tommy’s expression without really looking at him. Tommy has his eyes narrowed in confusion, like he's trying to slot together a particularly finicky puzzle. Fuck. Fuck, come on, please .
“What do you think?" His voice comes out strained. "Do you think a bee would be wrong in— in taking out its Queen, if it knew the Queen wasn’t fit to serve the colony?"
And just as he’s thinking that maybe it’s better like this, maybe it’s better if Tommy never finds out, that’s right when it seems to click. Tommy’s eyes widen, staring at Tubbo in disbelief. He's not sure what he's waiting for. Maybe he's expecting Tubbo to reveal that he's not being serious. Maybe Tommy thinks the realization will hit any second, and then Tubbo will scramble to clarify what he actually meant, lamenting his poor choice of words before laughing the conversation away.
"Tommy?" There’s a clear waver in Tubbo's voice, wind tousling his fringe as he stares at the ground.
Well. Fucking shit.
Tubbo can feel the pounding in his chest, can hear the quiet hum of insects in the grass being amplified to a deafening roar. He forces himself to stay standing, studying the glow of sun on his boots.
“Oh, Tubbo.” Tommy's unable to hide the pity in his voice as he steps forward, taking the boy’s forearm in an attempt of low-contact comfort. A wave of guilt washes his stomach when Tubbo flinches away, but recedes when he immediately shuffles forwards again, as if apologizing for his skittishness.
Tommy can remember when he and Tubbo had convened, less than a week before the 16th. He recalls ragging on Tubbo a lot then, nearly lecturing him for being so late to their meeting, only for him to give the half-baked excuse of "losing track of time." Tubbo claimed he'd been busy picking berries, which Tommy hadn't really believed when he said it— but he also hadn't had the liberty to care.
It now registers that he probably should have cared about it. Probably quite a lot, actually. Tommy presses his lips into a thin line, feeling an infectious sort of empathy. Perhaps Tubbo can sense that, because he shuffles towards him, pressing his head to Tommy’s chest with firm affection. The taller boy just hums quietly, leaning his cheek on the other's horns. He doesn't comment when he feels water droplets tapping against his shoes.
"Hey, it's—" Tommy swallows hard, taking a deep breath.
Don't cry. You'll make me cry out of pity.
"It's alright, Tubbo. We're gonna be fine, remember?"
Tubbo tries to listen to his friend's voice, feeling distant. As if listening through a conch shell , he recites. He can see his hands clasped in front of him, and yet again his fingertips are stained with fruit juice, tinted red-orange to match that ugly vermilion necktie. He absently remembers the gloves he'd ended up burning. The soreness of his nail-beds every time he'd chanced scrubbing them clean. Leaving a crowded van, ducking aside to cough up his anxiety, hearing his ears ring from a deafening blast, and suddenly he's in a familiar dark room, wondering if he's selfish for chasing a better outcome.
Tommy's voice carries through again, tone wavering slightly.
"It's alright," he’s repeating, fingers still holding his wrist and tracing calming circles, perhaps out of habit. "Bastard deserved it."
Did he though? Did anyone deserve such a pathetic ending? Tubbo’s not so sure. That man’s funeral had been more significant than his death itself; and even fewer people had showed up for it.
The two stand idle for a moment, tough hands gripping either side of Tommy’s shirt, breeze tossing hair around horns. Tubbo silently thanks the universe for putting Tommy by his side. He doesn’t know it, but Tommy’s doing the same thing about him.
Tubbo eventually steps back, eyes still fixed on the ground. He scrubs at his face with his sleeve, almost able to hear Ranboo reminding him not to ‘bottle up’ his emotions. ‘ It's good to express yourself— as long as it’s in a healthy way. ’ Tubbo reasons that all parties are guilty on that account.
"You okay?" Tommy asks, letting go of Tubbo's arm. He almost wants to laugh again; Tommy's the best at asking the most absurd questions.
"Yeah." He ignores the uncertainty in his own voice. "Yeah, i'm good." Tommy dramatically buries his hands in his pockets, clearly not buying any of it. This time it's him, not Tubbo, who's looking towards the trees, searching for the right words to say.
"You're not—" Tommy grimaces. Tubbo decides to cut him off before he can finish, because really this can't go anywhere good. He knows that Tommy's going to hit him with a classic, 'You're not okay, are you?' or, 'You're not alone, you know,' or even, 'You're not hurting yourself, right?' Well too bad, he doesn't want to hear it. Tubbo's spilled his guts plenty today, and if they get into one more emotional discussion then he's genuinely going to throw up.
So while Tommy's still fumbling for words— a rare occurrence for him— Tubbo seizes the opportunity to turn on his heel and start the trek back home. This whole ordeal sure has been lovely, but something about today has been making him talk, and Tubbo is over it. That's fine. This is his walking done for the day— and the forest will still be here tomorrow.
Assuming it isn't taken out by a wildfire.
Or a militaristic siege.
Or a self–inflicted nuclear meltdown, or—
“Ay, c’mon, Tubbo!” Tommy’s shouts easily reach his good ear and Tubbo airs him, but of course, Tommy isn't dissuaded. “What, you're not gonna abandon me out in the middle of nowhere, are you?” He jokes. ”Have a heart, man!”
Normally, Tubbo would just keep walking away from him. Tommy's quick, strong–minded, and able to handle himself. He's also being dramatic as all hell right now. This time however, Tubbo stops himself.
Chewing on his lip, he watches patiently as Tommy lifts Far from the record player, ever so careful not to scratch the vinyl. Tubbo just shakes his head, a lopsided grin forming on his face.
"No, no," he breathes, only because he knows Tommy won't be able to hear him. "We've tried that one already."
He studies the little blue flowers waving in his best friend's hair, and sighs.
"Not gonna make the same mistake twice.”