Chapter Text
He wonders what exactly led him here. What he could have done differently. Wonders exactly how many different outcomes there were -- how many different choices. He wonders if maybe there were no different outcomes, and that maybe everything he did would just lead him right back here. It really was quite interesting thinking back on it and pinpointing just what decisions had got him fucked right up the ass. He thinks it probably began to go wrong when he got the discs, or maybe just him being a little bitch. Look, he knew he was in the wrong for a lot, okay? But can you blame him? He was just trying to be a kid.
His inner monologue can’t even give him a good defense, god, he really is fucking pathetic, huh? He really did deserve everything that came to him. Maybe if he just tried to fucking grow up. The server really wasn't the place for asshole kids. He shouldn't have, well, he shouldn’t have done a lot of things, really. He’s sitting there, on top of the glass that holds him back from suffering a painful doom to the Crater. L’manburg. The Shithole. Whatever you want to call it. It really doesn’t matter now.
The sun is swelteringly hot and his instincts yell at him to get inside. He had never been the type to get a tan, just fry and sweat like a pig. It wasn’t a big deal though, a sunburn was the least of his worries. His brain feels awfully dusty today, he’s hit himself on the head to try and get it to start working better more times than he can count. Back when the disc war first started, his thought process was like a fuckin’ possessed freight train. It would stop for absolutely nobody, and he never got lots of warning, maybe a honk or two, before his words would appear in the track.
Fuck, he really didn’t want to think about trains though, nor compare himself to one. Not with Wilbur back. His stupid fucking monologue pissed him off. Seriously, what was he? A disney villain? So typical. That whole ordeal had been his fault, though. God, if only he hadn’t fucked it up like he always did. He’s blocked out Ghostbur’s shouts at this point but they always come oozing back in. The look on Ranboo and Tubbo’s faces was too much. He thinks they probably are only still friends with him out of pity. Or, well, Ranboo for pity, Tubbo for guilt. Tubbo sometimes tells him that he still feels bad, and yeah, maybe Younger Tommy would understand that. But now, Tommy just doesn’t fucking get it. The whole thing had been his fault anyways. He burned down George’s house. It really was the best option. He deserved it. Exile may have been fucking hell, but he deserved it.
He deserved every bit of pain that came to him, which is what leads him to where he is now. Sitting on the glass, bottle of sleeping aids next to him, contemplating. Not contemplating whether he should do it or not, no -- he’d made up his mind about that ages ago. He doesn’t even know when. Back in exile, maybe. Yeah, death had fucking sucked balls, but it wasn’t as bad as living how things were now. Plus, now Ghostbur would be there instead of Wilbur. He hopes that Ghostbur has already forgotten. Mexican Dream would be there, too. He was always quite something. Plus he was just fucking tired. So fucking tired. Schlatt slept all fucking day and night when he had saw him there, maybe Tommy could do the same.
But yeah, he was getting off topic now. He had already decided he was going to do it, what he was contemplating was who he wanted to see before he died. He doesn’t think he could handle Tubbo. He would feel far too bad not telling him he was dying, plus he knew him too well. He would know something was wrong before he would even get the chance to say “Hi!” He had basically no options, if he was being honest with himself. Everyone hated his fucking guts. Wait. He could use that to his advantage! He could see Technoblade and Phil, the people he cared most about in the entire server, besides Tubbo, of course. (And Ranboo, but he would never admit that. Not even in these dire times. Nope.) Plus, he might even be able to see Ranboo, he does hang out there quite a lot, doesn’t he?
He had already established a plan. Go to whoever's house he was gonna visit, talk for a little, then fucking haul ass when he started to feel like he was on the brink of death to some place (maybe by a tree, or something) before he kicked the bucket. It was a good plan. And plus, Techno and Phil were really the best shot he would get.
He needed to act quickly, though, he didn’t want Wilbur to be done with whatever it was he was doing and come barf word vomit down his throat.
He opened the bottle, with some struggle, if he’s being honest with himself, but hey! Childproof caps are hard alright? Plus, they’re literally designed against him, he’s still a child, well, legally at least. His water bottle was already by his hip, ready for him. He’d had to take sleeping pills the entirety of exile, and he wanted to down them fast, the taste the left was fucking gross. He dumped about a handful out and, quite literally, tossed them in his mouth. About 3 fell to the floor in the process. He wasn’t the most elegant man to exist. He could already taste them in his mouth and visibly winced. He snatched his water bottle up, splashing some water into his face, and gulped them down.
“Fuck,” he announced, wiping his face off with his shirt. He repeated the process until most of the bottle was empty. He gagged at the thought of finishing it and he did NOT want to throw up all the pills, because that would ruin the entire point, and he did not want to put himself through taking those again. In theory, that would’ve been easy and smooth, but he was still feeling bile rise up into his throat, so clearly, theory wasn’t really as trustworthy as he had originally hoped.
He raised to his feet and dusted his knees off, there wasn’t really anything on there, but it had kind of become a habit at that point. He was so glad he had a map because without one there would be no fucking way to figure out where Phil and Techno were. He hated walking towards Logsteadshire due to memories, but it was the easiest way to get there, so he sucked it up and started walking.
He had always found it amusing that the sun would be so bright and shining when he was on the grassy plains, but as soon as he crossed the line and his feet hit the snow, it would darken his peripherals.
He used to gain lots of injuries in the snow, tripping, slipping on ice, getting snowballed in the face, etc. He’d always find himself snorting with laughter in those situations. Mostly because he was with family. Wilbur loved pushing things to the side to make time for Tommy and the snow. As did Techno, though he didn’t admit it, and complained every time Tommy would tug on his shirt. Tommy always saw the brief quirk of his lips, though.
Tommy had a bad habit of getting snow stuck in his ears whenever he fell. He always ended up getting temporary loss of hearing because he could never recognize that it was snow clogging up his ears, and his brothers thought it was funny not to tell him. Phil always scolded them and made Tommy shake his head until his neck cramped.
There had been one time when Tommy had actually sustained a really, really atrocious injury. He had refused to tie his laces because he wanted to take a stand. (It was really because he was just being a little brat, but he would never admit that. Not even now.) He had stepped on one of the pieces of fabric, and slipped even more since he was on ice, and then roughly slammed his head down on a block of cold. Crimson had rushed out and stained the powder around him.
He was with Wilbur when it had happened. He never forgot his genuine look of concern. He wasn’t happy at that moment (obviously) but now he would do anything to go back to it. To not have Wilbur look at him with a dead expression when he had banged his head open the second time, in Pogtopia, and rant about how he would have to use up all the supplies to fix it. Tommy had laughed the first time, though, because he always did when he was in snow. Then he started to do it whenever he got hurt, which caused a concerning amount of distressed looks. It had become a habit, and it always cheered him up because it reminded him of Wilbur and Techno, of better times, and good memories.
And then exile had come. He didn’t laugh anymore.
Speaking of exile, the remnants of it stood right in front of him.
There’s multiple craters with rocky debris sitting at the bottom, the grass edges around them are charred from the flickering tnt. The copy of L’manburg’s tree still sits there, untouched. He never realized quite how pathetic it actually looked. It’s titled to one side and the leaves are lacking, some pulled out from brief moments of rage, and some have simply wilted away from age. He snorts as he grows closer to it because the word ‘FUCK’ is still carved into the tree in blocky lettering. It’s poised quite awkwardly on the tree and is slightly hidden under a cracking branch. He didn’t know whether he’d get into trouble for carving it or not, but he hadn’t wanted to take a chance.
The tent has long since fallen apart; the wooden sticks that once held it together have crumpled to the ground and withered under the passing snow and rain. (Tommy had managed to save a couple of them when Dream blew everything up) The scattered pieces of cloth are singed at the edges. The whole thing is ugly and is somehow looking worse for wear since the last time he saw it.
Tommy sighs shallowly, sucking in a deep breath to repress memories. Well, the bad ones at least. He tries to think of the good ol’ times he and Mexican Dream had.
He fails.
The dirt path has turned slightly muddy under the rugged weather, and the wood around it is almost water-logged. He continues down the path, kicking rocks out of his way and mud off the bottoms of his shoes as he progresses.
He gulps before looking up at Logsteadshire. Well. What’s left of it. There’s a massive hole in the ground and random pieces of wood are strewn about in the grass and caved in rock. There are a couple big pieces of wood that still stand, but, of course, the Prime Log does not. It’s definitely the worst structure if looks were a competition. He ignores the burning feeling in his chest and the warning signs flashing in his brain and looks up.
The piled blocks of dirt and cobble and whatever materials he had in his inventory at the time still stand. He regrets not taking the opportunity.
When he dry heaves and pukes up stomach acid mixed with water, he couldn’t tell you if it was the memories or just the pills fucking with him.
The crunch of snow under his boots is the only thing audible, and he is glad for that. There is something oddly relaxing to the noise. Nostalgia, maybe? It sets a little bit of the clawing and twisting of his stomach at ease. He’s glad he brought his hearing aids. His hearing had taken a turn for the worse after exile, and now everything just grasps the line of sticking in his brain when he doesn’t wear them.
He’s starting to feel a bit woozy. It’s really weird; he feels like running 10 miles and taking a 6 hour nap at the exact same time. Everything’s just ever so slightly more out of focus than usual, and it feels like he’s two minutes in the past. He keeps tripping over himself and looking around like something’s going to change. He’s glad that he didn’t take the pills earlier than he did considering that if he was any more than thirty-five minutes away, (he’s approximately ten, based on old knowledge and surroundings) he would black out and absolutely NOT be able to act like a functioning member of society. He briefly wonders if they would think he was acting any differently if that were to happen since they hadn’t seen him in a bit. He swats the thought aside as if it is a bug.
He kinda likes the feeling, actually, it makes him feel a bit giggly. Maybe he should’ve experimented with drugs before succumbing to his doom. (He always liked saying it like that in his head. It sounded funny.) He’s starting to zone out and he’s getting lost in his thoughts when he slams into the side of a wooden wall. He has two thoughts; one, he’s finally here! And two, ouch.
His fingers press at the bump and it’s starting to hurt but he decides he’d be better off ignoring it. He takes a deep breath and is basically giving himself a pep talk when he finally gets enough courage to maneuver himself over to the steps.
He’s trying to be quiet so he doesn't get caught in front of the steps looking like a fucking moron.
Okay. He’s got this. Yep.
He wipes the sweat off his brow (how is he sweating in snow? Is that possible?) and takes the first step.
Okay. This is kinda a stupid plan. He needs to fuck off to Snowchester right now. This was a stupid fucking idea. He grits his teeth, sighs, and then begins to turn around to leave.
“Tommy?”
Fuck.