Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Tommy wakes up, he is warm and he feels safe.

This is his first inkling that something is wrong.

Normally, when he wakes up, he is used to the soft heat of his sun lamp beating down upon him, paired with scratchy blankets that are one strong tug from falling apart. However, now, he feels only the texture of soft blankets against his skin—blankets that he decisively does not own. Instead of feeling the lumps of a mattress underneath him, he cannot ignore the malleable couch cushions—somehow more comfortable than his own bed. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows that this is not his apartment.

Tommy sucks in a deep breath. He stays limp—better to play dead and bide his time than to make a wrong move. 

He wonders, distantly, who would have the gall to kidnap him. Most of the heroes had a grudging respect for him, and those who didn’t understood that he was needed for some of the commission’s more dangerous work. Even Ariadne, who had harboured resentment for him ever since a job went wrong with Tempest, would not go as far as to kidnap him. 

And as far as villains went, most stayed out of his way. After the attack on the city—

Vines exploded from the ground. Screams followed them. Tommy stood, a prisoner in his own mind, limbs moving of their own accord, and watched as destruction worked its way over his fair city. 

A piercing cry rang through the air, a wail so strong Tommy could not help but cover his ears, even as Dream’s control pulled down upon them.

Mockingbird was here.

The world exploded in a variety of different flowers, and everything became a blur. He took hits; he gave hits in return. Dream’s voice thrummed in his chest, becoming no longer an irresistible influence, but instead a part of him, and above him was—

Tommy blinks. He doesn’t have time to think about that right now. In all honesty, he will not think about it even if he was free for the rest of time. It’s not a memory he treasures.

Tommy jolts as a hand is placed on his head, mussing up his hair. It’s warm, he thinks distantly. He has to fight the urge to lean into it.

Someone hums a tune above him, soft and melodic. Tommy curls farther into the couch at the sound, dragging a pillow over his head. He knows that song—it’s the one that Wilbur hums.

“Fuck off,” Tommy mumbles, pressing the pillow against his head tightly. “Literally die.”

Wilbur laughs. “Not a morning person?”

Tommy grumbles something incomprehensible, then slowly opens his eyes.

In front of him is a room he hasn’t seen before. It’s not the largest, but it’s a modest size, with two small couches and an armchair. If Tommy strains his ears, he can hear the clattering of metal in what he can only consume is the kitchen, coupled with a few voices shushing each other.

More importantly, Wilbur is in front of him. His hair is more of a mess than usual, parted every which way, but it only serves to make him look more youthful. There’s tiredness present on his face—highlighted in his eyebags and constant yawning—but he’s smiling, coffee mug in hand.

“I actually hate you,” Tommy says, pushing himself up into a half-sitting position. He’s wearing the clothes he wore to work yesterday, minus his high tops, which means his jeans are incredibly uncomfortable and he’s even more self conscious of the few holes in his t-shirt. He nuzzles his face into the couch cushions and pretends he can go back to sleep.

“No, you,” Wilbur says. Tommy hears the creaking of springs as Wilbur sits down next to him, coupled with the couch sinking as more weight is put onto it. Tommy closes his eyes and attempts to ignore him.

This fails when Wilbur immediately grabs Tommy around his waist and pulls him next to him on the couch. It's cramped, on the small two-seater made for people a lot shorter than them both, but they somehow make it work.

Tommy accidentally elbows him in the gut, and Wilbur coughs, but he doesn’t let go. It makes something warm burn in Tommy’s chest.

“Fuck you,” Tommy mutters, but he leans back into Wilbur’s chest, and lets Wilbur rest his chin on Tommy’s shoulder. They spend a couple moments like that, not doing anything in particular. Tommy breathes in; Wilbur breathes out; and in that moment, Tommy doesn’t feel alone.

He’s beginning to drift back to sleep as he hears a knock. He startles up, jamming his shoulder into Wilbur’s chin as he does so. 

Standing at the doorway is a tall man with bright bubblegum pink hair.

Tommy squints. For a moment, he ponders if he is hallucinating, before the man comes closer and Tommy recognizes him.

It’s the man from the bookstore. Though his hair is not in its usual braid, it is unmistakable in its vibrant colour. It makes something odd pang in Tommy’s chest, striking somewhere between fear and hatred, before he smooths his emotions out and tilts his head up at the stranger.

(Stranger does not feel like the right word. There is something there, something right there, something hidden under denial and hope and fear so strong Tommy fights the urge to vomit. He does not know this man. He doesn’t. But something burns up Tommy’s throat, something hot and putrid, and when it reaches Tommy’s mouth, it tastes like blood.)

“Wilbur,” the odd man says, not even meeting Tommy’s eyes, “there is a child in our house.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. Tommy is caught between laughing and defending his dignity. In his indecision, he chooses neither, and instead begins to struggle out of Wilbur’s arms.

Wilbur mutters curses at him as he manages to elbow him again, but he eventually pushes Tommy out of his lap altogether and laughs as he falls on the floor. Tommy flips him off and lays his forehead against the cool hardwood floor.

His heart is beating fast, and he can hear it in his ears, blood rushing up to his eardrums and pounding loud. He’s not scared, he’s really not, but he’s—cautious. Held back. Reserved.

(Some part of him, buried deep under years on the street and blood spattered on cement walls, knows that he shouldn’t be like this. That the Tommy before had been spun from pure joy and raucous laughter and had been so wild no one thought he could ever be tamed.)

He’s not nervous, he’s not, but this is Wilbur’s house, and he has never been here before and his brother is standing right above him and—

And Tommy realises all at once that this is not the type of apprehension formed by sharp nails and crooning voices. This is not a fear deep set into his very bones; this is not terror beaten into his skull and this is not paranoia grown by complete and utter loss of control. No, this isn’t the fear that Dream had pushed down his throat.

Tommy smiles.

It’s anxiety caused by small, trivial things like meeting Wilbur’s family, and it’s the best kind of apprehension he has ever felt.

“Yes, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, separating each syllable of the man’s name, “glad to see you have eyes.”

When Tommy looks up at Wilbur, there’s something in his eyes just beyond the playful banter Tommy is used to. He’s not sure what it is, but it makes Tommy’s chest tighten and his fists clench. Wilbur’s jaw is tight, and he’s staring at Technoblade; a challenge, though it’s not full of the anger Tommy would expect.

(He wonders if that is something to do with family. He wonders if they fight but still manage to love each other. He wonders if they are to each other what Tommy had always hoped Wilbur could be to himself.)

Technoblade just nods, a small smile fluttering across his lips. “Haven’t lost them yet, Wil. Phil says I’d look pretty awesome with an eyepatch, though, so I’m considerin’ it.”

Tommy furrows his eyebrows. The name Phil sounds familiar, but he can’t place it. Their dad, maybe? Though that’s the most likely, he can’t figure out why Techno would call their father by his first name, so he scratches it out.

Slowly, yawning as he does so, Tommy peels himself off the floor and leans against the edge of the couch. He waves at Technoblade, a little sheepish. “Hi, Technoblade who has eyes.”

Techno blinks, flicking his sightline up to Wilbur before focusing back on Tommy. “Hello,” he says, “random child in our house. Glad to see you’re enjoying our couch.” His voice is pointed, though it doesn’t seem directed at Tommy.

Tommy blinks, but Wilbur is already standing up. “Lay off it, Tech. You know I didn’t want him alone, especially with—” he cuts himself off, and sits back down. “It’s not like you were using the couch anyways, Blade. You’re always complaining about your back when you sit on it.”

Technoblade makes an affronted face, and Tommy has to hide a giggle behind his fist. 

Something warm grows in Tommy’s heart, and he resists the urge to let yellow roses spout from his palms. Instead, he keeps his hands carefully curled into fists, and bites down on the inside of his mouth until he can control himself without the addition of pain.

He looks at Techno, tall and burly and with calloused palms, and he looks at Wilbur: tall, sure, but built like a string bean, all long limbs and tough muscles. Even without the difference in hair colour—though Tommy’s sure Techno’s has to be altered in some sort of way—there’s enough physical differences that he would never clock them as siblings. Yet, sitting here, listening to them banter at each other with small smiles and playful punches thrown so hard they must bruise, Tommy doesn’t doubt that they’re family.

“My back is fine, Wilbur,” Techno says dryly, “thank you for the concern.” Wilbur opens his mouth, probably to argue or spout another insult, but he’s interrupted by a figure at the door.

Standing at the entryway is a man.

He’s shorter than both Wilbur and Techno, and doesn’t share either of their figures, but the faint outline of muscles is visible on his arms. The man has different hair from them as well; where Wilbur’s is curly, his is straight, and where Techno’s is a bright fucking bubblegum pink, his is a pale blond.

Once again, there’s barely any physical characteristics to be shared between them, but with the way Technoblade and Wilbur immediately stop bickering, Tommy has a sneaking suspicion he knows who this is.

The man rubs a hand over his face, letting out a sigh. He’s holding a coffee mug in one hand, and his chin is spotted with stubble. In short, he’s the epitome of the tired dad Tommy used to see on television growing up.

“Really?” The man asks, leveraging an exasperated look at both Techno and Wilbur. “You can’t get along in front of the…” he gestures vaguely, “the guest for five fucking minutes?”

Tommy nearly laughs at the chastised look on both Wilbur and Technoblade’s faces.

“But Phil,” Wilbur whines, confirming Tommy’s earlier suspicions, “Techno’s being mean to Tommy.”

“Forgive me for wonderin’ why you’re bringing a small child into our house, Wil.”

Wilbur’s face scrunches up, and he looks ready to argue before Phil raises a hand. He slumps into the armchair across from the house and takes a long drink from his coffee mug. “Not before nine,” he murmurs, his voice so muffled by his mug that Tommy can only just hear him. “Can’t you fucks wait until nine to yell at each other?”

Technoblade sighs, and walks over to the couch, nudging Wilbur over until he can sit down. Wilbur immediately attempts to lay his feet on Techno’s lap, and Technoblade subsequently pushes him off the couch. 

“It’s not our fault you’re old and need your coffee, Phil.” Techno attempts to hide the smile that wavers on and off his face.

“Yeah!” Wilbur contributes from the ground. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and pulls Tommy over next to him. “Just get younger.”

Tommy hides his giggling in Wilbur’s shoulder. It’s nice—if a little confusing—to watch the three bicker at each other, constantly changing sides and bringing up insults like they’ve known each other for their whole lives.

It reminds him of his own family. Of his parents that are only fuzzy shapes in his head; of the other kids at the orphanage who had loved him when no one else cared; of Ranboo and Tubbo, of Shroud, of—

He blinks, and cuts that last thought off.

“I’m literally not that much older than you, you little shit.” Phil chuckles, and Tommy furrows his eyebrows. Though Tommy knows for certain that he’s never met Phil, his laugh sounds oddly familiar. He pushes the thought away for later.

“Eight years is a long time, Dadza,” Wilbur whispers, like a theatre kid delivering a dramatic closing line. “Nearly a decade.”

Tommy blinks a few times. He had thought Phil was their dad, especially considering the way both Wilbur and Techno talk to him, but with an age gap like that, it’s not very plausible.

“Shut,” Phil says, but it doesn’t sound angry in the way that Tommy might expect. He laughs again—

(Tommy knows that laugh. God, he knows that laugh. Why does he—)

—and turns to Tommy, hands clasped. “Nice to meet you, Tommy. Wil’s told us a lot about you.”

And—that’s not right. That doesn’t—Wilbur doesn’t talk about Tommy. He knows this. There’s not much to talk about concerning Tommy anyway; nothing good, at the very least.

Wilbur basically confirms his suspicion. Wilbur’s ears are burning bright red, and when he speaks, he stutters.

Some part of Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s embarrassed that someone would say that he cares about Tommy, of all people. Tommy shouldn’t be surprised by the sentiment. People don’t know everything about Tommy, but they know enough to stay away.

(He thinks of two boys, happy and laughing and as carefree as they could be together. He thinks of newspapers piled in the recycling bin and old books with pages dogeared. He thinks of tripping over wires on the floor and broken headphones lying on a half-made bed.

His apartment is empty now. Cold. Quiet.

He never thought he’d miss the noise.)

But Tommy is tired of arguing about the parts of his life that won’t matter in a day, so he smiles and laughs at Wilbur and pokes fun at the red blush growing on his cheekbones. Phil joins in, and Wilbur shoves Tommy away with enough gentleness to make Tommy bite hard on the inside of his mouth. 

“C’mon,” Phil laughs, ruffling Wilbur’s hair, and he really does sound like a dad. He’s smiling at Wilbur so softly, with just a hint of pride, and it makes Tommy crave for something he lost a long time ago. “Let’s get something going for breakfast.”

The kitchen is small, but it’s homely. Plants hang from the ceiling and drape over windowsills; pictures are held with magnets to the fridge; flour is left sprinkled over the counters.

“I started some cinnamon rolls,” Phil says, gesturing towards the oven.

Wilbur hooks his arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “Phil makes the best cinnamon rolls,” he whispers, ruffling Tommy’s hair. Tommy can’t help a smile from creeping onto his face, even as he pushes Wilbur’s arm away.

“Shove off,” Tommy whispers, smile wide and nose scrunched. “Of course he does. He’s your dad, after all.”

Wilbur smiles back at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. This time, Tommy doesn’t move to push him away.

The timer for the cinnamon rolls goes off a minute later, and Phil pulls them from the oven. Tommy’s stomach growls. Wilbur laughs—soft and sweet and full of honey—and Tommy flashes a sheepish smile at him.

“C’mon,” Wilbur says, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder, “let’s go eat.”

Tommy knocks his head against Wilbur’s shoulder. “Bitch,” he whispers.

Wilbur laughs again. Tommy smiles.

Oddly enough, stepping into the small kitchen is the closest Tommy has ever gotten to feeling at home. 

Breakfast passes quickly. At first, Tommy is cautious with the food, only taking small bites and using his limited discipline to force a sip of water in his mouth between every few swallows. 

Although he could gather some energy from the sun, and Wilbur often sneaked him baked goods from the shop, Tommy was still insatiably hungry. Not only was money tight, but his midnight excursions did nothing to cut down on calories spent. On top of all that, Tommy was still growing. Hell, he had grown a total of eight centimetres last year and had the hunger pangs to prove it.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself or his hunger, Tommy takes care to slow down his eating, and fights the urge to curl his plate close to his body.

“It’s quiet,” Phil says, in that way parents often do to fill the silence. “Must be good.”

Techno hums affirmatively, and Wilbur smiles. “Always is.”

Tommy stays silent, but he nods when Phil looks his way, doing his best to portray his enjoyment with a mouthful of food in his mouth. He settles with a thumbs up, and Phil’s lips curl into a half-smile. “Good,” Phil says. “That’s good.”

As Phil ducks his head once more to eat, Tommy gulps down a few more bites of food, slowly losing the limited discipline that had allowed him to hold onto a semblance of politeness. Phil carries on snippets of small-talk with his sons — how was work? Did you grab the thread I asked for? How has Niki been? — as Tommy shovels food into his mouth. He hadn’t been lying — the food is good, really good, warm and soft and sweet in a way that isn’t overbearing. Good enough to take the time to savour. Still, Tommy had never been good at taking his time, and the remnants of hunger nevertheless linger in his stomach.

It’s only when Tommy pauses to take a sip of water that he realises the conversation has come to a soft lull. He looks up, and immediately flushes when he finds three eyes trained on him. “Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing strawberry juice off his jaw. 

Phil laughs, but there’s something hesitant in his eyes. “Nothing to be sorry about, mate. Growing boy and all.”

Tommy shrugs, and takes another sip of water. Between the three of them watching him like hawks, he doesn’t know whose gaze to meet. He settles on staring at the wooden table.

“So,” Technoblade says, picking at his fruit. “You work the cash register at Wil’s.”

It’s not much of a question, but Tommy nods anyway. “And barista.” He takes another drink of water.

“And your other job?”

Tommy chokes. 

Wilbur immediately raises a hand to clap him on the back, laughing as Tommy’s face darkens into a red. “Fucking hell gremlin, take a moment to breathe.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy mutters under his breath. Regardless, he concentrates on his next inhale; draws the air through his lungs, and lets it go bit by bit. His cheeks burn red as he attempts to dry the water on the table. “Sorry.”

Phil waves his hand. “You’re all good—” 

“It’s fine,” Technoblade says. His voice is without any inflection to reflect his words, but his eyes soften just slightly. 

“Sorry,” Tommy murmurs again, and hacks out a final cough. “Just uh—second job?”

Panic builds up in his sternum, tight and hot and sticky, and Tommy tries to hide the gulp as he swallows. Techno couldn’t — he wouldn’t suspect —

“It’s just that Wilbur was telling us all about how you’ve been overworked,” Phil reassures. “And since you only work part-time…”

“Oh.” Tommy resists the urge to bang his forehead against the table. “Yeah. Yeah, right, I just…” with a quirk of his lips, he glances towards Wilbur. “Rather rude to discuss my other forms of work right in front of my employer, innit?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Wilbur mutters. “You know I don’t care.”

Tommy shrugs, but a smile sneaks onto his face.

As his three breakfast companions pummel Tommy with additional questions, Tommy stuffs his face with another cinnamon roll. Wilbur groans when Tommy tries to answer with his mouth full of half-chewed food, and Tommy congratulates himself on his best avoidance tactic to date.

“Oh, leave him alone.” Phil, his saviour, appears with a halo of benevolence in the form of stacking dirty plates. “Wil, come help me clean up.”

Wilbur groans, but complies without protest.

Tommy picks up his glass of water, and takes a few sips. He allows himself to indulge in the cool beverage for a moment, only to be startled by Techno’s fingers curling around his forearm. “I’ll go give Tommy a tour,” Technoblade says. 

Tommy laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “No, no, that’s really not necessary, I—“

“I insist.”

Resisting the urge to call out to Wilbur, Tommy swallows. He nods.

Before Tommy has a chance to change his mind, Technoblade drags him up and through the open door frame. Tommy rips his wrist from Technoblade’s grasp, and rubs the slightly red skin in an attempt to soothe it. 

The living room is quieter than the kitchen. Here, there are no clattering plates; no spraying of water; no birds chirping through an open window. Tommy shifts awkwardly in the silence, eyes drifting from one spot on the wall to the next. He’s so absorbed in his purposeful ignorance of Technoblade that he startles when the other man speaks.

“How long have you been working for Wilbur?”

Tommy jumps, nearly dropping the glass of water in his hand. Technoblade is staring at him, eyes dark even with the reflection of light off his glasses. 

“I—” Tommy blinks, and squeezes his hand around his glass of water. It’s cold, and the condensation makes his palms wet. “A while.”

Technoblade raises a singular, angled eyebrow.

“Bit over a year,” Tommy finally says, taking a sip from his glass. The cool water is soothing as it washes down his dry throat, and Tommy can feel it pool in his stomach. “My first job, y’know. First official one, anyhow.”

Technoblade tilts his head to the side at that, but stays silent.

Another sip. Tommy wipes his palms on his pants, before placing the glass down on the coffee table. From the other room, Tommy can still hear the clinking of plates and cutlery as Wilbur and Phil clean, low voices and laughter interspersed.

Tommy wonders what he did to deserve being left alone with Techno.

“You know,” Technoblade says, “Wilbur likes you.”

For a moment, Tommy is taken aback.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe that Wilbur likes him—Wilbur kept him around for too long if that wasn’t the case—but he didn’t expect Technoblade to just tell him that.

“Of course he fucking does,” Tommy says, forcing out a laugh. “I’m big man Tommy—everyone should be glad to be graced with my—”

“No,” Technoblade says, cutting him off. When Tommy lets out a dramatic gasp, Techno lets the corners of his lips quirk up. “No, I mean—I don’t doubt you’re a good kid, Tommy, but that’s not what I’m trying to get at.”

Tommy tilts his head. 

“Wilbur doesn’t—he doesn’t know a lot of people like you.”

Scrunching up his nose, Tommy glares up at Technoblade. “Fuck is that s’posed to mean?”

Something in Techno’s expression wavers. Hesitance coats the furrow of his eyebrows, before the skin smooths and Technoblade dons the impassive expression once more. Letting out a deep sigh, Technoblade knocks shoulders with Tommy. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Just don’t be an asshole to Wilbur, and we’ll be good.”

Tommy scoffs, but he doesn’t argue. There’s an unidentifiable emotion buried behind the irises of Technoblde’s eyes, and Tommy fights the urge to look away.

Then, there is a crash.

Tommy turns to see Wilbur standing over a coat stand lying conspicuously on the ground.

“Techno,” Wilbur breathes out, running his hands through his hair, “Techno—Technoblade, uh—”

He pauses, and looks back at Tommy.

“I need to go help Niki with something,” Wilbur says pointedly, practically shoving his cheap Mickey Mouse watch in Technoblade’s face. “You know, because it’s almost noon. Almost the routine help-Niki time.”

Tommy’s eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck—”

“Ah, yes,” Technoblade deadpans. “The routine, daily, help-Niki-Nihachu noon-time occurrence.” He shakes his head, and Tommy watches as a sharp smile peeks through his lips. Despite his dismissal of Wilbur’s words, Tommy watches as an element of understanding relaxes the furrow in Technoblade’s brow.

Wilbur’s panicked gaze hardens into a glare at Techno’s words. “Technoblade,” he says. The name is spoken carefully; a reminder to be cautious about whatever he says next. The two lock eyes. Something unspoken passes through the eye contact that he holds with Techno, and Tommy feels like an intruder here; a pretender in their carefully cultivated family.

He turns to Tommy, eyes instantly softening. “Look, Tom, you can stay here while I’m out. It might be a few hours, but I’ll be back after.”

Tommy blinks, tilting his head to the side, and attempting to ignore the odd feeling that he’s forgetting something important. “I don’t think—”

“Please, Tommy,” Wilbur says, rushing around the living room as he attempts to gather his coat. His stuff from yesterday is strewn across the room; backpacks on armchairs, socks on the floor, and miscellaneous items found littered on the hardwood floor. “Just until I get back — I’ll drive you back then. With how…” 

Wilbur trails off, and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t walk all that way. I’ll only be out a couple hours, then I’ll drive. Promise.”

Tommy bites the inside of his mouth, and fights a grimace when the bitter iron of blood graces his tongue. He can’t stay. It’s for a multitude of reasons — an ugly combination of knowing what he deserves (or rather, what he doesn’t), and the constant fear of trusting that pumps through his veins. 

Like a phantom, the fear follows him, worming its way into his unsteady heart and constricting his lungs. 

He’s trusted before; he’s lost before. 

“I—”

“I’ll drive him,” Phil interrupts, arm leaning on the doorframe between the living room and kitchen. His appearance is sudden, and Tommy’s not quite sure how Phil managed to sneak up like that — after years on the street and above them, Tommy’s managed to develop a pretty good awareness of the people around him.

Yet, he hadn’t heard Phil’s footsteps or his soft breathing. Nothing of the sort that he constantly hears from the hoard of people in the city below. No, Tommy hadn’t heard anything.

Unease bubbles in his stomach, but Tommy pushes it away.

He’s overreacting. Wilbur and Techno hadn’t even jumped. In fact, Wilbur is looking at him with his head tilted, concern evident in the way his voice softens. “You alright, Tommy?”

“Fine,” Tommy whispers.

“If you say so, mate,” Phil shrugs. He jingles his lanyard of keys. “You fine with this old man as your chauffeur?”

In the end, Tommy agrees. He only has maybe an hour before he agreed to meet with Tempest, and his apartment is much closer to Tempest’s agreed meeting spot than Wilbur’s is. 

In the seat next to him, Phil drums his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along with whatever song comes on the radio. The quiet is relaxing, in an odd sort of way. Especially after the hectic morning. 

Tommy leans his head against the windows, wincing as condensation runs down across his face. Outside, he watches as the city transitions from gleaming, incredible skyscrapers to smaller, rusty brick buildings. He watches the people too; watches as they gradually develop a slump in their backs, dirt caked-nails, and thin wrists.

“So,” Phil says as they idle at a red light, “how do you fit in school with your mysterious second job?” He laughs after his words, as if trying to soften the blow of inquiring questions.

Tommy tenses up regardless. His mind quickly runs through the few lies he rotates — Oh, I graduated early, my school has an odd schedule, I take night classes — and discards the one truth: the only school I’ve ever been enrolled in burned to the ground before I could finish simple mathematics.

He settles on the one he tells Wilbur. “It’s online,” Tommy murmurs, drawing a little face in the condensation. “Makes it easy to fit around stuff.”

It’s not a complete lie. He tries to stay away from those as much as he can manage. Instead, it’s bits and pieces of the truth, cut and glued into a collage he can keep straight. He certainly doesn’t have the money for a laptop, but he stops by the library occasionally to pick up a book or two. Sometimes, on days where he has little to do, he’ll even go through a couple of the educational courses that they offer for free on the library’s ancient computers. It’s not as if he could use the courses for credit, but it helps him ignore the way he still struggles with the grammar he attempts in simple emails.

“Oh,” Phil says, sounding half taken-aback, “and how is that?”

Tommy shrugs. “S’alright.”

The light turns green, and Phil pulls the car onto one of the smaller roads. Smooth pavement morphs into an unkempt collection of rocks and mud. Thinking of Phil’s pristine car, heat rises to Tommy’s neck. “You can drop me off here, if you’d like.”

Phil waves him off. “I’ve driven this far,” he says with a grin. “Might as well see you to the door.”

Swallowing down embarrassment, Tommy turns back out the window. “Jus’ don’t want to muck up your car, is all,” he mutters. 

Again, Phil doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. “Company car, don’t worry about it. They pay me more than enough for a little wash every now and then.”

Tommy nods, then fiddles with his fingers. Where before the silence had seemed serene — almost comforting — he now feels it breathing down his neck. “What do you do for work then?”

Tommy watches curiously as Phil stops drumming his fingers. It’s only a moment’s hesitation, but it’s hesitation nonetheless.

“I work for the state,” Phil says.

He leaves it at that.

“Oh.” Tommy tries to keep his racing thoughts to the background.

Sometimes, he wonders if this life has ruined him. If it took the small child born in a small town and mutilated what he could have been; twisted his arm until he screamed, then carved away at his heart with a scalpel so small he hadn’t even noticed.

Sometimes, he wonders what he could have been. He tries not to hope for anything big — certainly Tommy wouldn’t have been some sort of success. After all, he came from a town so small that cars were rare and far between, and the population was an even split of humans and livestock.

But sometimes — when it’s late enough that Tommy forgets why it’s a bad idea — Tommy thinks he could have been happy. 

At the very least, maybe he wouldn’t have been alone.

But Tommy is not the same person he was all those years ago. 

(He’s not sure there’s anything left of him.)

Instead, he’s sitting here, hands curled tight enough to draw bloo from his palms, suspecting a middle-aged man of possibly being involved in something suspicious simply because he doesn’t want to share the intimate details of his job.

God, sometimes Tommy hates himself.

“That’s — fun,” Tommy says, attempting to sound polite.

At this, Phil really laughs; tilting his head back far enough that Tommy wonders whether he should be prepared to take the steering wheel.

 “Not quite,” Phil says once he’s calmed down, a smile still evident on his face, “but I’m helping people, and I’m happy.”

“And it pays the bills,” Tommy says before he can help himself.

Phil nods, and turns down the radio’s volume ever-so-slightly. “That it does,” he whispers. “Speaking of — you’re working enough hours to pay for a few bills yourself.”

Tommy holds back a scoff — your bills or mine? — and nods. “Yup.”

“Your parents must be happy,” Phil says, and he’s laughing again, but there’s something soft and cautious and dangerous in his voice that makes Tommy hesitate before joining in. “Having their kid independent at such a young age.”

Something in Tommy yearns, powerful and strong and ugly. He tries to ignore it — he’s made it this fucking far on his own, after all — but he pinches the skin on his knuckles nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers, and

 — there is blood on his hands and smoke in his lungs and god, doesn’t he deserve a happy ending? In the closet, the scrolls that Tommy prayed to are nothing more than singed, and yet, bodies lie blackened on the floor, and Tommy hopes for something that is nothing more than —

“They’re proud,” Tommy whispers, and he’s never liked lying, but god, he’s done with truths that just hurt until he can’t breathe.

Phil only hums.

They are quiet until they reach the apartment.

The moment Tommy opens his apartment door, he’s sprinting. Although he is rather attached to his devil-may-care facade, he’s not nearly heartless enough to be late.

Or rather, he’s not nearly brave enough to face a Tempest pissed about timeliness. 

With all the speed he can muster, Tommy puts on the Dianthus gear, careful to put on his gloves. He watches as they cover the bandaids that Wilbur had put on yesterday. It’s comforting, in a way, to hide something that makes Tommy so much of himself; to hide the proof that he is human and vulnerable, and although he pretends to be worth something he still is nothing more than a creature that bleeds.

Tommy checks his phone hurriedly, and notes down the address that Tempest had sent him. He doesn’t really have time to think about it—he’s maybe fifteen minutes out from the deadline for training. Tommy sighs, and he begins his journey to the coordinates Tempest had given him.

He hurries across the city in a blur. Although he sticks to backroads, he uses his vines to move from building to building, ignoring the people gawking below. It’s as if he blinks, and he is at the place that Tempest had sent him—though, this can’t be right, because Tommy is standing at the mouth of some underground entrance. It’s molded and covered with vines, and evidently doesn’t get a lot of use. When Tommy pokes his head in, there is only darkness; as far as he knows, anything more than a few steps in could be a steep drop. 

He’s never seen this place before. For all the times he’s spent searching the city, never has he come across this mouth to the underground. Granted, he is currently just on the outskirts—surrounded by nothing more than a few crumbling buildings from before the Hero Association’s reign. On the ground, dust and bricks settle upon torn-up paths, making each step Tommy takes loud and pronounced.

It’s eerie, in a way. To see some place that was lived in become this; forgotten and discarded, nothing more than an empty plot. Logically, Tommy knows that people must have lived here, and yet, looking at buildings with nothing more than rot inside of them, he can barely believe it. Here, in this place before heroes—this place preserved from before time—it is as if it is only a graveyard of whatever it once was.

Tommy is readying himself to leave—to call out Tempest on his bullshit, at least—when he hears something echo in the tunnel in front of him. The sound is quiet, but Tommy can feel it as it vibrates across his chest, humming like a premonition from God himself.

“Hello?” Tommy calls out hesitantly. He is answered only with the sound of wind brushing against the excess fabric of his sweatshirt. “Is anyone there?”

Nothing answers him. Here, in the quiet absence of sound, Tommy feels as if there is nothing left but rot. Briefly, he wonders what drove everyone away from here. He wonders if anyone but God remains.

Tommy runs a hand against the hair on the nape of his neck. His hands are cold even through the gloves, and Tommy absentmindedly runs a hand over the bandaid kept hidden under his sleeves. The bandaid sits against his skin like both a promise and reminder: you are loved; you are broken.

The sound of pebbles crumbling down rings out across the abandoned sanctuary, and Tommy whirls around.

Tempest is standing atop a pile of rocks, arms outstretched in some sort of welcome. Tommy can see his wide smile under his mask. Here, with a smile and arms wide, it is a welcome and a warning.

“Welcome, Dianthus,” Tempest says, and some part of Tommy cannot forget eyes green as poison bearing down upon him, riding the line between damnation and salvation. “Welcome to my city of dust and bones.”

He walks down the hill of stones, somehow keeping his balance as he does so. The pebbles continue to fall, constantly shifting. If Tommy squints, he thinks he really can see bones, yellowed and old but with streaks of marrow left. Tommy wonders why this place was abandoned. Yet, thinking of the bones crumbling down like a landslide, a part of him thinks he does not want to know.

“I call it Pogtopia,” Tempest says. Something insistent tugs on the back of Tommy’s brain. That is too similar. Too—too something. It’s not right. Tempest is in front of him, arms held out in an odd sort of welcome, and Tommy cannot help but feel as if he is drowning in the weight of the blood that was shed here. There are too many memories. Too many bodies. Some part of Tommy suspects that if he were to grow one of his more delicate flowers, it would wither away into ash.

“You’re so dramatic,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes even as he can feel all the lives lost here like a horrible reminder. 

Tempest shrugs. “It runs in the family.” He smiles, full of teeth too-sharp. He is a horrible reminder of someone Tommy has tried very hard to forget, and someone he wants very much to remember. It is an unbalanced cacophony of what once was and what can never be again.

“I don’t support nepotism,” Tommy says, crossing his arms.

Tempest blinks. His suit is expensive enough that the mask even blinks with him, as if it was made only to convey his utter bemusement. “That’s not what nepotism is.”

“Sounds an awful lot like something a nepotism-er would say.”

“It’s—Dianthus,” Tempest says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you’re getting off topic.”

“You’re the one who started out the whole conversation with a dramatic monologue,” Tommy retorts. “If anything, there never was a topic to get off from in the first place.”

Tempest sighs again, that same, drawn-out sound. Tommy smiles from underneath his mask. “You’re impossible.”

“Yep.”

Tempest smiles. “You’re not going to deny it?”

Tommy shrugs. Here, it is as if he is drawing out time, holding each moment off and stretching it thin. He knows that they will have to talk. He knows that they will have to fight. He knows that this is the last trip before the end of the world.

Armageddon waits on the horizon, constructed of a thousand green fires. Tommy pictures himself in the middle of it. He’s thought about dying before, but not like this. Never for a purpose. He always thought that it would be a simple afterthought of the Universe; another body littered across a graveyard of a changing world. Tommy was never meant to survive this long. He was never meant to be able to sacrifice himself; he was never meant to have anything to sacrifice himself for.

“It’s true,” Tommy says. He is not in the practice of lying where it is not necessary. It makes things much too convoluted. Too many strands to keep track of. Instead, Tommy tells his little half-truths. He has a second job (unnamed). He goes to school (online). He makes his parents proud (hopefully. He’s not sure that ashes can be anything but dust that falls through his fingers).

Tempest scoffs, and he brushes shoulders with Tommy, pushing Tommy a couple steps back. “Come on. We don’t have time to waste.” He takes a few steps towards the mouth of the underground entrance. “Follow me.”

Tommy shakes his head. “Prick,” he mutters under his breath.

He follows all the same.

(Tommy has always been a follower. Like a loyal dog, he lies in wait, counting down the minutes until he has a purpose to fulfil. His teeth are too sharp and his maw too bloody to do anything else. He lies in wait. He takes the fall. He waits, like a sinner before the gates of hell, to be put down.)

Tommy follows Tempest, watching his every step. He briefly wonders whether this is a trap. Maybe he was never meant to make it this far. Certainly, the others never expected him to. He could be killed down here. Join the bodies that rest in the soil around him. He can feel them, if he concentrates. Bone degrading into dirt. Like a plant with too-thin roots, Tommy knows that he will soak up both the nutrients and the death, because starving might be worse than accepting this evil.

As they walk down into the dark depths, Tommy wonders how many secrets have been buried here. He wonders how many of them have bodies. 

Both Tommy and Tempest are quiet as they descend. Though there are no roaring fires, and no red eyes, Tommy cannot help but feel as if he is taking the final steps into hell. Water is dripping from somewhere along the walls of the rocky cavern. The faint sun from outside is too weak to reflect here. There is only the sound of dripping water and the feeling of slime against his fingers as he drags them across the rock.

“I can’t see,” Tommy whispers. The words echo across the cavern walls, back and forth, a mocking reiteration and reminder that he is helpless. The soil has transitioned to hard rock underneath the thin sole of his shoes. Though he can grow plants from his own flesh, it is an arduous process, exacerbated by the lack of sunlight. Tommy cannot see. He is blindly following a man who had drawn Tommy’s own blood, and it feels less like a death sentence and more like an homage to what had been, when Tommy was small and naive and needed someone to believe in.

“Obviously,” Tempest says, but where Tommy’s words had been hesitant Tempest’s are joyful. “It’s dark.”

“No shit,” Tommy breathes out, but he doesn’t stop moving. He follows, like a dog to its slaughter at its own master’s hands. Maybe he won’t die here. That doesn’t mean that this is not a precursor to his unbecoming; that does not mean that he is safe. “Did you not bring a lantern?”

Tempest is quiet for a few minutes, then, with bravado that makes Tommy roll his eyes, he laughs. “There will be light,” he says simply. He offers no further explanation. “But we’re not there yet.”

Tommy groans. The rock under his feet is slippery. His shoes skid against it, squeaking as he walks. “How much longer?”

“You’ll know,” Tempest says, ominous in a way that Tommy suspects is on purpose.

“You’re a bitch,” Tommy mutters, but he doesn’t object. He follows in line like the soldier he was raised to be. 

They continue walking. It is cold underground. The sun cannot touch them here. Instead, there is only damp rock and the monotonous dripping of water, seeping into cracks and glistening against the walls. Under his threadbare hoodie, the hair on Tommy’s arms rises.

“Are we there yet?” Tommy whines, because this is not how he wants to spend the afternoon hours of what may very well be his last day. He is cold and damp and exhausted, and his legs are starting to ache. Underground, there is no sense of time. No sun. No clouds. No ticking of a watch. There is only the sound of water as it trickles from an unknown source. It all melds together into a terrifying absence of feeling. As far as Tommy knows, it could have been minutes; it could have been hours.

“No,” Tempest answers sharply, “but almost.”

Tommy resists the urge to bang his head against the cave wall. “Why couldn’t we have just…gone to the hero gym or something?”

“Because I wanted to make sure we wouldn't be heard,” Tempest whispers, and there is an honesty there that burns against Tommy’s skin. “I wanted to make sure this decision was yours and yours alone.”

“Oh,” Tommy says. He blinks. “What decision?”

Tempest does not answer.

A time later, they arrive at wherever Tempest had been walking towards. Tommy does not know how long it has been. Time falls away from him like grains of sand held tightly in his fists. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot save it all. The more effort he puts in, the faster it leaves him.

The world before him is small, but it is no doubt a world within itself. Though it shares the city’s dark gloominess, Tommy can make out the greenery that covers everything. Moss is littered across the soil floor, and vines cover the walls. In the middle of the room sits a pool of water. There are small rivers and streams that run through the walls, but they all lead here. Faintly, Tommy wonders how deep this pool is.

The water’s surface is still despite the flow of the streams, and it glows a soft green. It illuminates the little creatures swimming through it. Most of them are smaller than Tommy’s pinky finger, though a few are as large as his two fists put together. They move through the water like dancers; quick and graceful, with sharp, pointed movements. 

All of these details pale in comparison to what is behind him. As Tommy turns, he can make out the faint outline of some sort of machine. It’s huge.

“Tempest,” Tommy breathes out, “what is this place?”

Tempest is grinning. Tommy can make out the glint of his teeth even in the darkness. “Pogtopia.”

There it is again. That name that pulls on the back of Tommy’s brain like a riptide pulling swimmers into the sea. There is something dark there. Something hidden and forgotten and it is just beyond Tommy’s understanding.

“That doesn’t mean shit.”

Tempest shrugs. His suit reflects the slight glow of the pool. Tommy can watch faint apparitions of the small sea creatures as they swim. “It’s mine. I named it.”

Tommy scoffs. “Makes sense that someone like you would name a perfectly good place Pogtopia. Shit name, that is.”

Tempest hums. If Tommy didn’t know better, he would think him almost amused. “Yes. You’re right.”

For a moment, they both simply stand there. The sound of rushing water drowns out Tommy’s fidgeting. Tempest is turned towards Tommy, as if studying him, and Tommy wilts under his prolonged gaze.

“You said there would be light,” Tommy grumbles, scuffing the bottom of his shoes against the dirt floor. The soil is damp, though not enough to mix into mud. Inches underneath his feet, Tommy can feel the seeds of plants beginning to sprout. He hums. It would be silly to accelerate their growth like this. They’ll grow despite his interference. Whether or not he had noticed them, they still would have sprouted and become something wonderful after he is gone. He knows he should conserve his energy for training. And yet…

Tommy spreads his palms wide, pointing them towards the soil, and he pulls.

The flowers shoot up. They’re lovely; anemones, soft and pink. They shouldn’t have made it in the darkness, and yet, they have survived against all odds; been planted here against everything.

“These shouldn’t be here,” Tommy murmurs, but he doesn’t really mean it. They’re stunning and soft and simple, and Tommy appreciates them all the same.

Tempest tilts his head. He’s looking at Tommy with something unknown in his eyes. “You didn’t need to make them grow.”

Tommy shrugs.

He is fifteen, and he is dying, and he wants to see beautiful things before he goes. Maybe that’s superficial. Tommy doesn’t care. 

“It’s dark,” Tommy says. It’s redundant, and it’s a clear change of topic, but Tempest allows it with a tilt of his head.

“Oh, right,” Tempest says. He walks over to the part of the cave that is not illuminated in the slightest. There is no reflection of the glowing pool. No bioluminescent amphibians. Nothing but the endless void. Tommy waits as Tempest fiddles with something, and then makes a hum. “Let there be light,” Tempest says, in a sardonic mockery of the god that has abandoned them both, and the cave is illuminated in a blinding glory.

“What the fuck?” Tommy breathes out, eyes wide as he stares up at a machine that he has never seen before in his life.

It’s a train. And yes, the city has trains, but none like this. This train is massive, stretching from feet below the cave’s floor to the very top of the cave’s ceiling. It’s black, with little embellishments of colour. Green moss covers the top of it. Vines stretch down across the door, and when Tommy peeks into one of the cracked windows, he finds that there is nearly an entire ecosystem inside. Flowers and fruits and little animals that Tommy only just barely recognizes. They all scamper as the light flickers on, and Tommy can’t help the smile that builds its way across his lips.

“It’s beautiful,” Tommy says, because it is. Even though it seems that the blinding headlights are the last working part of the train, it is still incredible in its size.

Tempest doesn’t acknowledge his comment, but Tommy can see the smile he tries to smother. He sticks his chest out in a sort of prideful mannerism, looking rather like a peacock; that is, if that peacock was a six and a half foot tall white man.

“How long has this been down here?” Tommy asks, then tacks on, “what is it for?”

“It’s been down here longer than I’ve been alive,” Tempest says.

“A very long time then,” Tommy says serenely. 

Tempest elbows him in the ribs, and Tommy yelps. “Fuck off,” Tempest replies eloquently. “And I don’t know what it’s for.” He takes a step forward, then stops. “Well, I know what I use it for. But I don’t know why it was built.”

He leaves it at that.

Tommy sighs, admiring the swimming amphibians in the pool of water. It’s been a long time since he has seen something both so alive and so beautiful. He wonders how long they live for. He wonders if their absence will be noticed once they die.

“So,” Tommy says. “Tomorrow.”

Tempest sighs. “Tomorrow.”

For a moment, they both stand there, overwhelmed by the knowledge of what tomorrow will bring.

“It’s our only shot,” Tempest says. “And as much as I don’t want to admit it, we need you.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, “why didn’t you say—”

“Dianthus,” Tempest says exasperatedly. “Please shut up.”

Tommy shuts up.

“We go tomorrow,” Tempest says after a pause, “and we give it everything.” He stares down at Tommy with that pitying look on his face, and Tommy is reminded of that conversation they had all those days ago on the rooftop. Either Dream will kill him there, or Tempest will. His friend-turned-enemy or his enemy-turned-friend.

He’s not sure which is worse.

“Okay,” Tommy whispers, and he is admitting to thinking of Tempest’s sword through his ribs, and he is admitting to wanting a little bit of rest, and he is admitting to the fact that he will do anything for his city, even when it tears him apart.

Tempest pauses for a moment. He looks into Tommy’s eyes; a wordless are you sure?

Tommy nods.

“Okay then,” Tempest says, clapping his hands together. “That’s settled.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows. “Are we done then?”

Tempest laughs. “Of course not. I still need to see what those powers of yours do.”

Tommy groans. He tugs off one of his gloves—it’s easier to do this without the interference of yarn against his palms—and curls the hand into a fist before opening it. In his hand rests a fern, green and beautiful against the pale skin of his palm. It pulls from his flesh, quick and painful, like the water that flowers in it is nothing more than Tommy’s blood.

“You know what I can do,” Tommy says, fiddling with the fern. He sighs, and places it in the soil, waving a hand over it and letting its roots take place. Tommy grins, and he looks up at Tempest. “You’ve been at the receiving end of it more than once.”

“You’re insufferable,” Tempest says, but Tommy can hear the smile in his voice. “I mean your potential. What you could do if you had the sort of training we have.”

With those words, Tommy stiffens. “I’ve worked for what I have,” Tommy whispers. He sits down on the ground, ignoring the dirt that sticks to his clothes. And he has. He has worked for everything he has gained and everything he has lost. Sometimes, Tommy thinks each callous on his hand could tell a story of grief. Everything he has touched has wilted. Everything he has touched has died. “I don’t need your training.”

“Don’t be obstinate,” Tempest says.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Tommy retorts, and he relishes in the groan that Tempest lets out.

“I’m telling you not to be idiotic,” Tempest says eloquently. “It’s—your life is at risk tomorrow. If this goes wrong, this city can fall. Don’t let your pride get in the way of people’s lives.”

“I won’t,” Tommy says shortly, and he tries to ignore the rage that bubbles like nausea in his stomach. 

Don’t let your pride get in the way of people’s lives.

As if Tempest and the other heroes had not done that very thing. As if they had not let the poorer people of the city be robbed and injured and killed because the heroes were too proud to set foot in the proclaimed slums of the city. As if Tempest’s pride was not the very reason that Tommy now has to protect those left behind to die.

“Look—” Tempest starts, but Tommy raises a hand to stop him.

“Can’t we just—spar, or some shit?” Tommy asks, running his ungloved hand through his hair. “That’s what Charon did.”

Tempest shakes his head. “Of course he did.”

“It worked.”

“Did it?” Tempest asks, but he doesn’t seem very invested in whatever Tommy’s answer will be. Not for the first time, Tommy wonders what Charon and Tempest’s relationship is with each other. For all the complaining they do about each other’s methods, they never seem to question the other when it truly comes down to it. There is an amount of unconditional support there that confuses him; an amount of unconditional support that he envies enough to make him feel sick.

(Maybe that’s what he’s always wanted. Not to be in the right. Not to know he is fighting for a cause. But to be a part of something; to be wanted by something other than the blood that clings to his hands.)

“Listen,” Tommy says. “Let’s make this fuckin’ easy on us, yeah? We fight, you point out all the places that my powers suck, and then I fix it. Bada-boom.” He accompanies the last words with finger guns.

Tempest seems unimpressed. “‘Bada-boom?”

“Bada-boom!” Tommy shouts, pulling flower petals from his palms and throwing them in Tempest’s face. Without so much as blinking, Tempest gathers a gust of wind to send them back at Tommy. 

Tommy coughs as a flower petal attempts to go up his nose. He pouts. “That’s not fair.”

Tempest doesn’t respond. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves. “You want to fight, Dianthus?”

Tommy blinks. Here, in the dark caves of Pogtopia, Tempest looks ethereal in a way that he cannot quite explain. Tommy can almost hear an echo of the wind blast vibrating against the rusting train tracks, like a hum that never ends. 

“I didn’t say fight,” Tommy says, picking his words carefully, “I said spar. As in no-one-dies sparring. More specifically, as in I-do-not-get-gravely-injured sparring.”

Tempest barks out a laugh, and then he attacks.

It’s different from sparring with Charon. Where Charon relied on his weapons, Tempest moves with a grace that can come only from his power. He moves as the wind blows, and barely makes a sound as he does so. 

He sends out a blast of wind towards Tommy, and Tommy dives to the side. The wind catches his side, setting him off-balance. Tommy holds onto the side of the wall to catch himself, and he rolls his eyes as he catches Tempest’s smile.

“Bastard!” Tommy calls.

Tempest hums, but he doesn’t answer, readying himself for another attack. Just as he raises his arms to spew forth another mini-tornado, Tommy reaches down into the soil and pulls out vines, wrapping them around Tempest’s wrists. Down here, without the sun to draw from, Tommy is just like his withering plants. He can hold the vines for maybe a minute before his resolve will decay completely, and it’s likely that Tempest will find a way out of it even quicker than that.

“Oh, good one,” Tempest says dryly. He’s not even struggling against the vines.

“Bitch!” Tommy shouts. He takes a moment to breathe—after being attacked by the gust of wind, his breath had been nearly completely knocked out of his lungs—and then stands up, letting the vines release. Tempest lands on his two feet, with the precision of a cat. 

“How long can you hold those?” Tempest asks, brushing the bits of plant from his hair. 

“Don’t know,” Tommy responds. “If I do it for too long I get dizzy.”

Tempest hums thoughtfully, and then he shoots lightning and Tommy’s feet.

“What the fuck!” Tommy screeches, jumping backward and staring at the singed earth beneath him. “What the actual fuck.”

“Do you have any sort of accelerated healing?” Tempest asks, as if he had not just shot fucking lightning at Tommy’s feet. 

“I—” Tommy starts, but he can’t stop staring at the burning earth. He wonders what he would have done if it had hit him. If he would have died. If he would have cared. If Tempest would have shot the energy just a little higher, Tommy would be gone. He wonders if anyone would have found his body; he wonders if Tempest would have cared enough to bury his body in the earth. “No,” Tommy says. “No accelerated healing.”

In fact, he bleeds quite easily. He’s good at taking punches, but he can feel the impact of them for hours later, like a reminder and warning branded into his very skin.

“Oh,” Tempest says, tilting his head to the side. “I thought you did.” He spins a cloud from his fingertips, wrapping the air like yarn around his hands, and then he sends it at Tommy. Since it’s not a material thing, Tommy makes no attempt to block it. Instead, he slides under it. With a wave of his hand, he pulls thorns from the ground. They’re attached to small roots. Tommy’s not sure where they originate from; if there is a plant he is killing to save himself.

(Sometimes, Tommy wonders if all of this power that falls from his hands is nothing more than a curse. After all, if he can create life in this backwards, messed-up way, what’s to stop his powers from doing more? Where do the blessings stop and the sin begin? What distinguishes between healing and damning?)

“I don’t,” Tommy says shortly, but then he hesitates. He can’t heal himself— that much is true—but he remembers one of the people he had trained with mentioning properties of specific flowers. She had been given a similar power to Tommy’s; a power that centred around plants. However, where Tommy’s powers were focused around flowers and vines, she had utilised a darker element of the gift.

Poison.

Of course, many plants have medical properties. It was from plants that the first cures were gifted to the world. Ironically, it was also plants that acted as the source for many of these maladies. And so, in the same way that Tommy could hypothetically use these plants to save lives, others with similar powers could use this opportunity to end them.

He had known her as Roseae. She was a self-proclaimed villain, but often erred on the side of good; although she despised the current way the city was run and was not afraid of desperate measures in order to ensure a positive outcome, she ultimately cared about people in a way that few villains do. She had met Tommy when he was new to the city; before he had been taken by a man who needed a monster. She had met Tommy when he was still mostly whole, complete with his youthful optimism and toothy smile.

Tommy hadn’t seen her in years. Not since he had been taken. He wonders if she knows that he is alive. He wonders if she would care.

(He knows she would. God, he knows, and it is tearing himself apart but he cannot let others get attached again when he is so close to leaving. It wouldn’t be fair. Tommy, more than anyone, knows what it is like to be left by someone who has not stopped caring, and he would not wish that feeling on anyone.)

“I can’t heal myself,” Tommy says, and he leaves it at that. “Haven’t tried to heal other people.”

Tempest waves the comment away. “We have a healer on the team anyway; you wouldn’t be much use even if you could.”

Tommy grunts, and then he wraps the thorns tight around one of Tempest’s ankles, sending him crashing to the floor. Tommy winces at the blood that appears to be dripping down Tempest’s nose.

Tempest opens his mouth, but Tommy cuts him off, ready to defend. “You shot fucking lightning at me! It’s only fair.”

“I didn’t hit you with it,” Tempest grumbles, but he just wipes the blood off his nose with the back of his hand, spitting out the bit that ends up in his mouth. The glob of red is dull against the soil, but Tommy almost can’t pull himself away from it. He had drawn first blood. “Just wanted to see what you would do.”

“I would probably die,” Tommy informs him.

Tempest waves his hand. “Not if I didn’t want you to. Besides, pain has a finicky history with the powered. After all, we all went through something to get the powers.”

“I thought it was genetic,” Tommy says slowly, but Tempest is already shaking his head.

“Of course it fucking isn’t,” Tempest says, pulling the thorns from his ankle. Tommy lets him. “Well—actually, that’s not completely wrong. Some people are genetically predisposed to it, but it’s not hereditary. Some sort of shit they haven’t figured out yet. Anyway, it needs a trigger. That’s my point. It can’t just appear, it has to have some stressful event that it can be tied back to.” Tempest is gathering steam as he speaks. “Most of the time, that trigger is pain.”

Tommy blinks and feels an odd sense of dread build up in him. Pain. The only constant to keep him company throughout his entire life. He wonders what his final breaking point was; he wonders at what point his body decided that it could take no more without changing.

Briefly, he wonders if he is still the same boy from before. He wonders if he would know the difference. He thinks of the Ship of Theseus—if bits of him are slowly replaced, blood by blood and flesh by flesh and abandonment by abandonment, how long until he is something new? How much can he take before he is someone else entirely?

“And that pain,” Tempest says, “can do wonderful things.”

The dread that has been building up like a wave crashes over him, cold and overwhelming. He can feel it in his very bones. “Like what?”

Tempest shrugs, and the aura of fear that he had been building up fizzles out with that simple motion. “Jumpstart the powers. Force something to evolve if it wants to survive.”

“Have you…” Tommy trails off, swallowing the dread as he does so. “Have you ever made…”

Tempest tilts his head to the side, before understanding dwells on him. “Oh, no. Of course not. We wouldn’t…we wouldn’t do that. We’re the good guys.”

It’s a statement so naive that Tommy can do nothing more than swallow his laughter.

“But,” Tempest murmurs, “we have seen it happen. Once.”

Tommy hums a question. Tempest doesn’t elaborate.

“Who?” Tommy presses. The aquatic creatures in the pool have started to swim more ferociously. Distractedly, Tommy waves a hand and weaves more algae into the water. He watches as they swarm it. He wonders how many things he has created for the sole purpose of dying.

“He wasn’t always like he is now,” Tempest whispers, and Tommy can feel nausea climb its way up into his stomach. “It’s—there was a mistake. And he was maybe…corrupted, before, but then…”

Tommy bites his tongue. He can taste blood. He wonders if it is the same blood he tasted when he was thirteen and terrified, clinging to the mirage of an idol bathed in green. 

“So that’s why he’s so powerful,” Tommy whispers.

Tempest doesn’t respond, but he tilts his head in acknowledgement. He sits down; it’s obvious that their sparring session has come to an end.

Tommy sits down next to him, wallowing in the ominous silence of Pogtopia.

“So,” Tempest says, settling down. He’s still breathing heavily from the fight; Tommy wonders what the cost of Tempest’s powers are. “This all ends tomorrow.” It’s a brief echo of what he has said before.

“Hopefully,” Tommy says, hugging his knees to his chest. It’s suffocating underground, but in some odd way, it also feels safe. “Tomorrow, we go to fight him, and tomorrow, I finally get to die.”

Tempest sucks in a sharp breath.

Tommy tilts his head. “What?”

“That’s not—” Tempest starts, before growing quiet again.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you aren’t planning on it,” Tommy whispers, because he is fifteen and dying and tired of being lied to. “I was never going to make it out of this.”

“That’s not true,” Tempest snap. “Your fate is fucking—it isn’t set in stone.” Tommy is confused at the anger in his voice. “You’re there so Daedalus and Charon make it out alive. That doesn’t mean you can’t do the same thing.”

“But that’s why you brought me,” Tommy says simply. “I’m there to die.”

“You’re not,” Tempest says, and there is something twisted in his tone. It catches on the back of his throat, and Tommy blinks at the emotion present in his voice. That’s not right. Tempest and him are business partners, really; there’s no reason for him to be upset. Unless…

“You can find someone else,” Tommy reminds him. “Loads of people are willing to do what I do. Maybe you can even make it more legal next time around.”

“That’s not the issue,” Tempest says. “It’s—it’s as if you want to die, Dianthus.”

At that, Tommy goes cold. Because that’s not—it’s not right. It’s not. Not anymore. And that is the irony that he keeps harping on and that is the reason that he has not fallen apart and that is the reason he keeps doing all of this; because he treasures life in a way so dearly that he cannot let his death happen without meaning. Maybe he will die, but he will die for a reason. 

He will die for his friends, and maybe that is more important to him than living ever was.

“Well, wasn’t this informative,” Tommy says, clasping his hands together. “Learned a lot about fighting styles. We totally didn’t just sit here for hours.”

“Well,” Tempest says with clenched teeth, “if you’re planning on dying, there’s no point in learning to fight anyway, is there?”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Tommy says, because he’s not. He’s not. For the first time in his life he wants something more than a final goodbye. It is a horrible sort of irony that the first time in months that he has a reason to live his life will be put in danger. “I’m just accepting that it's a possibility.”

Tempest laughs. It’s not quite a happy sound. Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it. “Oh, Dianthus,” he murmurs, but he says nothing else.

“It’s not your job to care,” Tommy says, because there is something here that he had not planned for. “You’re a fuckin’ hero, alright? You get to be all praised and revered, even as you let half of this city fall to hell. And that's alright. I don’t complain, and I don’t go knocking on your doorstep asking you to help, I fix it myself. I’m a vigilante. I do the shit you won’t do. I fix the shit that you won’t touch, because you’re afraid of having blood on your hands even if it came from your sword. That’s fine, I won’t harp on you about it, but stop pretending like you care about the little guys. You don’t.”

“You’re a little guy?” Tempest asks, head tilted and a half smile on his face. It’s infuriating, and Tommy wants to rip him into shreds.

Tommy should stay quiet. He should leave. After all, he’s likely going to die tomorrow, and he does not want to be remembered like this; with spite dripping from his lips like a promise and a threat of blood on his tongue. And yet, Tommy is fifteen and he is dying and he is done pretending to be what everyone else wants him to be. He is done failing at being the dog lying at the heroes’ feet. He is a martyr standing before God with his hands wide, and he has too much blood on his hands to beg for forgiveness. “You have everything I have ever wanted,” Tommy spits. “Everything, and it was handed to you on a silver fucking platter. Do you know how I became this? Do you know what I lost?”

“Dianthus—”

“No. If I am going to die tomorrow, you will let me say my fucking final words.” Tommy bites down the odd feeling that bubbles up in the back of his throat. Here, in a world that existed before the evil that drowns his city, he is not kneeling in hope of forgiveness. He is shouting his penance with his arms wide in a horrible mockery of an angel whose wings are nothing more than ash, and the world will have to repent to him instead. Tommy is fifteen. He is going to die. He deserves a little devotion. “This has all been for them.” Tommy gestures at the ceiling above him. “For this city. I have bled for them, and I have killed for them, and I will die for them.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.” He has to die, because he never thought he would make it this long, and he does not know what he will do if he survives. “Maybe not tomorrow. But someday.”

Someday soon, he thinks but does not say.

Tempest is looking at him. With the mask firmly in place, Tommy can only wonder what he is thinking about.

“I’m sorry,” Tempest finally says. He does not elaborate, but Tommy somehow thinks he knows what Tempest means.

(I’m sorry you are like this. I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m sorry that you will die a martyr with a city’s blood on your hands. I’m sorry that you will never be more than fifteen and scared and alone. I’m sorry that God has abandoned you here in this church of a dying city. I’m sorry that you do not want to make it out of this alive.)

“I forgive you,” Tommy says, and at this moment, he is fifteen and God and wants nothing more than the world to kneel to him. The words spill out of him like blood on his tongue, and forgiveness has never tasted so bitter. Perhaps it is the words that he leaves unsaid that are the most potent.

I forgive you; I will not forgive myself.

“Dianthus,” Tempest says again, and it is a plea and it is an apology and sometimes Tommy wishes he had never become Dianthus. After all, the flowers weren’t always violent. There was a time, when he was younger and braver, that he had grown the flowers only because they were beautiful; only because it made people happy.

Now, Tommy is older. He knows better. Roses are not beautiful without their thorns, after all; nothing is beautiful when it is helpless. The flowers that fall from his hands like a curse are his one saviour, and Tommy should be grateful, but he is nothing more than scared.

“I don’t want to die,” Tommy whispers, and it’s not a lie. He wishes it was, but it’s not.

Tempest pauses. The bright light of the train reflects off the whites of his mask, like an angel with a blinding halo. Tommy is almost afraid to look away.

Tempest will not tell him that he will survive. Tommy knows this; though Tempest is not free of sin, he picks his lies carefully, deciding which ones he can slip into the back of someone’s head and cultivate like a withering flower. Tempest will not tell Tommy that he will not die tomorrow, because they both know it could be a lie. They both know the risks. They both know that Tommy was born to be a martyr for a cause that he will not live to see to fruition. Here, in the dark cavern that Tempest had claimed, Tommy is only an angel with burning wings. He is not a God. He cannot change what will happen anymore than he can turn away from it.

Tommy is fifteen. He is fifteen, and he is painfully human, and there are thorns under his skin that draw blood, and he wants to go home to a place that doesn’t exist outside of memories.

(He wants Ranboo. He wants Tubbo. He wants the Tommy that he had been all those years ago, when he was young and still believed in mercy. He wants the Tommy that still treasured beautiful things. He wants the Tommy that was happy.)

“Dianthus,” Tempest whispers. “You don’t have to do this.”

Tommy scoffs. “Don’t lie to me.”

Tempest is silent. The world is silent. Tommy keeps all his words locked up in the back of his throat, and he is silent too.

Tommy leaves, and he prepares himself for the last remaining hours before he faces death itself.

Tommy is almost back to the apartment when he sees him.

At first, he almost doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t believe that he can exist outside of dreams and memories. Doesn’t believe he stayed in the same city. Doesn’t believe that he is smiling, laughing, happy without Tommy.

And yet, Tubbo is sitting on a bench not even a hundred feet away.

Tommy sucks in a sharp breath. He clenches his fists, and digs his nails into his palm, trying desperately to draw blood through the thick cloth of his gloves. His lungs burn, and his head begins to pound, and it feels like he’s dying.

Some part of him, no matter how small, had been convinced that Tubbo was dead. Or rather: he was convinced that Tubbo was dead in the way that meant Tommy would never see him again. Tubbo was dead because he had gone quiet on the day they left, lips pressed tightly together as if held together by string, jaw set and eyes burning. Tubbo was dead because he hadn’t argued when Ranboo grabbed their stuff and hadn’t struggled as Ranboo led him down the stairs. 

Tubbo was dead because he had left Tommy all alone, something he had sworn he would never do, and he didn’t come back. Not when Tommy cried, not when he begged, not when sobbed until he threw up in the sink and no one was there to hold his hair back; not when Tommy had stitched his own stomach back together, hands trembling, blood running like tears down his skin; not when Tommy was alone and trembling and trapped, whispering apologies no one could hear, until his throat closed up and his palms exploded with white chrysanthemums and yellow roses.

He had broken his promises, and he had broken their little family, and he had broken Tommy’s heart.

(Sometimes—only when it was late enough to watch the moon make its slow descent back to the horizon line—Tommy had wished Tubbo was dead. It was selfish. It was horrible. It was so disgusting that he wanted to smash all the photo frames of them and pick the glass up with trembling hands. It was horrible; but it was true.

Sometimes, Tommy’s worried that he loves people the same way Dream says he loves him. With sharp teeth, and closed fists, and laughter that could all too easily turn into tears. He’s worried that one day, everyone will figure it out: that he is unlovable, that he is evil, that he is not the person they’ve convinced themselves to love.

He thought Tubbo loved him. He thought they were brothers. He thought, sometimes, that he could say the word family and mean it, even as it burned his tongue, even as it ripped his scars apart, even as it meant ignoring what happened every time he graced someone with that word.

Family was his parents. Family was Freddie and Eryn at the orphanage, before he even knew that family could be someone other than the people who had raised you. Family was Clay, with his wide smile and wheezing laughter.

Every single time, he lost them. Every single time.

Now, looking at Tubbo with his long hair and bright smile and undeniable happiness, Tommy wonders why he had convinced himself that they could be different.)

Tommy clenches his jaw. He feels his teeth grind up against each other, feels the ache in his mouth, tastes the slightest spot of blood in his mouth.

He should go back. He should go to the apartment that hasn’t been home since Tubbo and Ranboo left it. He should go back, and he should hide his face in the pillow, and he should pretend that he didn’t care in the first place.

Tommy glances back at Tubbo. He’s so close, sitting on that park bench, laughing with someone whose name Tommy doesn’t even know. Tommy could tear off the mask, and he could sit down and scream or cry or beg for forgiveness until his throat is raw with regret.

He could. He really fucking wants to.

But he doesn’t.

It’s not fair. Not to Tubbo, not to Ranboo, not to himself. Tommy knows he doesn’t deserve much, but he deserves more than throwing himself to the wolves without reason. Ranboo and Tubbo deserve the world, the sun and the moon and the stars, and Tommy knows he cannot give it to them so he only stays silent.

Tommy clenches his fists, and he stays in the alleyway, watching the boy who could have been his brother—who was his brother—walk away, waving his goodbyes to whoever he had been sitting next to.

Tommy shouldn’t follow him. He said he wouldn’t. He said he wouldn’t, even if the promise was only made to himself and Wilbur—

(“Someone hurt you,” Wilbur had said, leaning against the cafe counter.

Tommy was startled. Wilbur was rarely ever this blunt, and even less likely to be confrontational, but he was leaning against the counter with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Laughing and rubbing the back of his neck, Tommy takes a step back. “Wil, big man, I don’t—” he blabbers on for a few sentences more, attempting to redirect the conversation and deflect Wilbur’s words all together.

Wilbur’s face softened only a second later, and he took a step towards Tommy. “Sorry, fuck, I just—you—” Wilbur ran a hand through his brown hair, only adding to its mess. “I don’t want you hurt,” Wilbur whispered. It was the most vulnerable Tommy had ever seen him.

Tommy laughed again. It was still strained, but this time, there was genuine humour in it. If he was crueller, he might have told Wilbur he was too late. “No one hurt me, Wilbur,” he said instead.

Wilbur blinked. His jaw tightened, and his lips pursed. “Promise?”

Tommy never answered him.)

If he follows Tubbo, he is going to get hurt again. He will take off his mask and stand in front of Tubbo, smile wide and tears brimming in his eyes; did you miss me?

And Tubbo won’t answer. He’s nice to Tommy that way. He leaves in the middle of the night instead of staying to shout at him. 

Tubbo would see Tommy’s face and walk the other way, because Tubbo doesn’t lie—not to Tommy—and there’s only one answer he could give to Tommy’s question.

After all, if Tubbo missed him, he would have come back. If Tubbo had missed him, he wouldn’t have left in the first place.

Tommy shouldn’t follow Tubbo. He shouldn’t.

But he’s never been one to have his own best interests in mind.

Tommy sucks in a sharp inhale and follows the fossils of what could have been family.

The first word that Tommy says to Tubbo after months of being alone is ‘hi.’

Rather, it’s the first word that Dianthus says to Tubbo; Tommy hides, fists clenched tight and teeth gritted, behind his mask. Cowardly as it is, he’s not ready to face Tubbo. Not now; not with the danger, and the death, and guilt that pounds like a heartbeat throughout his synapses.

Later, Tommy tells himself around a shaky breath. Later.

(He ignores the echo of what will come. After all, if he dies tomorrow, is that really such a tragedy? Tubbo would never know the difference)

Tubbo whips around like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “What the absolute fuck?”

Now, Tubbo is alone. Tommy had waited for the friend to walk away, and stayed hidden in the trees, trying to work up the courage to speak. In the end, he was quiet until Tubbo finally rose from his spot on the bench, about to leave.

Tommy drops down from the tree he had been crouching in. He’s in full vigilante gear. It’s heavy, and drags down his steps, but his make-shift suit helps him blend in with the casual outfits of those passing by.

“Hi,” Tommy says again, because he’s sure that anything else he tries to say will get caught in his throat.

“Hi,” Tubbo says, a mixture of appalled and disbelieving. “Actually — no. Fuck you. I don’t say hi to weird vigilantes spying on me in trees.”

At that, Tommy feels heat rush to his cheeks. “I wasn’t spying on you.”

“No?”

“No!”

Tubbo raises his eyebrows, and puts his hands on his hips. He’s wearing an outfit not unlike one Tommy would have seen on him all those months ago, when they were still a makeshift family and not this jagged remnant of brotherhood. In fact, even the shirt Tubbo is wearing is familiar — a run-of-the-mill green crewneck, Tommy recognizes it with a painful sort of jolt in his lungs.

It’s his.

The shirt is his.

Even after everything, Tubbo had kept it. 

It makes that ugly thing burn in his lungs again, searing itself on the inside of his skin. They had shared clothes, before. After all, the three of them hadn’t had much variety to choose from as far as outfits went, and Tubbo was fine with tops a few sizes too large. Before, it hadn’t meant much — just another aspect of their lives that represented their deteriorating finances.

But now—

Now, Tommy can’t quite get himself to accept that even though Tubbo had left — had forgotten Tommy and cast him to the side — he had kept the shirt.

(Tommy wonders if he kept anything else. If he hadn’t really lost the picture book Ranboo made for them, but if it was instead taken. If Tommy’s missing sweatshirt was more than an unfortunate coincidence.

He wonders if they miss him too.)

In front of him, Tubbo says something, and Tommy snaps back to hands in front of his face.

Almost reflexively, he grabs Tubbo’s wrists, forcing the hands back down.

Tubbo blinks. “That’s rude.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy mutters, releasing Tubbo’s wrists. “You surprised me, that's all.”

“Doesn’t mean you can be violent.” Tubbo rubs his wrists, but Tommy can tell he’s hiding a smile under his forced pout. “Besides, I don’t even know you. You could be a creep attempting to kidnap me right now.”

Tommy shrugs. “This is the stranger danger your parents warned you about,” he says, biting back a smile even under the mask.

“My parents are dead,” Tubbo deadpans.

This time, Tommy can’t help but laugh. It bursts out of him like a dam, until he gives up on attempting to act imposing and leans against the tree, arms wrapped around his sides. “So are mine.”

With a smile flickering on the ends of his lips, Tubbo nods. “I guess that checks out. Pretty sure you have to have some sort of trauma in order to become like that.” He gestures at Tommy’s get-up.

“Now that’s just rude,” Tommy says, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I am rude,” Tubbo says, and he is smiling. Here, under the soft shadows that the tree branches weave across his face, he is alive and happy in a way that hurts. He is smiling, and Tommy should be happy for him, but it is tearing him apart because he wanted to be happy too. 

They were supposed to be happy together, after all.

Tommy sighs. Of all the things that he has grown to regret, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to regret Tubbo. Even after it has torn him apart. Even after there will be nothing left of him to hold resentment with, he will miss his best friend too much to hate him. Maybe that’s how it always would have been. Someone always has to leave first. That’s how it is. Someone will leave first, and it will never be him, because he is too clingy and loud and too much to be kept by someone.

Someone was always going to leave first. Here, with his own blood staining his hands, Tommy wishes that there was another version of this story, but there is not. Someone was always going to leave. Tommy was always going to be left over, like a gash that never quite closes; like a wound that grows more and more infected with each day but kept nonetheless, because sometimes the blood feels like a memory and he will do anything to relive those moments again. Sometimes, Tommy thinks he will let himself die before he stitches himself back together, if only so he can remember what it feels like to want so badly it tears himself apart.

“I have to leave,” Tommy says, and he leaves out the again that pounds in the back of his throat.

Tubbo shrugs. Tommy wonders if he had been so indifferent when they were first pulled apart. Sometimes, guiltily, he wishes that Tubbo was just as shattered as he was; made of jagged edges that drew blood no matter how much they were sanded down. Maybe it’s horrible, but Tommy wants to be wanted so bad it is tearing him into pieces of who he was. Maybe it’s horrible, but sometimes Tommy thinks he would set the world on fire just to feel a little warmth.

“Okay,” Tubbo says, and it is an acceptance that Tommy wants to refuse. He wants someone to fight to keep him; wants someone to leave claw marks across his arms when they finally let go. 

“Okay,” Tommy says, but he’s hesitant. Tubbo is looking at him, unimpressed, and just for a minute, Tommy wants to say everything that has been caught in the back of his throat for months. There is a secret he keeps locked deep inside of him with a key made of bone and a lock made of blood and he wishes he would stop tasting the iron on his tongue whenever he thinks of it. Tommy is only fifteen. He doesn’t want to keep secrets. Not from his best friend; not from his Tubbo.

Tommy bites down on the inside of his mouth; replaces the blood on his hands with the blood on his tongue. It is a trade of guilt for pain, and Tommy finds that it fails to dull the feeling of either.

“It’s—” Tommy starts, wincing as his words get caught in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Tommy might die tomorrow; in fact, if everything goes right, he might have to. And Tommy isn’t prepared to grieve for himself. He is fifteen. As much as he is familiar with the feeling of his own blood in his mouth, he is not ready to lay down in the ground surrounded by people he had failed, and he is not ready to move on, and he is not ready to give up the chance at everything he ever wanted but never seemed to wrap his fingers around. He is fifteen, and nothing is going right, and that shouldn’t be a death sentence but it is.

It shouldn’t be a death sentence, but god, it really is.

Tommy takes a slow, purposeful breath. He looks at Tubbo. He is radiant, here in the park, and he is everything that Tommy wanted for him. He is safe. He is smiling, even through the line of confusion that wrinkles his forehead.

(He has forgotten Tommy, and that is the best thing that Tommy could have wished for him. He’s not selfless enough to want it yet, but maybe he would have some day. If he had gotten the chance. After all, he is fifteen, and he wants the world to watch him as he dies for it.)

“Are you happy?” Tommy asks. It is a confession layered into three careful words. Are you happy without me? In the end, will the sacrifice be worth it? In the end, will I be worth enough to die for you?

Tubbo laughs, but he’s unnerved. Tommy can see it in the small, uncomfortable smile and wide eyes, like an animal of prey. “I—what?”

“Are you happy?” Tommy repeats, and he doesn’t care whether Tubbo finds out now. Some part of him—the selfish, horrible part—wants Tubbo to rip off the mask and find Tommy underneath. Some part of Tommy wants to see his best friend face to face before he dies for him.

(He is dying for everyone. He knows this. He will die for the little old lady on the street who refuses to let anyone help her with her groceries. He will die for the man who owns the sandwich shop and always gave Ranboo a free sub. He will die for the boy who has been riding his bicycle every day just so he can show his dad how much he has improved when he returns. He is dying for all of them, but Tommy is selfish, so he is also dying for Tubbo and Ranboo and Wilbur; he is selfish, and so he is dying for the remnants of family that he used to have.)

“Maybe,” Tubbo says, and it is startlingly honest. “I could be, if I tried.”

And that quiet admission might be enough.

“Okay,” Tommy says, and he cannot ignore the irony of it all; that it was only after he started to want to truly live that he learned he must die. He wonders if anyone will care. He wonders if anyone will notice.

Of course, they will notice Dianthus’ absence. They will celebrate the lack of the vigilante underfoot, constantly stirring up trouble. They will notice the way the flowers wilt suddenly, as if all of the sun has been sucked from the world. They will notice Dianthus’ absence, sure, but they will not notice Tommy’s.

And maybe that’s a tragedy. Maybe it’s the final act in the play of Tommy’s life; his final starring role. Tommy, in all of his selfishness and loudness and naivete that comes with being fifteen years old, will be forgotten. Just as the flowers littering the ground will eventually be stomped underfoot, Tommy will be left behind in everyone’s joy. He will be a tragedy, and then he will be a corpse, and then he will be nothing more than a memory of what he could have been if he had more time.

Tommy has accepted this. He has. He has accepted his fate the same way one accepts the existence of a god; it has to be true, because if it is not, he would have no reason to pretend he is a good person.

“Good,” Tommy says to Tubbo, and he is fifteen and dying and it was never supposed to be like this. He is five years older than anyone thought he would make it but it’s still not enough, and he can feel his blood boil underneath this skin that can barely hold him back. “Good. You should be happy.”

He means it with everything he has left. With the remnants of who he was before Tubbo-Ranboo-Tommy became shattered into two, Tommy hopes Tubbo will be happy enough for the both of them; happy enough without him.

He’s done well so far, Tommy thinks, and it is bitter and mean and heartbroken but so is he. He is fifteen, and he is going to die tomorrow, and he just wants someone to miss him when he leaves.

“I—thank you?” Tubbo says hesitantly.

Tommy resists the urge to tear off the mask. Resists the urge to look at Tubbo, arms spread wide, and say look at me. Look at the monster I’ve become. Look at what I must do to earn my salvation.

He wonders if Tubbo will think more fondly of him after he dies. Then again, maybe Tubbo won’t know. It’s not as if anyone besides Wilbur—and arguably his family—will care if Tommy dies. He is one teenager among a city of thousands, and there is nothing special about Tommy.

Maybe Tubbo won’t know. Maybe he will rest in peaceful ignorance while Tommy rests in the grave. Maybe Tubbo will have a chance at what Tommy was never able to achieve; maybe he can be happy.

Tommy knows that Tubbo is not really thanking him, but he will take the gratitude anyway, and use it to cover the wound of rejection that grows ever more infected. He will die. Maybe he gets a miraculous escape, maybe someone saves him, but Tommy has never been lucky.

He will die for his world; he will die for Tubbo and Ranboo and Wilbur.

They are, after all, the exact same thing.

“Goodbye,” Tommy says. It is one sided, but he means it all the same. This, here, is the last goodbye Tommy will get to say to the boy who was his brother. With this simple word, he will be finally running forever away from the home he almost built. “Don’t throw it away.”

He is dying for Tubbo. For everyone else, too, but if it were not for the people he still calls brothers maybe he wouldn’t care enough in the first place. Tommy stands next to the boy who he grew up with. This was never going to work. They were always going to outgrow each other, although Tommy had never expected it to end in so much bloodshed.

(He remembers that they received a note. He remembers seeing specks of magic on it. He remembers grey eyes, and memories that were not their own, and he remembers this warning: they are always watching. Sometimes, Tommy hates them for leaving. Other times, he knows it is not their fault. All the same, Tommy had let them leave, because he is selfish but he will not let them die just so he could pretend to have a family. Someone was always going to have to leave first. Though Tubbo and Ranboo were the ones who stepped out of the apartment without saying a true goodbye, Tommy was the one who hadn’t chased after them. Maybe that is a sort of leaving too; the act of pretending not to care so much it was killing him.)

He takes one last look at the boy who he will die for. Tubbo is older. He has more scars on his face. He is sadder, in some ways, with circles under his eyes. He is worth Tommy’s blood spilling, and he is worth more than Tommy could ever manage to give him.

This is for you, Tommy thinks but does not say, and then he is turning and running away like the coward he has always been, his back to his family and facing towards his inevitable doom. Tommy is not made for love. He is not made for softness. 

Tommy is made for death, and here, swallowing down the yearning for something more than this, he will do anything to save his family from the same fate.