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Tommy walks forward, shutting his eyes. There is no fall, no more air to be pushed out of his lungs. For once, the emptiness is welcomed. The silence no longer pricks his skin and makes his anger bleed out in a big, bold font of flickering flames. Instead, it’s peaceful.
When he opens his lids, Tubbo is still on the bench.
He walks forward again. “Tubbo?”
Tubbo turns around, lips parted. “Oh,” He lets out, eyes softening at the sight of Tommy. “Oh, um. Hey, Tommy.”
“Hi, Tubbo,” Tommy greets back, plopping onto the bench. “What are you—” Tommy pauses. Tubbo stares, eyes big and stained with far too much bloodshed. “—What are you doing out here, alone?”
“I’m,” Tubbo isn’t sure what to say, either. The air is tense. “I’m thinking.”
“Oh.” Tommy doesn’t say anything else.
What would he even say? There’s nothing to be done to mend their friendship. It’s broken and lifeless and bordering on the path of nonexistent. Maybe it is already. He doesn’t know.
Instead of thinking about it, Tommy turns his head forward. The sky is colored in an orange and red hue, and it used to be pretty: now all it does is remind Tommy of blood, of war, of L’manburg. He doesn’t like it.
He hates it, actually. He pierces a nail into his skin.
Tubbo notices. “Don’t do that.” He demands, softly, from the side of Tommy. His eyes don’t seem to be so rough anymore; instead, they’re crinkled. Crinkled in worry, sadness. Tommy doesn’t like that look. Not one bit.
“Don’t do what?” Tommy asks, even though there’s that look of understanding in his own eyes. Tubbo glares at him, not seriously, but it still gets a reaction out of Tommy. Tommy is reminded, solemnly, of the time when Tubbo cried because of him. Because of the words he’d said in the spur of the moment, overwhelmed by his own rage and too rageful to see that Tubbo was a human, too. Tommy forgot that. He wouldn’t again. “Sorry.” He says, looking down. His apologies used to die in his throat, too weak to say them and too prideful to show them.
“It’s fine,” Tubbo replies. “I— I’m not the best, either, if I’m being honest. I started biting my nails again.” There’s a weak, slightly-wheezed laugh that falls out of his lips, and it brightens Tommy’s mood a bit.
“You too?” Tommy asks, halfly-grinning, now. “I have this thing where I wake up in a sweat, remembering everything bad that’s ever happened to me. And it’s like, why the fuck?”
“Oh, me too!” Tubbo says, brightening. “I call that ‘mental breakdown’ hour. It only happens in the dead of the night.”
“Same,” Tommy agrees, easily. When he looks over at Tubbo, he’s smiling; there’s something about that smile that makes him relax. “I don’t know if it’s necessarily healthy, but… you know, it’s whatever. Nowadays, it’s rare if I even sleep at all.”
Tubbo stares at him, sadly. “Yeah, I get that. No shame in it, big man,” He says, and it lures a big, genuine smile out of Tommy. “Anyways, um. How have you been doing lately? I haven’t really heard from you since you got out of the prison.”
‘The prison’ makes Tommy frown. “Good. Or, as good as I can do, being half-dead ‘n all,” Tommy says, and it makes Tubbo flinch slightly. Despite that, he speaks again. Willing, this time—and for once—to talk about it. “It’s alarming, somewhat. Everytime I take damage, there’s a jolt in my skin that just… hurts. It hurts so badly, and it makes me panic. I remember, then, Dream’s fists, and—” Tommy stops, bringing his hands over his eyes. Even with them there, his breaths don’t ease up. “—it’s the worst. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Tubbo repeats. Tommy feels bad. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t imagine how— how it must have felt. It sounds horrible.”
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. “It is.”
Tubbo stares at Tommy, but Tommy doesn’t stare back.
“Do you have a pimple?” Tubbo asks, narrowing his eyes. Tommy, who was staring at the sunset, snaps his head over to Tubbo.
“No, I don’t,” Tommy defends, quickly, voice devoid of any earlier sadness. “I don’t have a fucking pimple, Tubbo,” He repeats again, more angrily. Tubbo only grimaces. “You’re mocking me. I’m dead, and you’re mocking me—”
“You’re not dead, Tommy,” Tubbo responds, sighing. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“No, I won’t stand for this,” Tommy stands up, and Tubbo follows his movement. His expression has, by now, morphed into one of slight amusement. “You’ve changed, Tubbo.”
“You’re standing right n—” Tommy shoots him a glare, and Tubbo pauses. Then, continuing, “I didn’t notice any changes. Maybe dying has messed with your head.”
“What the fuck,” Tommy lets out, baffled. “Has being with that lanky son of a bitch messed with your head that much?”
Tubbo frowns, confused. “Lanky son of a— Ranboo?”
“Yeah, that bitch!” Tommy says, shaking his head. “He’s a wrongun, obviously. I know wroguns when I see ‘em. I’m like a hiro— horoscope, or some shit.”
“Horoscope?” Tubbo repeats, eyes wide. “Holy shit, you’re a zodiac?”
“What the fuck’s a zowd—” Tommy stares down at the grass, lifelessly. His eyebrows are crinkled, though, giving signs that he’s probably thinking. “How— what? What is that?”
Turning to Tubbo with a confused expression, Tubbo stares. Tommy is surrounded by the glow of the sunset, and it’s— well, it’s peaceful. For once, it’s peaceful.
“It’s a horoscope,” Tubbo answers, simply. “Sort of. Like your— um, your birth month sign. I’m a… capricorn, I think.”
“I,” Tommy looks even more confused now. “I have no clue what that is.”
Tubbo laughs, and Tommy smiles. No hesitance, no tenseness. Just… pure, unrestricted happiness. It’s nice.
Tommy turns around, and an onrush of air zephyrs past him, swinging his hair into his eyes and making him cry out in shock. Next to him, Tubbo watched the scene with big, watery eyes, as if seeing a firework show for the first time. Finally, he pushed Tommy in his arms and hugged him.
“Are you sad, Tubbo?” Tommy asks, gently, with no real anger behind it.
“No, big man,” Tubbo responds. “Just missed this.”
Tommy is silent for a moment. Then, hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Tubbo, too, and mumbles, “Yeah, me too, Big T.”