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Thud Thud Thud . Spruce door locked, windows boarded. A single inhabited house among a slew of abandoned homes. Cold breezes bit at the kids exposed flesh, nipping and burning his skin. A giant mansion loomed in the distance, lived in only by rats and spiders. Not a single soul was left in the town. Occasionally the haunting laughter of days long gone echoed around the snow covered streets.
He had scowled that morning when a message on his comms device struck alarm bells in his head. If Techno was going to push the fucking Theseus comparison the least he could do was leave Tommy to his self imposed exile- it could probably be better to label it as self destructive isolation. But being alone was better than being let down.
Tommy let out an angry sigh. He picked up his comms device and fired the boy a few messages, knowing that Tubbo wouldn’t respond. He opened the dms he had with Techno. A single message after months of no contact, and he couldn’t help it if his breath caught in his throat and a stinging pain formed behind his eyes. He quelled the feelings of betrayal and longing that still lingered in his chest, instead focusing on why he dragged himself out of his house to the freezing ghost town of SnowChester.
Because SnowChester was a ghost town. The only sign of life resided in the kids stuck in their parents houses- waiting for them to return when they never would. SnowChester wasn’t a story as tragic as L’manberg, its constitution wasn’t written in blood and burned in wars. Its story was as bittersweet. A land of new hope, slowly fading into nothingness as the members grew distant and unsure.
“Goddamnit Tubbo,” Tommy muttered under his breath. A small fog of condensation formed as he let out yet another sigh. He could go back. Tell Techno he couldn’t find Tubbo, tell him that it wasn’t his problem. He could lie and say that he and Tubbo were no longer friends.
A furrowed brow. They weren’t as close. But that’s because they both had their own shit to deal with, and years of war torn land mixed with threats of death had made them both conservative in who they told their troubles to. Neither wanted to be a burden. Neither of them wanted to feel . He almost laughed at how absurd that was. Two bright fires both withered into mere embers. Tommy could still remember dancing around a fire pit late at night while Wilbur sang songs of victory, and Tubbo joined in with his own melodies and harmonies on a guitar that he could barely use.
He dropped his shoulder and rammed it into the door. “Fuck.” He felt as the door ripped his sleeves. He didn’t stop until there was a hole in the door. He’d get Tubbo a replacement door later. They had gone through enough together that he was sure that his friend wouldn’t mind him breaking down his door to forcefully rip the guy from his self loathing.
Tommy tucked his comms device back into his inventory. The thoughts of the conversation he had had with the Blood God playing through his head. They hadn’t called in months, they hadn’t talked in months. But a concern for mutual… friends… did that to even the worst of enemies. They were both concerned about Tubbo.
“Theseus,” Techno had muttered. “I need you to talk to Tubbo. I’m worried he may be digging himself into a hole that he’ll die in.”
Prime above, Tommy hated the way Techno continued to push his Greek mythos bull shit. If he was going to insist that Tommy was Theseus then why didn’t Techno just become his Lycomedes? The irony of it all. That was the wonders of living on Dream SMP. That was besides the point. From his understanding of it, Tubbo had moved into Ranboo’s old house with Michael and the Boob boys ghost. Tubbo could do whatever the fuck he wanted to do, he was capable. However, no one trusted him not to self-destruct.
Because who on the goddamn had healthy coping mechanisms?
He kicked at the hole until it was big enough to fit through. The first thing Tommy noticed as he forcefully entered the premises was that the lights had been turned off. There was no gentle pattering of cloven hoofs against the floorboards upstairs as Michael ran around. There was no furniture besides a single chest, crafting table and furnace. A single pink tulip lay wilting in a flowerpot on one of the windowsills. A faint glow came from the trap door leading to the expansive basement.
And then it hit him, a single plant had been torn from the base of the house. Tommy walked over to it, the frown on his face only growing as he realized what had been hidden under those boards. He cussed under his breath, picking up the splintered piece of plywood, looking at the empty hiding spot. Promises snapped like the thread that held together his life.
Tommy was used to self-destructive coping mechanisms. The bitter smell of cigarette smoke had hung over him for far too long. The one downside to Pogtopia, he supposed. Secrets never left the ravine, but neither did Wilbur when he decided he needed a smoke. The air almost never thinned, a hazy toxic smoke becoming more a comfort than the own touch of those he thought of as family. But he had had Tubbo to pull him out when he found himself longing for that same comfort, desperate to feel a little closer to his dead not-brother.
It looked like Tubbo needed Tommy like Tommy had needed Tubbo.
Because Tubbo had been there for him whenever he had tried to self-destruct. He winced remembering when Tubbo had been able to help him because he had his own troubles. George’s house had been the first to come to mind. Then all the times he had fucked up in exile just to get a rise out of Dream, just to feel the sting, the ache, the pain. Not to mention holing himself in his house, not talking, not eating for days. Isolation was as addicting as any drug. He would know.
He opened the trapdoor and scaled down the ladder. He traversed down, down, down, until he reached the absolute bottom, where Tubbo was sat boozed out of his mind. The acidic scent of burning liquor mixed in the air. He took a deep breath, regretting it immediately.
Wilbur never liked booze of any kind, if he found you had possession of any he’d take it and pour it out in front of you. This became especially harsh during his presidential campaign and even more so during Pogtopia. Tommy would later learn it was because of a complicated past with Schlatt, a deep seeded hatred for the Tyrant of Manberg. It had become second nature to Tommy to ignore the nasty shit altogether.
When Dream made that a rule during Exile, Tommy didn’t oppose it.
Tubbo wasn’t as lucky.
They were perfect for each other like that. Tubbo avoided Wilburs obvious influence, and Tommy avoided Schlatt’s. Together they made up the perfect little fucked up team. He almost laughed at it, hand running through gnarled blonde hair. That burning betrayal returned in full force. They promised each other. They fucking promised each other.
Trust was easily broken, a wilted flower, a torn shirt.
“You asshole,” he spat. Tubbo looked up, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes- though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Tommy, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Tubbo held up the bottle of- Tommy didn’t even know what the fuck he was drinking and he didn’t care to learn. “Care for a drink?” When Tommy didn’t move, anger seething red hot, Tubbo shrugged and took another drink. “You always followed Wilburs policies to a T.”
“You promised,” it’s all he could manage to say without breaking. Emotions fought each other, warring like he had once before. His head pulsed with a dull ache. Betrayal, anger- sadness. He could still feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, and the lump that formed in his throat at seeing his best friend so ruined .
Tubbo sat up a bit straighter, or he tried too. “No, no.” He shook his head, long hair flopping around with the vigorous movement. “You don’t, you don’t under- understand.” He hiccuped, Tommy’s fists clenched. “It’s… he died , Tommy,” Tubbo whispered the words with delicacy. “And we- I didn’t think I would care . Ya know? I didn’t think it would hurt , to live with his- his uh- his ghost.”
Tommy took a step towards Tubbo. They had once danced around the city of L’manberg, revolutionary uniforms donned, and they would sing to the flowers. They would sing their anthem and watch as the flowers bloomed. They would goof around before the fighting would start, sneaking into the Camarvan when Wilbur wasn’t looking and they would mess with the potion stands. They were happy once, what the fuck happened to them?
Tommy unclenched his fists, small crescent moons dripping with blood. “Tubbo, you… you loved him yeah? Big man it’s going to hurt having them leave you.” He closed his eyes, a bright yellow sweater stained with blue. “And then they’re replaced by someone who is them, but- but not. And you just have to fucking deal with it.”
Black wings spread wide, a sword in hand- slotted into the stomach of someone he had once considered a brother. That was one way to be introduced to Wilbur’s dad. His heart sped up. Tommy shook his head. He was dead, three lives to none because of a stupid country. Three lives to none because of hubris, pride, and ego. A flicker of a flame, a small lighter looted from the body as nature began to claim it. A pack of Marlboro's.
“It hurts. ” A tear slid down Tubbo’s face. “It hurts because he seems happier . Was I not enough? Were we not enough? We- they- they seem so much happier dead. Wilbur seemed happier dead too,” Tubbo added- bitter venom dripping from his voice. “He still hangs out with Michael and me and Techno as if nothing has changed. And he remembers everything, but he’s not my Ranboo. I don’t want it to hurt anymore.”
Tommy remembered the first time he had walked in on Tubbo drinking. It was right after his fight with Technoblade in the pit. He couldn’t find the goat hybrid, he wanted to make sure the death wasn’t too bad on the guy. The young soldier had found his friend in one of the offshoots in his sewer system, a canteen filled with rum in one hand- sword in the other. Half his face had been covered with bandages, he was using the polished metal to look at his reflection.
“He’s dead, Tubbo. He’s a ghost and there’s a chance he’s never coming back. You just have to pussy up and get over it. It’s a new person, a new person with your husband's memories. So make new ones with him, I’m sure they still love you as much as the old Ranboo did.” Echos of a conversation Tubbo had with Tommy all those months ago. After the death, after the explosions, he found himself seeking that same comfort that the toxic air in Pogtopia had given him.
Tubbo didn’t say anything, taking another swig of the bottle. “I don’t want to feel.” He held up his hand, on his wrist sat two vertical marks made in black ink. Tommy looked down at his own, all screwed up from revival. The pain of a rib cage caving in, the choking feeling as blood got caught in his throat. “I’ve died before. Why not a third time? Why not? Dream wouldn’t revive me. He fucking hates me, I was only a tool for him to get to you.” Tommy opened his mouth to protest. “We both know that shits true.” Another sip of booze.
Dream had always been the puppet master. Always pulling at the strings for Tommy, to get to Tommy. To be able to see the pain on the young boy's face, to see the fight slowly die from his eyes- to drench his flame until no cinders glowed with untapped warmth. He had fucked with everyone just to get to Tommy. He had ruined everyones lives, all because of fucking Tommy.
“Fine then,” Tommy walked forward, stopping when he was towering over the feeble goat hybrid. Another hiccup, another sip. “If you’re going to drink yourself to death, I might as well join you. So where’d you hide them?”
Tubbo frowned, he shook his head upon realizing what Tommy was asking for. “No, no, no. You promisedyou’d-” his speech slurred. “You promised you’d- you’d quit.”
Addicting. That’s the only way to describe the feeling. It was a subtle buzz under his skin, his problems didn’t seem so bad anymore. And for a second he could forget he lived in hell on earth. Tommy grabbed Tubbo by the collar of his shirt, picking up the shorter of the two. It took everything in Tommy’s power not to gag at the acrid smell of liquor on Tubbo’s breath.
“And you told me you’d stop drinking. The world’s played us like a fucking fiddle and have made liars of us both. So where the fuck did you hide my cigs, asshole,” Tommy couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t a sad smile, nor was it happy. It was unhinged. If he knew one thing about Tubbo, it’s that he’d sacrifice everything to make sure his friends were okay. L’manberg fucked everyone up like that.
Tubbo shook his head. “No. No smoking.”
“It’s you and me till the end, Big T. Right? You and me, we live together, we die together. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Tubbo whimpered, or whatever the closest sound a goat could make. “But Tommy-” Tommy dropped Tubbo, the glass bottle breaking. “Tommy, it hurts-” tears slipped down his face. “It hurts so so much.” Tears continued to fall as the liquor seeped into the ground around him. “I don’t want it to hurt anymore. But he’s everywhere. He’s in my thoughts, and in my house, and he’s in my things-”
Tommy bent down and hugged Tubbo. Tubbo in turn buried himself into Tommy’s shoulder, shutting himself up and letting himself cry into his friend's shoulder. The cries were devastating and loud, echoing through the expansive basement. Tubbo grabbed fistfuls of Tommy’s sweater and clung to him for life. Tommy in turn rubbed circles into Tubbo’s back until he exhausted himself.
“Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice rasped, hoarse from what could have been hours of screaming and sobbing.
Tommy hummed in response. “Yeah?”
“Does it ever go away?” Tubbo asked. Tommy and Tubbo untangled themselves from their hug, they leaned against the hall- Tubbo rested his head on Tommy’s shoulder as Tommy intertwined his fingers with Tubbo’s. “Does the pain ever go away?”
Tommy leaned his head against the smooth stone wall, staring at the ceiling. “No. It… it gets a little easier though. With time. We have to do what they can’t, we have to live. You never get over it, but you reach a sort of acceptance, and then it gets easier.”
Tubbo squeezed Tommy’s hand. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to yet. It’ll happen in your own time. But don’t do that to yourself, please.” Tommy’s voice finally broke. “Please Tubbo, I can’t-” Images of standing around Schlatt, listening to his monologue, watching as he- he died. “I don’t think I can make it through this without you.’
“You- youwon’t have to.” Tubbo yawned. “We go out together, yeah?”
Tommy nodded. It was them at the start, singing to flowers and watching them grow. It would be them until the end, rocks carved with names and dates etched underneath them. Tommy Innit and Tubbo Underscore. Empty coffins buried six feet under ground, a bottle of booze and a pack of cigarettes left untouched for the rest of their lives. They needed each other. Tommy was just glad that Techno had forced them back together.