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“Where’s Wilbur?”
Tommy can’t remember who the first to ask the question was. It hangs in the air, grasping for its answer, but the answer doesn’t come.
Maybe if he were unsure that Tubbo is safe, Tommy wouldn’t have run to find his brother. Or maybe he would have– he’s not entirely certain. All he could recognize in the fog of his brain was that Tubbo is safe, and he has to find Wilbur now, as if ticking things off of a checklist.
Whatever. Tommy’s helmet falls to the ground with a clang, but it does not slow him down. It goes unheard amongst the deafening shrill of fireworks. His communicator shakes in his hand, buzzing with a message from Tubbo.
are you ok?
Oh, Tubbo. Always looking out for Tommy even when a dagger was held to his throat not even fifteen minutes ago. It’s a miracle he had an extra ender pearl on him, or Technoblade would have claimed his final life.
(Briefly, Tommy wonders if Tubbo’s final life means anything to Technoblade, or if claiming it would be nothing more than a short story he tells at parties– “that one time I killed a president,” he can even imagine in that backstabbing bastard’s voice. But Tubbo is safe, so that thought is not important. Finding Wilbur is what’s important.)
Another message from Tubbo comes in, saying he could see the old White House in the distance and he’s moving towards it cautiously. Tommy is just behind that same building, desperately trying to remember where the tunnel is. He knows Wilbur is in that godforsaken room; he can practically see the way the gloved hand lingers over that button, even if he isn’t there.
But Tommy can’t find the beginning of the tunnel, and he realizes that Wilbur must have changed it after the first time he’d been caught in there. Fuck.
It’s a setback, but not a complete loss. He knows there’s still time for Wilbur to be saved– even if it's slipping out of Tommy’s fingers like sand. Tommy moves to the front of the building, he stands in the spot where he was banished, and he hopes Tubbo will be able to see him in the midst of everything else happening. He looks to his communicator to start a reply.
meet me in front of the whi
The fireworks are only in the distance, but Tubbo can hear them like they’re just next to his ear. They’re not enjoyable by any means, but he’s grateful to not be the target this time around. Once more he glances down to his communicator, hoping for any response from Tommy.
There is no response.
Tubbo keeps moving on, assuming that Tommy may have just dropped it and broke it (which has happened a shameful amount of times before, even they were not in times of war). So no big deal.
The explosions last for a few minutes. This terrain is familiar; there is only a hill or two left to climb to get to the White House. Tubbo gets closer and closer until the explosions… stop. He sees a helmet glimmering with enchantments, and he immediately recognizes it as Tommy’s. Without thinking, he picks it up.
It becomes eerily quiet, suddenly. No cries of victory or anguish, which he would have accepted all the same because he’s grabbing at straws to piece together what is happening– and then Tubbo climbs the final hill to reach the White House.
There is only the faint rumble of dust settling and rush of running water when Tubbo finds that he is the newfound president of a crater.
He also spots armor, glistening enchanted netherite shining in the sun– wait, holy shit there’s a person in that armor, unmoving at the bottom of the hole, blanketed in a thick layer of dust and dirt, one sleeve soaked in muddy water, and as Tubbo moves closer he comes to realize that the person has no helmet on, and fuck, no explosion or execution has scared him as much as what his panicked brain is telling him and–
That’s blonde hair. Coated in dust and dirt, but it’s blonde.
Others watch as Tubbo rushes to the bottom of the site, very nearly tripping on debris on the way down, but it’s the least of his worries. He catches only a glimpse of the people he knows as friends– Niki, Eret, Fundy, Quackity– but they’re just standing there doing nothing, and in this moment he very much hates them for it.
He doesn’t really hear the words he says, only feels breaths rapidly entering and exiting his lungs probably far too fast for his own good, only feels his lips moving and eyes studying the limp boy in front of him. He isn’t sure when he drops to his knees.
“Tommy?” Tubbo grabs the boy’s bloodied, motionless hand, “Tommy, Tommy, you– come on– please don’t. I know you’re not– ...no. Come on.”
The metal of Tommy’s braces catch the sun in a flash, and Tubbo is burned by the reminder of how young they both are, how young he is–
“You’ve lived through so much, surely this won’t be the thing that… Tommy. This isn’t fucking funny. Snap the fuck out of it, Tommy!”
There is no response.
Tubbo feels his neck for a pulse, just like he’d been taught during the revolution.
Nothing.
So he checks in a different spot, because maybe he’s gotten it wrong, it has been a long time since then–
Nothing.
No tears gather in his eyes when the truth takes its first step in settling into his brain, it’s all only chilling stillness. Tubbo looks up, too-big helmet wobbling on his head at the sudden movement, and he searches for who the fuck did this. Someone is speaking, but he can’t tell who. They sound worlds away. If he tries hard enough he can pick up a word or two.
“…Forever unfinished!”
Tubbo’s blood boils at the pride in their voice. How could anyone possibly be proud of this? How could they find even the slightest bit of satisfaction at the destruction of lives? He has to turn around fully to see the ripped trenchcoat and the bloody fingers.
Wilbur is begging, Tubbo realizes. Wilbur is pleading for his own father to kill him.
The two lock eyes for the briefest of moments; there’s a hint of realization in Wilbur’s dark eyes when he looks upon what he’s done– or rather, whose body it is besides Tubbo.
The awareness hits them both at once: Wilbur killed Tommy, and Tubbo wants him dead for it.
“Kill me, Phil. Kill me! Do it, murder me,” Wilbur begs, a new tremble present in his voice. He glances at Tubbo, identifies the cold rage the boy’s fists shake with, and says, “Look, they all want you to!”
Tubbo looks away as Wilbur gets what he deserves.
(Maybe.)
(Tubbo knows, better than anyone, the feeling of eyes upon him as he dies, the imaginary pressure that comes from the image of all his friends watching him die and being able to do nothing. It is agonizing.
How selfish of Wilbur to gaze at his friends, see the look in their eyes that scream at him that they don’t want him to leave, and then leave anyway? It is selfish.
How selfish of him, Tubbo thinks, to get the death he wants? How cruel that he is granted that, while his brother– how that title feels wrong now– perished in an instant, without getting to see his friends’ smiles one more time? It is cruel.)
The newly declared president of L’Manberg sits at the bottom of the crater. He catches glances of pity from the people who know him, from the people who knew Tommy, and he wants to curse them out for doing nothing at all to help, he wants to look away but the only other place to look is a dead body. And it’s so fucking ugly. He doesn’t want his last image of– no. He won’t let the last look be something ugly.
Because it’s not Tommy– it might be his body, but it isn’t him. This phony might wear his signature red and white tee, but it’s all red now, so how could it possibly be the boy Tubbo knew? It's disgusting, and its eyes don’t hold that same spark that Tommy was known for, loved for, and– and Tubbo wants to scream that it’s a fraud but the logical part of his brain knows he’ll just sound crazy.
But then again, they’ll all move on, right? They’ll hear how loud he screams and keep on with their lives because he’s just a child blinded by grief, a child that could not scream as loud as the fireworks shot at him a month ago, a half hour ago. They’ll think of the sixteen years Tommy lived and think with distant resignment, that was enough.
But it wasn’t enough. Sixteen years isn’t enough, and Tubbo will hate them for giving up on Tommy so quickly.