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The floorboard creaks as Tommy’s feet press into it and he knows once again that he doesn’t belong here. The mansion is warm; the wild shrieks of Michael running amok fill the space like the anthems of a nation they once loved. Still, Tommy’s hands shiver. With uncertainty, Tommy grabs tightly onto the banister as he limps downstairs, death’s toll enforced on him with crushing weight. He was like Michael, once – where did that boy go?
As he peers downstairs, he does not see the empty space he was expecting: rather than watch Michael, Tubbo and Ranboo are waiting for him, something strange in their eyes, heads tilted up to stare at him. Perhaps… concern? No, they have Michael to care about now – he has to be his own person now: he can’t be bringing Michael into all this nonsense, not considering how many have died over it before.
But breaking the silence, Ranboo asks “Tommy, are you… okay?”
His question is strange. It ignores a standard that has been set; a routine they’ve fallen into. He’s supposed to fuck his own life up and they don’t ask. It would only make their lives more difficult. And now they’re away from their son, looking at him like he’s half-dead already. He feels it.
“Of course, Big Man – you know me, Biggest Man on the server!” Tommy smiles, but his lips don’t quite follow the movements – they’re sluggish, weak. Death has aged him more than three months should, and it scares him, perhaps more than the knowledge his lie has not landed.
Unimpressed, Tubbo stares but does not speak and Tommy is conscious of the fact that his friends are disappointed.
“You’re welcome here any time, you know?” Tubbo asks.
Tommy pretends he didn’t hear. Now they have Michael to protect.