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Dad,
I’m sorry to tell you this way. If you’re reading this, I’ve passed.
A bullet wound to the leg got infected. They even tried getting rid of the leg, but it had already spread. I wasn’t really looking forward to spending the rest of my life on one foot, anyway, if that’s any solace.
I’m grateful to have the opportunity to get everything off my chest before I go. Many aren’t afforded the luxury. But I have a voice, and a friend willing to write for me, so I get to talk to you (if indirectly) one last time.
I asked you, once, how you think of me when we are not face to face. You said you imagine me as five years old, the way I looked that day at the beach. Mother was there, and Wilbur, and I spent the time stacking pebbles as high as I could because I was afraid of the cold water. I don’t actually remember that day, but I’ve heard enough about it that it feels like a memory. Don't imagine me that way now. I’m nineteen. I’ve lived a full life, however short, and certainly a full one for nineteen. There are not many my age who have done the living and the growing I have. I’m content. Please know that.
Know that I love you. Know that I forgive you. Yes, even for that. Whatever you’re thinking of, I forgive you for it. Know that I’m glad you were my father.
You and I were family in a different way after Wilbur left. I don’t know how I would’ve dealt with it if you weren’t there to do it with me. I’m grateful we had that together, especially now that I know I had so little time left. We’ve spent more time together than we ever did before. That was the silver lining to Wilbur leaving, at least for me.
But now you’re going to be alone. I won’t be there to pull you out of the mental swamps anymore. And Dad, I ask you, please please please don’t isolate like you did when Mother left. Losing me will hurt, but fight. Don’t let it be debilitating. You have Techno; accept his help. You must look after Tubbo. He needs you. Wilbur doesn’t want your advice, but you can still love him. He’s grown a lot, since he left us. Every time I visit, he seems more responsive to feedback. Sally wants help; she always feels like she’s being a bad parent. You still have them, and a grandchild now, too. If there’s anything this experience is forcing me to learn, it’s that you must hold on to your people. While they’re yours, hold on.
I’m sorry to go so soon. I meant to take care of you, when you got older. I meant to take care of you now. I know you need me. Sometimes I wonder how you’re going to get by without me, but I wondered that when I left for the war the first time too, and when I came back, you were managing perfectly well. You’ve proved me wrong before. Do it again. I know you have it in you.
Go to church on Sundays, even if it is the only time you leave the house. Get on your knees in the morning and the evening to pray, even if it is the only time you leave your bed. Can you do that? Do it for me, your son, your dying boy, and eventually, do it for God. I trust that I’ll see you again.
Know that I am missing you already. Heaven will be lonely, for a while.
Goodbye for now, your second son,
Tom
Techno,
I’m sorry to tell you this way. I know you value saying things face to face, and honestly, I’ve inherited that from you, so I know how annoying it is to receive important news via letter. This time, though, I have a good reason. Tubbo is writing for me because I’m not really strong enough to write legibly anymore. I was shot a few days ago, and that, I survived, but the wound got infected. As of dictating this I probably have only twenty four hours left.
Take a moment to process.
Good.
I want to thank you. For your direction, and your help with navigating complex family situations, for being there throughout my childhood, for forcing me to go to church after Wilbur left, for being a rock that I could rely on. You probably know this, but you are the most reliable figure in my life. Even though you were gone for a period, I look back, and I see you holding my family together.
You were the best mentor a boy could ever ask for. It is only because of you that I am prepared to die. Because of you, I’m happy with how I’ve spent my life. I worked hard at the tannery, and when the war came without warning, I was ready to do my duty. That’s something I got from Dad, I think. The loyalty to duty. He always does what he thinks is the right thing, the honorable thing. You showed me how to do it with care and passion. Because of you, I lie in this hospital bed, content.
But there is one thing that weighs on me seriously. It is something you won’t want to hear. I don’t hide my faith from you, but I think I tend to hide my conviction. There is no time for that now.
I’m scared I won’t see you again. I know I’ll see Dad and Wilbur after death, but I don’t know about you. You seem like you know exactly what you’re doing. You’ve always had it taken care of, and when you didn’t, you figured it out. You haven’t needed God, or if you ever did, you resorted to other paths. I wouldn’t have this peace without faith. I want that for you too, partially because I selfishly want to see you again, but also because I think you would find a lot of good in it.
Of course, it’s up to you. And maybe I’m wrong, maybe there’s no God up there, holding his hand out to me, ready to lift me out. But I ask that you consider it one more time. I know you are happy. You don’t need God the way I did. But consider Him anyway.
That’s enough of that. We can’t talk about religion all day.
Take care of Dad, please. I know you can do it—you’ve done it before. You were the only reason he was able to get up, more days than not. He’s going to need it. I don’t know how he’s going to cope with me dying.
I’m so thankful for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know how to encapsulate it in words. Before I started working for you, I didn’t want to become an adult, I didn’t want responsibility. Because of you, I was able to look forward to my life. I was ready to take on a job, any job, I was ready to get married and have a family. Pity, the way things turned out. It’s almost ironic. You made me excited to live, and happy enough to die.
I wanted to pay forward all you did for me. Whether that was by raising my children right, or mentoring some other poor fellow going about everything the wrong way. I never got a chance. So, if you could, help somebody else after me. Wilbur could do with some of your advice. You two are similar, in many ways: you both have a passion for what you do, and a deep care for doing things right. I think you could help him an awful lot, if he’s ever willing to hear you out.
Can I ask one more thing?
Spend time in my home, with Dad and Tubbo. Let them be your family. When I was little, you were like an uncle to me, but then you left and I barely saw you. I don’t know if you felt like you had to leave, or whether it was just more comfortable to keep a distance, but don’t. We’re the closest thing to family you have, so treat us that way. There’s always a place for you in our house.
Anyway, I know that’s a lot of requests for someone who won’t even be alive to see the results, but I had to ask some time or another, and this is the only chance I’ll get.
Thank you for being the best person I know. I’m sorry to leave so soon.
Love,
Tommy
Dear Wilbur,
I’m sorry to tell you this way. I grew up not having to tell you anything at all because you were already with me. I don’t think I know how to talk to you about serious things like this. It feels unnatural. So much between us doesn’t require words.
I guess I should just say it like it is: I’m dying.
If you get this letter, I’m already dead. Bullet wound got infected, you know how it is.
I’ve been thinking about how to write this letter for hours now. Even though I’ve written (or, Tubbo’s written for me) what happened, it doesn’t feel like I really told you. As if the words cannot properly hold, or even point towards, their meaning.
I miss you. I can’t explain how much. Maybe that’s it: maybe words can’t hold the feeling. All I know is that it feels wrong to experience something without you doing it first. Why am I the first to see a war? Why am I the first to pull my boots through slick mud and carry friends to a white tent even when I know they’re already dead? And, of course: why am I the first to die?
We are only seven years apart, but as a child, that was always enough difference for me to be sure I would make it longer than you. That was silly. Still, I never imagined I would be dying at nineteen.
None of this is to shame you, of course, for not coming. You have a daughter and a wife and a passion that I don’t. I’m glad you stayed. I wouldn’t want you here. Yet I find myself wondering what you would do in my place. I have to keep reminding myself that in this, you haven’t actually set a standard for me to fulfill. It’s just me. Only me.
I’m glad I got to see you again before I came here. I don’t think I could handle parting ways on bad terms (I don’t think you could, either). It was good to see you, and to see that you’re doing better. I know you haven’t contacted Dad yet, but I’m glad you let me in. I know you have a soft spot for me (I’ve abused it a few too many times for you not to notice that I knew). It was an honor to meet your daughter and get to know Sally better. I think you and her will be happy together, if you both keep on trying. Do keep on trying. She loves you a great deal.
That reminds me: I’m very sorry I could not give your daughter any cousins. I intended to. But being a lonely child isn’t entirely made of misery: I guess she’ll just learn to talk to adults earlier than most children. Be patient with her. Teach her music. I’d tell you to love her better than Dad loved us, but I already know you will.
I don’t know how to end this letter. I don’t want to. When I wrote to Dad, I told him to take care of himself when I’m not there because I know he relies on me, but you don’t. You don’t need me. It’s always me that relied on you. I know you’ll be okay. But I suppose you haven’t experienced the death of a family member before, so I’ll say it anyway—you’ll be all right. You’ll make it past this. There is more life to come, and you may miss me through all of it, but that doesn’t make it less valuable. Learn to love the now, Wilbur. Learn to find joy in things that feel too small to warrant a good mood. Your brother is dead, but the world is alive and you’re still in it.
I think what makes this letter so hard to write is that I can’t imagine being without you. Sure, I’ve had Dad around my whole life, but not in the same way I had you. You’re older, so there was a time when I wasn’t around, but you must understand: for me, you being around was just life. There was no other option. As we grew up, you were there for me, you loved me more than anyone and you made sure I knew it. You sacrificed for me, you become three parts a parent for a little brother that you didn’t ask for. I don’t think anyone has ever loved me like that, and obviously no one will. My life is completely saturated with you. There are few memories that you aren’t in.
When you left, it became clear how damaging that sort of ideation was. I stopped doing most of the things I cared about because you weren’t there (I forgive you, though. Remember that, always. I’m dying with only love for you, brother). It didn’t feel like there was a point.
I suppose I’m worried you feel the same way about me, even though you’ve shown that isn’t the case. If you do feel that way, then make sure losing me doesn’t kill your passion. You still have a lot more to do, I promise you. God will take you when it’s your time, just like He’s taking me now. I like to think He wants me up there with Him, even though I know that’s awfully presumptuous and prideful.
Just remember that there are people who still care about you.
Dad, specifically. I know you haven’t forgiven him yet, but you should. After you left, he had a lot of trouble not just running out into the street and finding you again. When you started working, and newspapers wrote about your productions, he was the first one to find them, and he kept every clipping so he could know what you were up to. He doesn’t want to reach out to you again because he’s afraid you’ll think he’s intruding on your life and trying to control him. He wants you to talk to him. He wants you to ask for help, and I know you need it. He wasn’t the best parent, but he’ll know how to get your daughter to go to sleep, and Sally might appreciate that, at the very least. When you see him at the funeral, don’t ignore him.
By the way, please make my funeral interesting. I’m only nineteen; I don’t want it to be a boring everyone-is-here-because-they-have-to-be occasion. Put up some colored streamers. Set off a firework. I don’t know.
Anyway, all this to say—I miss you. I love you. I still look up to you, even though you hurt me sometimes, and I think you were the first one to teach me loyalty. I hope to see you again some day. I’ll be waiting, and no amount of hymn-singing and sermon-listening in heaven could ever make me forget you!
Love, your brother first and always,
Tom
At last, Tubbo put down the pen, wiping discreetly at his eyes.
“No, one more,” Tommy said wearily, adjusting himself with a grimace and a shudder. “Just one more.”
“Tommy . . . you need a rest. We both do.”
Tommy’s breathing was getting faster, and his face was red with fever, and his blue eyes were made even bluer by their bloodshot scleras. Every movement caused him visible pain, he shivered constantly, and every few words he’d have to stop to gather his breath. He looked so miserable that Tubbo couldn’t imagine letting him dictate yet another letter.
“One more,” he insisted. “Before I . . . before I run out of time. Please.”
“You have time,” Tubbo reminded him. “Ranboo said you had time.”
Tommy scoffed. “Ranboo told me what he thought I wanted . . . to hear.”
Tubbo didn’t have to know Ranboo that well to know it was true. And yet, Tubbo persisted. “Let me rest my hand a while, at least. Just a short break.” If Tommy wouldn’t consider his own limitations, he might, at the very least, consider Tubbo’s.
As predictable as the moon’s phases, Tommy backed off with a weary, hurt expression that just about changed Tubbo’s mind.
“. . . fine.” His head dropped back onto the pillows, facing the ceiling. He lifted a hand, and then dropped it. Something changed in his face, a new determination growing, and he forced his arm up and pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself. Tubbo leaned forward to help, but Tommy waved him off. “Quit it, it’s not like I’m dying or anything.”
Tubbo attempted something like a glare, but he couldn’t even do that, not now. He just rested his elbows on his knees and let his head sink into his palms.
Tommy wasn’t going to die. He had a terrible, terrible fever, and it was going to leave him scarred for the rest of his life, but he would be fine, and Tubbo would never send those letters, and they would both forget all about this.
Everything would be fine.
It would pass.
“Tommy?” Ranboo’s voice.
He appeared out of nowhere, as usual, his dark hair frizzy and drifting out of his ponytail to halo his face. He looked tired. If he was coming to check on them, his shift must be ending soon.
Tommy’s eyes fluttered open, head tilting toward him. “Hm.”
“Any changes?” Ranboo asked nervously, worrying his cuticles with anxious fingernails.
Tubbo appreciated that Ranboo didn’t ask if he was all right.
He shook his head. “Same as when you left. I know I have a fever, but I still feel so cold. Why is it cold?”
Ranboo pursed his lips grimly, leaning forward to briefly touch Tommy’s forehead. He exchanged a glance with Tubbo, who tried his best to look confused and innocent. “I’ll get you another blanket. Tubbo, it’s dinner time. You should go get a plate.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll look after him.”
Tubbo hesitated, and intended to say no, but then Tommy asked, “Get me a roll while you’re there?” and so he got up and left. Ranboo might want a few minutes alone with Tommy anyway. Even though he was an American, he had developed a fondness for Tommy’s bright energy. When Tommy first came in with that bullet wound, Ranboo’s fervor and speed had kept him alive. He annoyed Tubbo sometimes (often), but Tubbo had to admit that Ranboo brought out a side of Tommy that nobody else did, and a competitive streak in Tubbo that had thus far been left untapped. Tommy and Tubbo would always be best friends—he often forgot they'd only met a few years prior—but Ranboo was breaking through their potent codependence.
The mess hall was like a tornado after the relative peace of the makeshift hospital. The most recent skirmish was days ago, and the men were in a state of almost manic excitement and rash patriotism to hide the guilt of simply staying alive. Tubbo had indulged in such energy many a time himself—it was a way of staying together when everything around you was falling apart—but now he was too anxious to settle into the agressive loudness the soldiers felt so proud of. Tommy was always found in those groups, announcing his victory and keeping a light heart despite their situations. He didn’t like attention, but he was happy to join in the ruckus and start a song, if it would do any good. Tommy always claimed to have lost his musicality after he stopped playing piano, but the war had made that an obvious lie.
Tubbo got himself a plate, sat down at the back of the room, and forced every bite down. It was not good food—it never was—but he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between this and a king’s breakfast. Even salt did nothing for his taste buds.
While most of the soldiers were bright in their victory, a large portion of them were just as quiet, sitting at the benches, fading into the background like they were transparent. It was easy for his eyes to skip over their drawn faces and sleepless eyes, but he looked now, and saw them, and wondered how many times he had not noticed them.
Maybe he was only noticing them now because he had joined their party.
Every moment he was here was a moment Tommy could be getting worse. And there was one more letter to write, and Tommy would hate if he didn’t get to write that letter, especially if it was because of Tubbo taking his sweet time getting dinner.
So Tubbo wrapped a spare roll in his handkerchief, slipped it into his pocket, and made his escape back to the hospital.
Ranboo and Tommy were talking, and the hospital echoed a little despite being filled with bodies. Tubbo stopped and listened, just out of their sight.
“Tell me.”
Ranboo muttered something unintelligible.
“Please. I want to know.”
A pause.
“. . . sepsis. There’s—we don’t have a way to reverse it.”
“Oh . . . oh.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and while Tommy seemed at ease, Ranboo let out a shuddering stifled sob.
“Hey,” Tommy said. “It’s—well, it’s not okay, but . . .” He trailed off. “But it will be, you know?”
“Tommy.”
Tommy went quiet, but only for a second. There was no time to waste being silent. “I’m guessing I don’t have long.”
“I’d be surprised if you make it to morning,” Ranboo whispered.
No.
He must be wrong. He must be wrong.
Miracles happened. Tubbo didn’t believe in God but he’d seen miracles happen. If anyone deserved one it was Tommy—if Tommy’s god was good for anything, it would take care of him.
Ranboo was wrong. Tommy would make it through this, just like he made it through everything. That was what made Tommy Tommy—things went wrong over and over and over again for him, but every time, he found a way to be strong. When his mother left, he poured himself into school. When he had to quit school, he took his job with Techno heartily. When Wilbur got worse and worse and worse, Tommy kept trying to keep the family together, and when even that failed, he took care of his father. When the war started, he was ready to go and serve. It wasn’t even a question.
Tommy never failed. He made mistakes, he could get injured, but he never failed. He was responsible. He was so vibrant and highly concentrated that there was no way for him to die. Not like this. Tommy would die on his own terms, if anything.
Ranboo was wrong. He didn’t know Tommy’s tenacity like Tubbo did. He was just a doctor with little to no training and a disability that kept him from fighting. He was just some American and he must be wrong.
Tubbo pushed into the little partitioned area. “Ranboo? Is your shift over?”
He immediately pulled back from where he’d been hovering over Tommy. “Yes, but—but I—” Tears tracks glittered on his face in the low lighting. He wiped at them with a sleeve openly.
“Go rest,” Tommy encouraged. “You need it.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes. I’ll be all right, and . . . besides, there’s not much you could do, right?”
Helplessly, he nodded. Tommy gave her a strong, resolute nod, and held out a hand. Ranboo took it. They shook. His fingers tightened on Tommy’s until her knuckles were white.
“Come see me before you go to bed. You’re going to be fine.”
“Stop comforting me, you—” Ranboo’s shoulders rose with another sob, but when he let out the breath, it was only limp and powerless. “Just stop. Rest.”
Tommy grinned. “I will.”
“I’ll see you.”
“You will.” It was a reassurance.
And then he left. Tommy’s arm fell back to his side, and there was a fondness in his eyes as he watched him go. As Ranboo slipped past the curtain, though, his expression turned sour and sad.
“What is it?” Tubbo pulled his chair up to the bed again. It creaked as he sat down. Perhaps Tommy felt the same annoyance with Ranboo that he did.
“I’m worried about him.”
Or perhaps not.
“I just made friends with him and two weeks later I’m dying,” Tommy went on. “Doesn’t seem fair.”
“You’re not going to die.”
Tommy just gave him a look, more sour than anything he looked at Ranboo with. “Don’t, Tubbo. You know I will. Ranboo said so—this is probably . . . I’ve probably already seen my last sunrise.” There was something fearful in the way he swallowed and stared into nothing.
“You’re strong. You’ll make it.”
“I’m not invincible.”
“As close as.”
Tommy sighed, closing his eyes. “Tubbo . . .”
“You are! You—you always—” Tubbo found he couldn’t put his admiration for Tommy into words, at least not to his face. “Look, you’ll make it. I know.”
“There’s a difference between wishing and knowing.”
“I’ll wish it true if I have to!”
Tommy opened his eyes at Tubbo’s raised voice, brow wrinkling in confusion and hurt.
“Sorry, I didn’t . . . sorry.” Tubbo deflated in his chair. “I . . . have this for you.” He passed over the handkerchief as a pathetic apology, placing it in Tommy’s hand so he wouldn’t have to reach for it.
Tommy did not thank him as he unwrapped the handkerchief and examined the roll. He lifted it to his mouth, not without effort, and took a bite. It took him too long to swallow. He made a face.
“Is it—” Tubbo tried.
“We have another letter to write,” Tommy interrupted.
“. . . right.” He found his notebook, flipping to the next empty sheet of paper. “For Niki?”
“. . . for you.”
He nearly dropped his pen. “What?”
“I know I could just tell you.” Tommy paused to take a shallow breath. “But I want you to be able to read it whenever you want. And I think—I think the fact that it’s written makes it mean more.” He leveled his chin at Tubbo, and Tubbo stared back, openmouthed.
“You want me to write a letter to myself.”
“Please.”
“You—”
“I need to do this. I know it’s going to be hard, I . . . I know it’s a lot to ask, but if there was ever a time to ask a lot of you, it’s now. Please.”
A silence. A man coughed somewhere in the building, and people talked and laughed as they passed outside. The smell of mud and antiseptic was so familiar that it was barely noticeable anymore.
Tubbo gripped the pen. It dug into the dents in his fingers built up from the three previous letters. “. . . okay.”
“Okay. Tell me when—” A pause to take a laboured breath. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
Tubbo didn’t think he’d ever be ready. “Go ahead.”
Dear Tubbo,
I’m glad I have you here with me. I wouldn’t be able to hold on so well if you weren’t here. I know you hate that I’m making you write this down, but you’re doing it anyway. I can never thank you enough for the positive presence you’ve been—now, while I’m sick, and just in general.
When I saw you in the marketplace that day, when I was working the leather stall and you found me, I didn’t particularly want to see you again. I was embarrassed that I had to quit school. But you were there, and you cared more than I expected you to, so I decided to try and make you my friend. And it worked, somehow.
You were good for me. I didn’t have a lot of close friends growing up—I wasn’t unlikeable, I just never made the effort. I had Wilbur, so I didn’t care about meeting anybody new. It was a dangerous sort of contentment, I think, the kind that is afraid of change. And then, when I was twelve, everyone took their own paths into life, but I was still in school, and making friends in secondary seemed even harder, so I just didn’t. I talked with people, but I didn’t ever try to get to know them, and I certainly didn’t have any intention of making lifelong friends.
But then I left, and you actually cared that I was gone. Maybe I cared too much about your approval, but in that moment in the marketplace, I really did want you to forgive me. Some part of me saw how important you were, I suppose.
You gave me something to try for, in a different way than I had tried before. You brought me to life. You had fun with me, you read books with me, you took me to plays. You gave me a joy separate from my brother, from school—though we talked about both of those often. And you were on your own—I know your upbringing was sad, but there’s still something impressive about how responsible you are. You made me less afraid of growing up. You made me excited for independence.
I don’t think I could’ve made it through Wilbur leaving if you weren’t there. Having you in the house all the time, talking to me and Dad, eating with us, it kept the routine going. It kept us going. You were another brother to help fill the gap the first one had left.
I love you a great deal. I only wish we could have met sooner.
I’m dying now. Ranboo is not wrong, no matter how much I wish he wasn't. My body is telling me he’s right. Everything hurts—even the weight of my arms and legs feel terrible. It’s time for me to go. Listen. Believe me. You can’t wish this away. Sometimes things happen that are out of our control, and all we can do is watch and pray that God will make good of bad circumstances.
I think God will let good things happen because of my death. I don’t know what they’ll be, but I’m sure he will. Don’t feel bad about growing as a person after this experience. If all my death creates is sadness, something is terribly wrong, in Heaven or on Earth.
You have to let go of me sometime. You have to let go of everyone eventually. You’ve held on to me valiantly, and I’m glad you did, but I don’t want my death to define you. Grow up. After the war ends, go find a girl and get married and have a family. Just don’t be too strict with your children, if you can. Don’t feel like you have to leave my family because I’m not there—my father needs you more than ever now. I can’t take care of him; promise me that you will. Let him look out for you. He thinks of you as his own, or something like it. He will never say it, but he does.
Take walks in the countryside. Learn the names of every flower and butterfly and river grass you see. Listen to the hum of the bumblebees. Watch them skip from flower to flower. Follow streams, walk in the water. Use your hands! You’re smart, and you use your brain so well, but use your hands sometimes. Learn to sew, or build furniture for your house, or cook, or garden. Anything. Ground yourself. It’s easy to get caught up in numbers and formulas, but remember what is real and solid and right in front of you. Don’t get lost in your work like Wilbur or my father or Techno, even. Love people first.
Even when I am gone, there will be so much good to see and hear and taste and love. The stars will always be above you. The sun will always rise. It will always rain, some day or another, and there will be rainbows afterward. There will be bright colours in spring and warm sun in summer, mellow autumn will calm down even the most turbulent air, and winter will remind you why home and family are important.
You will have joyful moments. At birthday parties, at weddings, at births, even in the most innocuous moments where transcendent happiness does not seem to belong. It surprises you that way. Have love and patience to spare, and it will come.
You are a good person. You are an earnest, determined, kind, loyal person who cares more than people expect you to. Keep those qualities. Don’t let anything take them away.
I love you. I’ll miss you, and I’m sure you’ll miss me. You have much yet to learn, much that I won’t get to learn, so learn it for me. Know that I will love you for your entire life, whether I’m there next to you or not.
Your best friend,
Tommy
They weren’t sure when exactly Tommy died.
It was after Ranboo came in to say goodnight and goodbye. Tommy pulled him into a hug, and whispered something that must’ve helped, because he seemed reassured and more . . . calm than when he came in.
Ranboo stayed when the pain started getting worse, and the hot and cold flashes grew so quick that Tommy could not rest. Even with sweat on his neck, he was shivering. His breathing was fast and shallow, his heartbeat and pulse rapid. He started asking delirious questions over and over again, speaking complete nonsense. He didn't know where he was or who they were or even that there was a war on.
That was the worst of it, for certain. Those few hours, until maybe ten o’clock, were actual hell.
Eventually, Tommy lost consciousness.
Tubbo had jumped forward to shake him awake, but Ranboo pulled him back. If Tommy was sleeping, he wasn’t hurting. Tubbo sunk back into his chair and watched Tommy breathe.
Ranboo went to bed after that. Even if Tommy died, there were still more injured soldiers alive who would need his help in the morning. Besides, there was literally nowhere in the hospital for him to lay down—Tubbo was probably sitting in one of only five chairs in the whole building.
Tubbo fell asleep, too, with a hand resting over Tommy’s to keep his fingers warm. Tubbo knew, logically, that Tommy was too far into it to feel the cold flashes anymore, but he held on anyway. Tommy would want him to, even if it was more for Tubbo’s benefit than anything else. Especially if it was for Tubbo’s benefit.
In the morning, when Tubbo finally awoke, Tommy was cold.