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Whenever the tough times come to destroy Tommy’s day, he decides to narrate the ordeals of his life. Current predicament: Tubbo is peer pressuring him to alcoholism.
This is a stretch, of course, the phrasing makes Tubbo out to be some kind of creepy villain, and maybe he is one; maybe Tommy should continue to antagonize him. But it was a Friday on December 23rd with warm bodies of people pressed into his sides as Tubbo orders another shot at the bar, shoving it into Tommy’s hands. If he were to refuse now, he’d be wasting perfectly good alcohol and Tubbo’s hard earned money. Tubbo gets this horrible note in his voice when he's upset, like a little pig, and he can’t be getting irritated.
But it’s Friday, it’s almost Christmas, and above both of these facts, it’s Tubbo's birthday. The tiny shot glass is like a burden, but he chokes the shit down anyway because really, Tubbo, this is where you wanna celebrate another year?
He doesn’t like bars much, or at least, he pretends he's indifferent to the intoxicating arena that a bar must create to shove every no-good, potential buyer, drug addict and dancer into its walls.
They slip away to a balcony, and Tommy mockingly gets on one knee. People coo at them through the glass, making Tubbo look like he might get sick. At this height, the vomit could act like some kind of weapon and cause' an injury, and this bloke would make it out to be his fault. Really, they've been buying alcohol like there's no tomorrow, and drinking like it, too.
Tubbo shoves his hand away, which held no ring, ‘cause if Tommy really wanted to marry his best friend, it would have happened already. The lights from inside reflected on his friend's face, and he thinks to himself, ‘I am truly the worst,’ because Tubbos' face was wet and not with liquor. What kind of friend doesn’t notice their pal is crying?
And his eyes are red, so he must've been crying for awhile, oh god, and Tommy drops his wrist, suddenly recognizing that he's on a balcony in a big, west end bar while he's miserably drunk. Tubbo cries when he's drunk sometimes, but this feels different.
Tommy purses his lips and leans a bit closer, voice going quiet. New predicament: how do I ask my best friend if he's alright? The possibilities are infinite (he does have free will, allegedly) and the best option is often the simplest, but his brain is crawling with worms and illness and he asks his best friend the dumbest question in the history of questions, ever. Instead of a simple, 'How are you?...'
“Do you play piano, still?” Tommy curses himself, even as the words come out, because this? This is not it at all. And he knows Tubbo doesn’t, not anymore, but he smiles, feeling distant despite being right next to him, and everything is wrong.
“Not really. Do you? I think I’m-” Tubbo looked away, “I think I’m losing it, a little bit. MIght be wrong, though. Might just be getting a cold.”
And it was cold out there; the alcohol hasn't dulled his senses, not yet. Tubbo cries when he’s really drunk sometimes, and he hasn't quite stopped. Tommy sighed, "Hey, I'm sorry, man. I feel like I'm ruining our night.”
“It’s okay,” Tubbo says only when it isn’t, “And no, I’m not marrying you.”
Tommy laughs and it's rough, yet quiet. He shrugs, “I figured that out when you didn’t respond and kinda zoned out on the floor. And started crying.”
“I would never cry over Tom Simons.” Tubbos' face grew pale in this awful way and he closed his eyes, tipping his head back, “I feel sick.”
“Like-vomit sick, like throwing up right now on my expensive, big man shoes-”
Tubbo laughs, but quickly regrets it, and he doesn’t vomit on Tom's shoes but, he does throw up on his tailored white button up that he got at a fancy store on the boardwalk. He'd gotten it this morning, because it was his fucking birthday.
“Shit, fuck, uh, I-” Tommy stammered, reaching for him, but Tubbo’s hand came up to smack him away, looking miserable.
And he’s useless here, tipsy on alcohol and adrenaline, and it was late, late enough that it might be Christmas Eve by now. The two of them sat frozen at this stupid, unfamiliar bar that neither of them wanted to go to. They could smell the stench of throw up and vodka and Tubbo’s cologne; After a beat, Tommy pushed himself to his feet, shouting, “I’ll get some towels!”
He gets lost in the crowd at some point, weaving through all these drunk people who keep grabbing at him. The bar is loaded, and he manages to find a cart full of cleaning supplies. He swipes the towels and politely leaves 10 quid stuck in the cart, knowing, well, some fucker will probably steal that, but he was stealing towels and the world kept turning.
If he wasn’t drunk, and worried sick, because his friend was real sick and real worried, he would have noticed a lady in black slip past the bar toward him with this confidence that made people stay clear of her. She clocked a gun and Tommy turned his head, 6th sense buzzing, and he’d had a dream about this sort of thing a few nights ago. As expected, the fucker turned on him and shot.
She was a good shot. He heard people scream, people dive for cover, people dive for him, that was sweet, but if a sniper was coming, it was probably for him. Her hair was dyed red and black and if Tommy was cohorent, if the blood wasn’t flowing from both adrenaline and the literal hole in his body, he’d compliment it. Sure, most people didn’t compliment their shooters hairstyle, but hey, Tommy was new levels of fucked up.
At least Tubbo hadn’t watched him die this time, he thought, gripping the towels, feeling his touch grow less and less firm as he choked on his own blood.
—
This discovery was purely accidental. People find out about their abilities all the time.
And well, Tommy had thought he was safe. His mum is powerless and so’s his dad and the few relatives that are have minor, stupid abilities that don’t really tick off the government at all, shit like growing roses or levitation (cool!) but only, like, three inches off the ground (less cool.) He was at lunch, and he’d been incredibly excited and waving his hands all around and Freddie was listening quietly, slowly unpacking his lunch and Eryn was tossing paper origami and Tommy was full of energy. Perhaps, too much energy.
He choked on his food. And his friends were never taught the heimlich, and the higher up that was supervising lunch didn’t really like him, and when she saw him on the floor, coughing and choking, she laughed. Because she thought he was faking it.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t breathe.
He died.
And the second that there was no more life in him, no heartbeat, he woke up in his own bed. Confused. Because he had died yesterday, and it was Tuesday, again, and he had actually fucking died.
For all of two seconds, he tried to convince himself that it may have just been a really bad dream, but it couldn’t have been, because he had been in pain. You can’t just dream up pain.
When lunch happens this time, he is silent as Eryn makes paper airplanes, and the supervisor doesn’t go near their table, and Tommy is nauseous as fuck. He rushes to the boy's loo, slamming open the nearest stall and dry heaving his lungs up. His friend's followed him out: Eryn got the nurse and Freddie went to Tom, sitting beside his slumped form. Hating his frowning face, Freddie cracked some odd joke about bologna, cause that's what his mum packed for lunch, cause she loved to schedule meals. She always gave him bologna sandwiches on Tuesday, and fuck it was Tuesday, again, and he was never going to eat again—
“Breathe,” Freddie urged. So he did. And Freddie's hair was mucked up, like he’d ran his hands through it, and Tommy had an itch to tell him everything.
“Um, Fred, do you ever…do you ever think about death?” Freddie straightened, looking a bit worried, and a lot out of his element.
“No, not much.” Freddie hesitated, “Do you?”
Tommy sighs, long and hard, and looks Freddie in the eye, “I have something to tell you about.”
—
He doesn’t die from choking on his food after that and he doesn’t tell very many people about his freak ability, but people find out anyway, cause if your the one to kill him, you remember. At first, he doesn’t want to tell his mum, cause' she's sweet, kind and he wanted to spare her the heartbreak of knowing that her only kid has experienced death. Unfortunately for him, something far worse happens before he could spill the beans.
She doesn’t mean to kill him. It just…happens.
They're moving, and the furniture is heavy, and Tom’s fifteen now, and he’s died three times since the first but he doesn’t wanna talk about it. There's a grandfather clock on the second floor because his parents are dense when it comes to furniture arrangements and she's stubborn, she wants to get the heavy thing down herself. It belonged to her mother, so she can’t just leave it here. Tommy’s at the bottom of the stairs, and they're arguing; it's stupid, it's awful and her hand slips. Her hand slips, and the grandfather clock crushes him to death.
He wishes it was instant death sort of thing, but it isn’t, he felt it all go down. It always hurts, but this hurt is different. He hears his mum scream and it's dreadful, it's a sound he wishes he could burn from his memory. He'sgone by the time she reaches the bottom steps, and he is so fucking grateful that he didn’t have to see the grief on her face.
He sees her the next day, and they talk about it.
His mum knows, Freddie knows, Eryn knows, and Tubbo knows. He wishes that they didn’t know a thing about him and his ability. He wishes he had never spilled his heart out to Freddie and he wishes Freddie had written it off as a joke.
Yet of course, Freddie had believed him almost immediately, and at the time, he’d been relieved, because now, he's not alone. Someone knew about him.
But he's always alone. He dies, and then gets a reset, a second chance. No one living knows how he feels.
—
It's late February, and Tom had left his sneakers at his parents house, and he's18 years old and he has a suicide note tucked in his back pocket. He's not suicidal, not really, or this is what he'll say if he somehow survives this, but he grips the side railing, on top of the roof of this 6 story building, giddily staring at the horizon.
He's nervous, he's losing it. But he wants to know, desperately, if this act will kill him.
Because if the ability worked the way he thought it worked, then will he be stuck in a constant loop when his organs start to fail? Is there any kind of death that will end with him staying dead?
It's cold, and his fingertips are turning blue, his T-shirt's inside out and he could cry. He could, but he doesn't, and he grips the railing even tighter.
Because he hears footsteps, and its 10:00 pm, its night, who would go up here to stop him—
“Tommy?”
Tubbo would.
Tubbo’s known about Tommy's ability since grade 7. They were bored and feeling adventurous, so they decided to go to the wrong side of town and this had been the second time Tommy had died, protecting Tubbo from a knife wound. Fun fact: stabs fucking hurt.
He was chased off by another man, who dialed 999 and Tubbo stood over him, sobbing. Tom hadn't had enough breath to explain that he’d be fine.
He comes over to Tubbos house to tell him what went down the next day, urging them to not go to that side of town again. To Tubbo, Tommy just sounds like a coward, and he tells him as much. Tubbo's never really believed him since.
It's February, and Tommy is frantic to test his hypothesis. Tubbo is trembling, and he races towards him: Tommy fights him back.
“Tommy! Stop, please!”
Tubbo grabs his arm, accidentally shoving him forward, and it's all wrong, everything is wrong, because gravity is a bitch, and they both fall out of the sky.
Because Tommy was pushed first he looks above him, at Tubbo, and he's screaming, and it's over before it can really start.
Then it's morning again, and the snow is piling up. He sits, thinking. Tubbo killed him; or better said, he killed Tubbo. He…he didn't know if his plan had worked.
He sits there for a long while, disappointed, before rolling back over, and away from his worries. He still lived with mum and dad, apartment searching, and his back was to his door. He must have laid there half asleep for only an hour, but his door gets kicked open, and someone sits down on his bed.
He groans, because after a death, the pain still lingers like a residual ghost, and he knows this must be Tubbo. He is selfish, so he doesn't move to face Tubbo, but he is so sorry that he could cry over it.
“You don't get to do that.” Tubbo whispers, because there is no reason to say "hello" or "how are you" after what just occured, “Ever again. You scared the shit out of me.”
Tommy is silent. He doesn't want to move, “I just needed to know, Tubbs.”
“Know what! That you can die?” Tubbo jabs his finger into his back, “Cross that ocean when you fucking reach it. Right now, you're not gonna die forever. Not on my watch.”
“I'm sorry I killed you.” Tommy mutters, and he feels Tubbo gasp, “If I'd been faster…”
“Shut up. I-I hate you.” And he's not very convincing; he sniffles after he speaks, hands shaking.
Tommy slowly turns himself over so he could see his friend's face. Tubbo looks at him for a long time, and Tommy hates how he is still sitting here. The door is open, he knows Tubbo can manage the trains. Why won't he go away while he still can. Tubbo died yesterday.
Finally, he asks, “Did it hurt? Does it usually?”
And Tommy is honest, “Not this time. But, well, the alleyway-”
"God-" Tubbo winces, “I-I remember that now. I think-maybe it was me shoving you or me dying or something like that, but I remember that other time you…” He hesitates to speak, looking away.
“You can say it, it's alright, the other time I kicked it,” Tommy kindly said, “And, yeah, that was awful.”
“It was.” Tubbo looked up at Tom's ceiling, and Tommy looked at Tubbo, “Don’t do that again.”
"I-" He can't promise that he won't ever die again, what with the rising press surrounding this boy that can reset time so easily. Tommy smiles, but it's weak, “I won't. Scout's promise or whatever.”
He knows Tubbo isn't asking about his power, or the press, or the abandoned family that used his death before, and would again. Tubbo sighs in relief, but...
He does.
And it doesn’t work. It's a different ledge on a different day and Tommy is suddenly ten years old again in a school cafeteria, screaming, it doesn't fucking work.
—
Tommy wakes up again
and it is his best friends birthday and yes, he gets to do it all over again, fix the mess he made. Unfortunately, he now has a new sniper to keep track of. Two years ago, it was revealed what his ability was to the public. When insane, crazy, hate-filled people have a bad day, they find him, and they kill him. Very rarely is he served an apology before the inevitable. It hurts more when they try to.
Tubbo's dead asleep on his bed, and Tommy’s laying on a couch, just like last time. He has to break the bad news.
He shakes Tubbo awake, and his chest burns. When he slowly comes to, eyes narrowing as he is brought back to the land of the living, he knocks him fist against Tommy’s chest.
There must be something on his face, because Tubbo takes one look at him and wraps him in a hug around his middle, gently, like Tom could break. He is 22 years old—he does not cry.
“I think I'm alright,” Tommy says, because he lies when he gets nervous, “I just…”
“Well, what was it this time?” Tubbo asks casually, and it's for his benefit, but he winces (This is terrible, awful, he didn't want to die again.)
Tommy shivers, speaking like a soldier, “Gun wound. She made it quick. No exit wound, and even hit a major organ. It was over pretty quickly.”
Tubbo pulled away, staring at him sympathetically, because he's the only other person who gets it, “But it still hurts. Did we go out, is that it?”
Tommy nodded, “You wanted to go clubbing.”
Tubbo blinks,“But you hate alcohol. You never drink, anymore.”
“Yeah,” Tommy looked down, “Had an argument. You offered. I couldn't say no, and you were so happy.” And neither of us have been, he doesn't say.
It was raining, cold rain, just like it was for all of Tubbo's 23rd birthdays. The rain holds his attention, and he barely feels Tubbo tightening his hold.
"Say no next time, cause' if you-" Tubbo narrows his eyes, “How long?”
“That's not important-”
“How long have you been looping, Tommy?”
He sighs. This is so bad; it's Tubbo's 23rd birthday and he is ruining it, “About two weeks.”
The rain was ice cold. He has died more than his fair share: he stopped counting the deaths ages ago. Tubbo was moving out of their apartment, or at least he suspected he was, and Tom begged for him to run away, go somewhere else, find some better brst mate who wasn't a crow, a dog, a bad omen.
“Okay. Okay, you're alright” Tubbo let out a breath, and he doesn't speak his worries, but Tommy sees right through him. He grabbed him in a tighter hug, “That's done, we're staying here, and—let's rewatch Ladybird!”
—
He wishes that was the last time he was killed. He wishes for a lot of things. He is not exceptionally lucky, and he has the pleasure of reliving Tubbo’s birthday three more times before Christmas Eve finally comes. He spends Christmas inside. Tubbo boils hot chocolate, Freddie bought him a sweater, and Eryn comes in late. All of his lovely friends wish him well.
He doesn't try to kill himself then, but he thinks about it. Tubbo links their hands together, firmly pressed against his heartbeat. Tommy is alive.