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As Tommy wanders the plains surrounding his exile, his mind feels like it’s pushing through a fog. It’s just a bit strange, is all. Dream has steered him before, come along on expeditions where Tommy’s gone to gather all the things he needs to survive, blown those same items sky-high, suggested ways to make Tommy’s life a little brighter… but he’s never outright come to Tommy’s exile with a request. A demand, really.
A basket of dandelions. A basket of cornflowers. Don’t come back until both baskets are at least half-full. Very specific, Dream was.
Of course, he didn’t give Tommy a reason for all of this. Tommy asked, but Dream just said, “Why are you asking questions, Tommy? It’s just flower-picking.” Because Dream’s a bitch. Tommy figured it was fair enough, bitch or not. It’s not like Tommy’s wholly unused to doing something someone asks just because it’s them who asked it. It’s just strange that Dream’s in that corner now.
So Tommy wanders from flower patch to flower patch, getting more and more frustrated by his empty basket. Dream didn’t come with him, at least, so he isn’t watching Tommy’s failure. He cited “needing to make preparations”, whatever the fuck that means. Tommy’s current theory is this it’s a beach party 2.0. Maybe the invitations will say it’s a party for Dream so people actually show up this time. The thought tugs at the already broken strands of his heart, but at least it means he’ll see people. Maybe they’ll love the party decorations so much they thank him. He hopes they at least commend him on the drugs.
For once, Tommy actually isn’t alone without Dream here. A ghost he hadn’t seen for days prior hovers at his side. Of course Ghostbur’s basket overflows. It’s all dandelions, though. Every time he sees one, he picks it. Tommy doesn’t understand why. It’s overflowed to the point they just fall from his basket as they trail along.
A few times, Tommy’s gone to ask Ghostbur why he keeps picking them, but every single time Ghostbur interrupts before Tommy can get even a syllable out. Ghostbur goes on and on and on about all the fun adventures he’s had in the past few days. Wandered the woods and made friends with some dogs. Wandered L’manburg and everyone was just so fucking happy to see him. Tommy boils with anger at how happy he sounds.
He wants to ask, why didn’t you take me? Why didn’t you come to my beach party? How can you be so fucking happy without me? But the words lodge in his throat like water gone down wrong. He clears his throat, he coughs, and he just about vomits trying to get it out. But it sticks like it belongs there. Like Tommy doesn’t deserve to know. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Ghostbur deserves to be happy in a way Wilbur never could, and Tommy just has to accept that isn’t with him.
It takes ages to find cornflowers. When they finally see blue, Tommy’s feet ache. He’s sure they’ve walked a few thousand blocks now. Surprisingly, Ghostbur doesn’t touch them. He doesn’t even look at them. Instead of his precious blue, he admires the dandelions in his basket. With aching bones, Tommy bends to pick the cornflowers.
Ghostbur asks, “Do you know much about dandelions?” Tommy shrugs. He tosses a cornflower in his basket.
“Pretty, aren’t they? Not much else to know.”
“Well, they come from a genus called Taraxacum.”
Tommy looks up from the cornflowers toward Ghostbur, squinting because of the sun behind him. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Nope. They’re cum flowers.” Tommy laughs. That’s pretty fun, at least. A little factoid Tommy can share with the partygoers. They’ll think he’s hilarious and visit every day for more little flower facts. He keeps a smile as he goes back to picking cornflowers.
Ghostbur continues, “Something else pretty interesting. They mean hope.”
“Not as interesting as cum.”
“No, not quite. But that’s not the only thing they mean.” Ghostbur twirls a dandelion between his fingers. “They mean growth too.”
Tommy barks out another laugh. “Cum and growth? Fuck, Ghost, this is the premium flower.” Ghostbur smiles at him.
“You know what they grow into, of course?”
“Obviously. The puffballs. Little wishing wells.”
“They’re weeds, Tommy.” Tommy stiffens.
“So?” He questions, a little aggressively. He doesn’t know why Ghostbur calling the little puffballs weeds makes him so upset.
“I mean, it’s not their fault. Sometimes that’s the only way you can go, right? It’s inevitable. You know that.”
He looks to Ghostbur again and asks, “What the Hell does that mean?” Tommy’s voice sounds rough. Maybe it’s just the water in his throat, rusting up the pipes. Where did the water come from?
Ghostbur twirls the dandelion closer to his face, eyes not leaving the little, yellow petals. “They’ve blown you away,” his tone stays informative. Tommy squeezes his hands to fists, destroying the cornflower he holds. Before he can yell, before he can even try, before their eyes the dandelion turns from beautiful flower to puffball weed. Ghostbur blows and the seeds are taken by the wind, a promise to the land to regrow what he’s torn to bits. “Do you want to know what I wished for?”
“No,” Tommy grits out.
“I wished you would stick around long enough to make something beautiful.”
“I made L’manburg.”
“Wilbur made L’manburg.”
In a biting tone, “I made Logstedshire!”
“ I made Logstedshire. But you’re a good hype man.”
In a fury, Tommy pushes off the ground, ready to scream at Ghostbur the way he’s ached to Wilbur for so, so fucking long. But Ghostbur is gone. Vanished. The only reason Tommy knows he was there at all are the trail of dandelions leading to the cornflower patch.
Shaking, Tommy looks at the sad state of his cornflower basket. It’s not quite half-filled. The patch wasn’t very big at all. Will this be good enough for Dream? Ghostbur has so much more than Tommy, what if this isn’t enough? Tommy’s so tired of not being enough for people. Dream’s his last chance.
Tommy looks up and Dream is there. He jumps, falling backward, knocking over his basket. It’s not full enough to spill out, but he still scrambles to set it right, to make sure not a one was crushed. Well, not a second one anyway. Dream laughs.
“Tommy,” Dream starts, a tone like he thinks Tommy is acting silly. “It’s just me.” Like it just being Dream means Tommy shouldn’t be afraid. Like Tommy shouldn’t feel like cowering just for that fact alone.
“Hey, Dream,” he says shakily. As scared as he is, as he always fucking is, it wouldn’t be very good to make his best friend feel unwanted. What if he leaves? Vanishes like Wilbur? What would Tommy do then?
“Did you get my cornflowers?” Tommy looks at his basket and cringes.
“Yeah! Yeah, I mean, is- is this enough?” Dream bends, towering over Tommy and the basket both. Tommy doesn’t know how Dream towers over him when they’re both standing. They’re the same height. Always have been.
Dream hums disapprovingly. “It should do.”
Quickly, Tommy starts, “It was the only cornflower patch in the whole place, Dream, I’ve been walking fucking everywhere , I mean- have you got bonemeal? If you’ve got bonemeal, we could-”
“I said it should be, Tommy,” Dream interrupts sharply. “Come on.”
Tommy swallows disappointment and water, following behind Dream who leads them back to Logstedshire. Strangely, it feels like just seconds before they’re there. How did that happen? Is he so used to not leaving that he just wandered in a circle, over and over? How did they keep finding dandelions? Was Ghostbur replanting them the whole time? How quick do dandelions grow?
They pass the walls of Logstedshire and walk straight to Tnret. In front of the tent’s opening is a grave.
Tommy drops his basket. He finds himself pulled toward the grave and drops to his knees on fresh dirt. The headstone is coated in soot, and Tommy wipes it away desperately. Hands covered in black, he grips the side of the headstone with shaking hands.
Here lies poor old Wilbur Soot
Father
Brother
Terrorist
President
(None of this well)
“What is this?” Tommy begs in a whisper.
“Someone had to make him a grave,” Dream says. He licks his thumb and makes the None clearer than anything else on the headstone. “The people he loves couldn’t be bothered.” Tommy digs his fingernails into the cold stone.
“It wasn’t- we couldn’t- I mean, we had so much to do, we had to rebuild, and-” Dream tsks. Tommy shuts his eyes, scrunching his face, trying to make it all go away.
“You don’t have to make excuses, Tommy. Not to me.” Dream stands so he’s right next to Tommy, bending his knees to place a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy flinches. “You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to make a grave for a terrorist. Can you admit that?” Tommy feels the stone under his nails now. It hurts. It’s gonna draw blood. He leans his head against the soot-covered headstone, letting out a shaky breath.
“It didn’t feel like he could be buried.”
It wasn’t an absence of love. It wasn’t hate. Tommy hardly even knows what it was. Wilbur’s already got a grave, hasn’t he? Body buried in the ruins of L’manburg? That’s what he fucking wanted, isn’t it? Why’s it Tommy’s job to dig him out, just to bury him again? Hasn’t he done enough?
“He was just a man, Tommy,” Dream sounds annoyed. Sort of bored. “Men can be buried.”
Tommy lets out another shaky breath. He opens his eyes and turns to look at the man beside him. One of his hands still stays on Tommy’s shoulder, but the other is gripping a bouquet of dandelions. Tommy chokes as he notices Ghostbur stood right beside Dream. He holds his own bouquet, one of cornflowers, something so fucking sad compared to the one in Dream’s hand. What’s wrong with Tommy? He couldn’t even try to honor Wilbur this way? He couldn’t dig him up, he couldn’t get him flowers, he couldn’t fucking stop Wilbur from killing himself. Tommy can’t remember the last thing he did right.
In a dazed tone, Ghostbur says, “Thank you, Dream.” He takes a moment to pluck a few flowers from Dream’s bouquet, bulking up the pitiful thing Tommy made for him. The blue and yellow look beautiful together. Tommy thinks he might vomit. His nausea grows worse as Ghostbur takes a step toward him.
“Wil, I-” Tommy chokes out a sob as Ghostbur takes a knee beside him and goes in for a hug. Before he can decide whether to wrap his arms around his brother or wrap his hands around his neck, Ghostbur falls through him. He falls through the grave. All he leaves behind is a bouquet of cornflowers and dandelions. “What the fuck?” Tommy shouts. “Wilbur, Wilbur, where the fuck did you-”
“It was time,” Dream says with faux-sympathy. “Dead men can’t talk, Tommy.”
“He- he’s not-” Tommy’s voice falls flat. He’s not what? Not dead? Wilbur’s fucking rotted. Ghostbur’s a fucking echo. Tommy’s just a desperate fool.
Dream tilts his head at Tommy’s silence. “Neither can you,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s about time, anyway.” Before Tommy can even try to comprehend that sentence, the hand on his shoulder grips tight. He lets out a noise of pain, but Dream shushes him. “What did I just say, Tommy? Dead men can’t talk.” Dream stands to full height, keeping Tommy in a vice grip. The other hand still holds the now substantially smaller bouquet.
Dream pulls Tommy away from Wilbur’s grave, yanking his fingernails across. He screams in agony and Dream huffs in annoyance.
“Please!” Is all Tommy can get out. “Please.”
“Shut up!” Dream snaps. Tommy tries to dig his fingers into the ground to stop Dream’s dragging, but they’re too sore from his mourning.
Tommy wants to scream, “I’m not dead! I’m not fucking dead! It couldn’t hurt this much if I was fucking dead!”
All that comes out is, “Please! Please! Please!”
He never thought he would die begging.
Dream finally lets go of his shoulder and Tommy falls back across the hard earth with an mmph . There is a moment of relief. The violence is over. Maybe he won’t die begging after all. But when he moves to sit his sore body up, he sees where Dream has dragged him. On the other side of Tnret, right across from Wilbur’s grave is another. The headstone is pristine and the grave is empty.
Here lies Tommy Innit
Brother
Vice President
Friend
Tommy scrambles back, but Dream kicks him in the side and sends him face first toward the open grave. He manages to not slide in completely, and he attempts his scrambling again, but Dream kicks at his arm with a groan of frustration.
“Wilbur went so easy!” Dream complains. Voice dripping with disgust, he asks, “What the Hell is wrong with you?” He grabs Tommy’s ankles and yanks him up, forcing him to practically backflip into his fucking grave. Tommy lands and feels something crack in his shoulder. He screams out in pain. From above, Dream just mutters, “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”
The bouquet is dropped from above and hits Tommy directly in the face. He sputters as the yellow flowers hit his mouth and pushes aside the flowers with the arm that isn’t causing him agony. Tommy tries to stand, but the first shovel of dirt into his grave feels like an 80 pound weight across his chest. He tries to scream, but finds he can’t stop coughing. Something is caught in his throat, something that’s not just water.
“Dead men can’t breathe,” Dream says like a reminder. Another shovel of dirt weighs him down. Then another. Then another. Tommy tries to wriggle out from under it, but Dream fills his grave at a superhuman pace. Dirt fills Tommy’s mouth and the water in his throat turns it to mud that clots his throat until he can’t breathe. This is how it ends? This is what Wilbur died for? This is what L’manburg stands for?
It burns. His throat and his chest and his fear burn. He tries to cough but nothing comes out anymore. His body twitches uncontrollably. A complete loss of control for his body and his mind. He thinks death could only be a relief, now. Tommy thinks he finally understands Wilbur.
A final resolve, Tommy tries one last breath through his nose. Water comes flooding in. His eyes open in shock.
It is dark and cold and Tommy realizes it is not dirt that encases him but ocean water. How did he get here? What did he do to get here? For a moment, he can’t bring himself to fight against the current. Dead men don’t fight. Then, like a weapon he hasn’t wielded in quite some time, he steels himself and pushes up. He pushes out of this fucking death trap.
Dead men don’t fight but Tommy fucking Innit does.
Arms and legs like lead, it’s almost a miracle he washes to shore coughing and sputtering. As he looks upon the one he’s landed on, he almost wishes he drowned. All this beach knows is failure. He crawls coughing until he collapses on a beach towel. He tries to catch his breath and ends up leaning over and vomiting. Ocean water and dandelion seeds. For fuck’s sake.
He heaves desperate breaths as he realizes he’s alive. Just yesterday he was almost happy as he built this beach to be the perfect party. Just yesterday he stood over a pit of lava and realized all he has is Dream. Today this was almost his fucking grave. As he breathes, something stays caught. The water really is stuck in there. Tommy really is stuck here.
As the waves crash against the shore, breathing gets easier. He lays there for quite some time. Until the sun is not quite coming up in the sky. With a shaky breath, Tommy sits up. He leans against tired arms and watches the sea in a daze.
The sea was almost his grave but it’s almost comforting now. Reliable. Like Dream. Since L’manburg, Dream is the most reliable thing Tommy has. Wilbur left him. Tubbo left him. Tommy isn’t even allowed in L’manburg anymore. But Dream… he’s reliable in the way that’s unpredictable. In the way that Tommy has to dance around the edge of conversations and pray he doesn’t push the wrong buttons. But Tommy’s starting to learn the buttons that hurt. The buttons that are meant to teach him to be better. And he will be better. For his best friend. For the only one he has.