Archive of Our Own

It is Election Day.

Everything has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Wilbur stands on the edge of the stage, Chekhov’s metaphorical gun aimed at his forehead in the form of a crossbow, bolt pressing against his flesh. Distantly, he thinks he can hear Tommy screaming, thinks he can hear the citizens of L’Manburg shouting, but all he can see is the dark, burning eyes in front of him; tusks bared and a furrowed brow.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Technoblade drawls, eyes squinting.

“You have a crossbow to my head,” Wilbur says, quietly. His heart hammers in his ears. “Technoblade—”

The bolt draws back. Wilbur takes a breath and closes his eyes, shoulders tensing. There is the soft chink of the crossbow, and—

There is a shout. His vision goes white.

Wilbur shoots bolt upright in the woods.

It takes a moment for it all to set in. He’s died. He’s just died. Crossbow bolt through the brain, there’s a scar and everything. It’s the whole shebang. Wilbur lifts a hand and prods at the scarred skin of his forehead where metal just glinted and gleamed a few moments before.

He does not have time to sit here and marvel at his own death. Tommy is still in danger. L’Manburg is—

Tommy first, L’Manburg later. Wilbur staggers to his feet.

(And he does not think of Technoblade’s face, so different from the jovial emperor that he had teased back on his own server, the way their politics were mostly games and his father had taken Techno’s side if only to tease his son, and—

Wilbur swallows and shivers as he puts Techno’s intimidating gaze in the back of his mind.)

It is a long, lonely wait in the woods. Wilbur waits near spawn, crouched behind a tree, and attempts to ignore the way his heart races.

It hits him there, standing next to a tall oak. He’s been exiled.

Some desperate, deep-set part of him wants to laugh. Wants to hit something, or cry, or, or scream—for his country, for his L’Manburg, for the flag he hand-painted and the election stage he designed and policies he reworked until his hair bled white and he tore it all out—

And is irony not the cruelest of all things? Does it not mock him now; he is an exile in his presidential suit, cowering as he waits for his littlest brother.

But Tommy’s not here yet. Wilbur can’t bear to fail him more than he already has. Wilbur needs a plan, needs ideas, he needs something because they’re in the middle of the fucking woods and L’Manburg is nothing but dead man’s land—

(He has ideas, of course. He’s Wilbur. And he’s—never been cast out before, never so violently and never like this. But to say that he hasn’t already gone through a dozen half-formed plans, assessed them, and methodically cast each one aside, would be a lie.

There is one idea that works. It’s not very good.)

Behind him, there is a crack as something breaks.

Wilbur does not hesitate. He whirls around. In a single fluid motion, his crossbow is loaded; his expression, ruthless; he is all too aware of the two lives he has lost and the single one that remains—

Tommy stands with one foot in the air, hovering over a broken twig.

“Wilbur,” he whispers as his weapon dematerializes. It sounds like a prayer.

His sword is chipped and dull. His armor enchantments have long-since faded. Tommy stands, bare as a live wire: eyes blown, breaths shallow, fingers trembling. Bare as a leaf that’s just been ripped off of its tree.

The crossbow falls to the floor, forgotten.

“Tommy!”

He tears across the clearing. A thousand words demand his attention, clamoring to be said. Wilbur bites them all back. He crashes into his little brother; Tommy grunts—Wil, oh my God—and Wilbur is positively crushed into a hug. He holds Tommy back just as tight. He’s breathless, he realises; he’s heaving, as though the world’s run out of air, and Wilbur digs his fingers into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt and forces himself to calm down. “I wasn’t sure you were—are you hurt? Did any of them see you?”

Tommy shakes his head into Wilbur’s chest. “No. No, I think we’re alright for now.”

Wilbur murmurs a breathless thank you, before he all but sags into his little brother. They hold each other; for hours, maybe. Tommy does not pull away.

They are alone, and unarmed. “Wil,” Tommy says, sounding dangerously fragile. His words are muffled by Wilbur’s coat. “You saw who that was, right?”

“I—” Wilbur’s voice cracks. “Yeah, Tommy. I did.”

“Wil,” Tommy insists, as though Wilbur’s missing something. “Wil. That was Techno.”

He doesn’t sound heartbroken, he just sounds—horrified. Betrayed. He sounds like a child torn apart by disbelief, and Wilbur understands.

And how fucking awful is that, that Wilbur understands? That’s Techno, Technoblade, who annotated his favorite books for Wilbur to read. Technoblade, who corrected Tommy’s stance the first time he held a sword. Technoblade, who—who—

(Who levelled a crossbow right between Wilbur’s eyes.)

“I know,” Wilbur says.

“He—he killed you, in front of everyone, I saw it—”

Wilbur’s breath hitches. His voice is even when he whispers, “I know, Tommy.”

“He made Tubbo his advisor.”

And Wilbur doesn’t know that. He almost pulls back, almost gives into the desire to look Tommy in the eyes and make sure he’s not lying. But Tommy shudders and draws in a rattled breath like he’s trying not to scream.

“I know,” Wilbur lies. “I saw that happen too.”

He stomachs the betrayal, and that seems to have been the right thing to do. Tommy finally pulls away, raising his chin to meet Wilbur’s own. It’s cold without the embrace, but Wilbur resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

They’re both still shaking, he realises. Wilbur makes the effort to stop first.

“Then—then we need to do something, right?” Tommy asks, hugging himself. “Surely they can’t just keep us out of L’Manburg.”

A bit of the old fire dances behind his eyes. Wilbur nods and the flame erupts, and Tommy launches into the sort of speech he might have made had they won today. “That’s our country, man! Our L’Manburg! And—and Technoblade can’t just fuckin’ take it, because that is a shit thing to do, and—”

(And there is one idea that works. And it isn’t very good.)

Wilbur takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Tommy,” he interrupts. “That’s all very well and good, man, but we need more than just words to take back L’Manburg.”

“No, no, of course, if we can get our friends to help us—”

“They won’t help us, Tommy.”

“If we can get our friends to help us,” Tommy repeats, eyes narrowing, “then we can all fight him together—”

“Tommy, I want to enlist Schlatt.”

Tommy falls silent.

(It’s a shit fucking idea. Every fibre of his being protests it.

Wilbur has considered everything. It’s the only idea he has left.)

Wilbur braces himself. At the very least, it’s out in the open now. They have to consider it. Tommy pauses. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

“What the fuck.”

“No, Tommy, look—” Wilbur steps toward him, and Tommy leans away. He puts every last bit of meaning into the words. “I hate him too. I despise him, Tommy, you know I do.”

“Then why—” Tommy starts, then stops. “Wilbur, why?”

“Because we need someone who’s not with L’Manburg, man!” How does Tommy not see it? “And someone who’s not with Dream, either. And I hate to say it, but Tommy—Tommy—”

Tommy stares at him, horrified. Wilbur’s voice dips, just shy of pleading. “Schlatt fits the bill.”

It’s like an explosion goes off.

“Schlatt absolutely does not fit the fucking bill—”

“Name one person we know, Tommy!” Wilbur says, voice rising as he throws his arms out. “Just one person, one who isn’t with Technoblade, or Dream, or, or the Badlands—”

“Jack!” Tommy splutters. “Fundy! Tubbo!”

Wilbur bristles. “No.”

“Why not?”

“They work for L’Manburg, you know that—”

“Niki, then! Ask her!”

Wilbur’s nostrils flare. “I am not putting her in danger. Face it, Tommy, we can’t depend on any of them—”

“Well, we can’t depend on Schlatt, either. Are you fucking insane?”

“We’re fighting fucking Technoblade, Tommy!” Wilbur shouts.

Tommy startles back. Wilbur heaves. His hands hurt, and—he clenched them into fists, at some point. He unclenches them. There are angry marks on his palms.

(Technoblade, pink-haired and snide and so utterly reserved. Technoblade, who was their mentor first and their rival second but who, above all, was their brother, who has cast them out and left them to die.)

“This isn’t fucking—this is Techno, Tommy,” Wilbur says quietly. “Technoblade. And we can’t—we can’t win. Not on our own. We need help, and I don’t like it any more than you do—”

“You are just so rude,” a voice says, “do you know that?”

Wilbur freezes. His throat runs dry.

Sauntering out from the trees and into the clearing is Schlatt. He is somehow still impeccably groomed, as though the election hadn’t turned into a riot and hostile takeover. Without the stress of appearances to keep up, Wilbur finally takes in the details. His horns, he notes distantly, have grown out. They curl, polished, at the sides of his head. A devil’s headpiece. Wilbur remembers when they barely curled out from under his hair.

When Schlatt steps up to Wilbur, he easily meets his eyes.

“Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur,” his tone is eloquent; he is deliberate in the way he draws out the vowels. He sounds like a cat with a mouse’s tail hanging from its paws. Wilbur is exactly where Schlatt wants him, he realizes.

Did he know?

He takes another step, and Wilbur’s breath hitches. Schlatt grins. His breath is hot and acrid. The hair on the back of Wilbur’s neck prickles.

“You wound me.” Schlatt cocks his head, frowns. His face is inches from Wilbur’s. “You know that?”

Wilbur hears his pulse, deadlocked in his throat. His insides coil into something grotesque. Schlatt leans in, closer, closer, until Wilbur, panicked, is forced to lean back.

Schlatt notices. His smirk is that of a schoolyard bully.

Wilbur comes to his senses and finally shoves Tommy behind him. His blood rushes in his ears; he does not hear himself growl.

“How long have you been listening.”

Schlatt shrugs. “Long enough to know that we can help each other.” He smiles, a dark and dangerous thing. “We both want Technoblade to mosey on outta here. Certainly we can come to some sort of agreement, eh?”

Tommy’s protests fall on deaf ears. Wilbur, hesitating for only a moment, sticks a hand out. “You’re our last ditch effort. I hope you know.”

Schlatt grins. “Oh,” he says, sly as a fox, “I know, Mr. President.”

Pogtopia is cold.

The walls are tall and imposing, the stone is dark and drab; most surfaces are damp and beginning to line themselves with moss, becoming dangerously slippery. Torchlight glints off of slick stone and soaked wooden walkways, and a firepit still struggles and smolders in the central area. The cots scattered about are mostly bare, save for a few scratchy blankets, a few pillows. There is not much in the way of comfort.

It is a place meant for leaving. Wilbur does not enjoy sharing this space with Schlatt—sharing with Tommy is fine—but constantly bumping elbows with Schlatt? He despises it.

“You could be useful for once, you know,” Wilbur snaps over the edge of the ledge he’s perched on, putting the finishing touches on a bridge across the ravine. It’s precarious, but most walkways are—railings take too much time to put up, and they’re all grown-ups (well, mostly) here anyway.

Schlatt sits by the firepit, prodding at the embers with a stick. He tilts his head back to meet Wilbur’s gaze, eyebrows raising. In any other circumstance, it would look comical. Wilbur might have even laughed. “You told me to, and I quote, ‘stay out of the fucking way,’ I’m just followin’ orders.”

Wilbur’s lip curls. He throws a rock down at him, the pebble bouncing off one of Schlatt’s horns. It draws a snort of laughter out of him, his cold eyes glittering as Wilbur climbs back down to his level.

“I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Schlatt’s voice is a grating drawl, an awful sort of stimuli on Wilbur’s ears. He grimaces at the sound of hooves against stone, and forces himself to smile—however pained—as he turns to face Schlatt in full. He feels far from presidential in this coat. Part of him likes it.

“You know,” he says, presidentially primly, “I don’t think that’s true.”

Because here is the thing about Schlatt and Wilbur: once upon a time, they had been very good friends. They were the poet and the politician, going head to head, stories against sales pitches ever since they were old enough to sell and tell them. Debating, deflecting; one loses and one wins and it’s an understanding, it’s friendship, it’s fun. Except slowly the debates become arguments. Slowly, those arguments become fights, and suddenly they can’t stand the way each one is a mirror. Except one day it explodes and Wilbur storms off and Schlatt screams—and they never talk again.

Until they do. And it is a mirror, same as before, except they are not the ones under threat of exploding.

Wilbur thinks he may still murder Schlatt. His policies have always been about words over violence, but something about Schlatt is just so damn kickable. He desperately wants to punch him in the face. He keeps himself under control, of course, but by the gods does it sound like it would be a satisfying thing to do.

(Here is a fact about one Wilbur Soot: he is a patient man, but patience has been running long and thin since far before the elections.)

“Aw, Wilbur.” Schlatt leans against the wall of the ravine, head cocked. “It’s not like I missed you. I don’t think anybody would.”

(Here is a fact about one J. Schlatt: he is incredibly good at seeing the heart of the issue, and twisting the knife to make the heart bleed.)

Wilbur is a president first, man second. But he forgets, briefly, that he is everything else before he is Wilbur Soot, if only for just a moment, just long enough to feel righteous fury. To feel wounded, to feel deeply offended, and he throws the first punch.

Schlatt’s jaw makes a satisfying crack. There’s a shout that gets cut off as horns scrape against stone and Wilbur grinds Schlatt’s face into the rock. Firm hands shove him back by the shoulders, and Schlatt’s nose is bleeding as he stares him dead in the eyes. His pupils are blown wide with anger and… and something else, something remarkably similar to concern. Wilbur can’t help but laugh, bitterly. Schlatt’s expression only twists further.

“Fuck off,” Wilbur finally says, and for once Schlatt says nothing in response.

“What are our biggest threats right now?”

“The SMP,” Quackity says, immediately. “They have Dream on their side.”

(Three days have passed since the election. Not for the first time, Manburg’s cabinet has convened in the meeting room.)

“The Badlands as well,” Fundy adds, far less eager. “Dream has allies there, too.”

(Three days is quite a long time, actually.

Three days is Wilbur Soot’s public execution. Three days is a nation, shellshocked, newly-christened Manburg. Three days is terror, is screaming, is Tommy’s pounding footsteps, unheard in the chaos.)

“I’m hearin’ a lot of Dream right now,” the president drawls, not bothering to look up from the map in front of him, “and not enough threats.”

Fundy flinches. Quackity leans back, unsettled.

(Three days, Tubbo thinks, ever-silent as he watches, is him, cowering. Is him gripping his communicator with trembling hands, and promising to be Pogtopia’s spy.)

“Come on now.” Technoblade looks up and smiles, all teeth. Fundy hesitantly straightens his posture. “You’re all really scared of one guy?”

“Technoblade, that’s not—” Quackity starts, and then frowns. “Huh. I wasn’t there to see that, actually.”

“He isn't just one guy, sir,” Fundy says, muted. “He nearly won them the war.”

Technoblade appears unconvinced.

“He did win them the independence war,” Tubbo corrects, tone carefully neutral. It’s one hour into the meeting; he’s doing well, he thinks. Nobody notices his foot tapping. “We’re only independent because—”

He hesitates. And of course Technoblade turns to him then. Tubbo keeps his face down; closes his eyes and plays the mourning soldier. Deep breaths. He looks back up.

“We’re only independent because someone else made that sacrifice.”

It seems to do the trick. Technoblade regards him, and nods. Tubbo’s pulse spikes. Quackity bristles, almost—annoyed? Tubbo shakes his head at him, what?

Fundy stifles a snort. In a kinder lifetime, Tubbo might have laughed, too.

He startles, instead, at the racket of a chair scraping. The president stands up.

“Quackity?” he asks, still bent over the map of Manburg.

The man in question stiffens. “I—yes, Technoblade?”

The meeting table is long, narrow. It magnifies every inch of Technoblade, reflects harsh light onto the edges of his heavy cape and newly-minted presidential badge. His teeth are sharp. His axe, fixed to his hip, gleams.

“Not to disrupt any… trends that may be happenin’”—Technoblade lazily scans the three of them—”but I don’t see any armories out here. Have you guys ever considered wearin’ armor, if you’re so scared of Dream?”

Quackity breathes out. On the opposite side of the table, Fundy shoots Tubbo a nervous glance.

Technoblade huffs. “Well?”

“It’s the law,” Fundy says hesitantly, when Quackity doesn’t. Technoblade turns to face him, and he shrinks back. “It’s—Wilbur, um, ordered it. When he was president.”

A window flies open, startling everyone. The temperature drops. Tubbo, trance-like, rises and swings it back shut.

“What I’m hearin’ right now, Fundy,” Technoblade sneers, “is that he made you guys give up your only means of protection.”

Nobody disagrees. They can hear the wind outside, howling.

Tubbo frowns. He’s still stood up, posture near-perfect. His body feels—not tethered to him, he thinks. Like it’s floating. His blood rushes in his ears. A static sound, then, he feels his fingers brush against fabric—his new tie. It’s stiff. Red, to match the colour of the handkerchief in his front pocket. Tubbo blinks. He clenches and unclenches his hands. Floats back down, just barely. Technoblade is surveying the room. His eyes land on Tubbo. They furrow in—concern?—and he makes as if to speak.

Something protective curls in Tubbo’s chest.

“He never made us do anything,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

Technoblade’s eyes deadlock into his, and Tubbo is thrust sharply back into his body.

Shit. Tubbo does not flinch—does not allow himself to consider flinching—but instead stands tall, easily meeting Technoblade’s eyes. The detachment helps. He clears his throat.

“Seriously, guys,” he says, throwing an arm out with fake exasperation. He forces himself to address his leader. “Just because it was Wilbur’s rule, that doesn’t mean we didn’t participate. It was our responsibility as much as it was his!”

Tubbo meets Quackity’s eyes. Meets Fundy’s. “I mean, really. We’re going to pin the whole thing on him? We compromised the nation’s security just as much as he did—”

Technoblade’s watching. Tubbo clears his throat again. “If—if not more.”

Technoblade regards Tubbo for just a fraction longer than he should. His expression betrays nothing.

“Kid’s right,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not lettin’ you guys die over armor. We’ll take care of that next week. Dismissed.”

Tubbo leaves last, and does not allow himself to sigh.

“The same time next week, then?”

“Yep.” Wilbur grins, a lopsided thing. “For as long as you’re alive, Tubster.”

There’s going to be a festival next month, Wilbur’s learned. A celebration of peace, of national security. A lovely gathering for all of Manburg’s citizens, to cheer for their newer, better leader.

What complete bullshit.

Tommy’s no longer allowed in these meetings. He gets too rash. Wilbur’s glad for it, right now—he gives the boy a smile that is anything but reassuring. “Keep ‘em coming, yeah?”

They’ve had these meetings a few times, now. They each know what to expect. The boy nods. He fixes his blood-red tie, then turns on his heels. Wilbur pushes into a razor’s-edge stone wall and watches him leave.

Tubbo walks with his back straight these days. Pogtopia stretches ahead of him, long and thin and woodwind—a broken little instrument, Wilbur thinks, bitterly, for his broken, unfinished symphony—and the neat clop-clop-clop of Tubbo’s hooves carries across. He walks like he’s self-assured, like he’s one of Technoblade’s own. Wilbur watches with his arms crossed, and he has to admit—he’s quite impressed. Tubbo might have rushed into this job, but he’s handling it startlingly well.

“He seems like a good kid,” Schlatt’s voice says, and it is everything Wilbur can do to rein in his contempt.

He does not look behind him. “Does he, now.”

Schlatt laughs. It echoes. Wilbur’s hands clench into fists.

“Oh, relax, Mr. President.” Schlatt steps past him and turns, so they’re standing face-to-face. He looks Wilbur up and down—questioning, assessing. Wilbur gives him nothing.

Schlatt finds what he’s looking for anyway. He still knows how to read him, after all these years. “It’s not like he’ll replace you, too. I’m just sayin’ man—he’s cool! Cool guy!”

He grins. Wilbur glares; Schlatt enjoys this too much. Not for the first time, Wilbur thinks Tommy may have been right: recruiting him was a horrible idea.

“Reminds me of Tommy, actually.”

A low, angry sound builds at the back of Wilbur’s throat.

Schlatt cocks an eyebrow. “That’s a compliment, your presidency. Come on, I know you can take them.”

Wilbur steps forward, so harshly it echoes. Schlatt, whose black eye has just faded, steps back.

“Don’t talk about Tommy,” he says, and marches back into Pogtopia’s caverns.

A lot has changed in the last month. Tommy and Tubbo are not exempt.

The bench is well disguised beneath the gold-yellow of the sky. It sits, undisturbed, behind a tree that Tommy planted right before the revolution. The oak wood is mossy, soaked through to the underside. Technoblade is not a prying man. Tommy sits down first, thankful that they will not be seen here.

“How are things, then?” he asks, false-casual. He does not meet Tubbo’s eyes. “Don’t lie.”

They’re verging on winter, he can tell. A crisp breeze shuffles through the tree branches. It nips at his hair. The grass, slick with condensation, is icy beneath the soles of his shoes. Water seeps through and stains the back of his trousers. Tommy lives underground now. Neither he nor Wilbur are farmers, neither of them eat enough to keep warm, and the fact is proven twice true when Tommy begins to shiver.

Tubbo wordlessly hands him his jacket. “It’s—he’s a scary guy. Everyone’s a little bit afraid of him, I think. He’s nothing like you and Wilbur.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. Is it a good thing, that Wilbur was the better leader? Or is it that first grief once more; is it the resounding echo of a crossbow bolt, the gunfire staccato of his eldest brother changing?

Tommy settles on a different answer. “That’s not what I asked.”

In his periphery, he catches Tubbo wincing.

Tubbo is Tommy’s best friend. Tommy knows which strings to pull and which strings to let lie. He knows the pattern of Tubbo’s footfalls when he’s side-stepping a difficult question. Tommy holds onto the edge of his seat.

“Manburg is… a lot more safe,” Tubbo admits, far too easily. Tommy’s grip hardens. “He’s fortified the walls, and sent out people to mine netherite for an armory, not too long ago. And Technoblade is—y’know.”

Tubbo shrugs up at the sky. “If Dream ever comes back for us, he won’t stand a chance.”

Tommy forces his shoulders down. Tubbo’s jacket does nothing to warm him. “That’s… good. That’s really good, Tubs. I’m glad you’re safe.”

They’re silent for long enough that orange bleeds into the yellow.

“Tommy,” Tubbo starts, “isn’t—I mean, isn’t Technoblade your brother?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, on Tommy’s end. “Can we please not talk about it?”

But Tommy is Tubbo’s best friend, too. He knows the finger’s width between a hard conversation and a minefield, knows how Tommy bleeds for the people he loves. Tubbo turns so he’s facing him, and Tommy’s stricken face meets him halfway.

“But he is your brother,” Tubbo says softly. He fists his hands, as if he’s trying not to reach out. “He shouldn’t take your country from you. He shouldn’t have—he shouldn’t, Tommy. Can’t you ask Phil to help?”

Tommy tenses, then. He edges backwards, as far as the bench allows, and glares.

“I said,” he snaps, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

And evidently, the election has changed them both, because Tommy turns away and Tubbo ducks his head down. It dawns on Tommy that the silence between them stretches longer than the words do, now. The awareness leaves him hollow.

It’s getting dark. Tommy gives Tubbo back his jacket.

“Tubbo,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t look away from the sunset, the red-orange-gold fire of the sky against a brittle brown forest. “Could you put in a good word? Just for us?”

It’s a tall order. Tubbo stares out at the setting sun, then at the boy sitting beside him.

It’s dangerous.

“I can try,” he says. Neither of them point out how this will do nothing for them, how it will surely only endanger them further. It’s about hope.

They have to have hope—that’s all there is to it.

So that is how Tubbo ends up where he is, stood in front of Techno in his office. It’s just the two of them in this palace of snow and sins, built on the crumbling foundations of a wall that once stood tall in its place. Techno’s eyes are dark and unreadable. Tubbo feels weightless, detached from himself as he looks up at Technoblade.

It is not going well.

“Technoblade,” he says, voice rising and cracking, “aren’t they your family, though?”

That only seems to have been the wrong thing to say. Technoblade’s brow furrows, eyes scouring Tubbo’s own, and the fear finally begins to rise. He swallows back anxiety, forces his hands to lay still as to not nervously fidget, to not draw attention.

“They’re unimportant.” His eyes narrow. Tubbo stays very still, despite the urge to step back. “I suggest you put them out of your mind.”

“But—”

Technoblade’s eyes flash with something unidentifiable, and Tubbo barely suppresses a flinch.

“Did you need something, Tubbo?” Technoblade stares him down.

Tubbo swallows. “I have a report on the treasury,” he says, after a long moment, “and I wanted to know if you have anything new for me.”

Technoblade smiles. Tubbo doesn’t shiver. He makes sure of it.

As soon as he can, he flees, with the plans for the festival clutched to his chest.

(The next meeting, Technoblade casually asks him what he did during the weekend. Says he’s checking something in the logs.

Tubbo answers, with a sandpaper throat, that he was actually out of town.)

It’s been two weeks since Tubbo last saw Wilbur, and he’s almost excited as he weaves through the undergrowth and ducks into the shoddy little entrance to Pogtopia.

His nerves are still racing as he double checks over his shoulder, eyes probing the treeline and the bushes for any glints of armor or signs of a pursuer. Technoblade has been more vigilant, lately. Sometimes Tubbo will say something, and the president will tilt his head and hum questioningly. Sometimes he’ll ask Tubbo something sudden, something hard to answer.

He cannot risk Pogtopia.

Tubbo looks back. The forest is quiet and unmoving. Even the songbirds are silent. He suppresses a shudder.

Tubbo scurries down the staircase, careful not to fall. More careful still that his footsteps don’t echo. He remembers Pogtopia brighter, warmer, a ramshackle railing that protected no-one but at the very least offered the illusion of safety, and—something’s off. Something’s changed.

Tubbo shakes his head, keeps on walking. It’s only been two weeks since he’s last been here. Nothing’s been scheduled, Tommy hasn’t talked to him, Wilbur hasn’t announced anything. In the grand scheme of things, this is a fraction of all the months that have passed since Technoblade crowned himself president. They’re just—running out of fuel, probably. Tommy mentioned last time that they’ve picked the ravine dry. Maybe he can steal them some, if he’s careful about it. The world certainly hasn’t ended, not in fourteen short days. Tubbo jumps the last two steps, and the dull thud he makes as he lands echoes across the cavern. He’s so focused on not falling, eyes trained on the cobble stairs, that he nearly shrieks when he looks up and comes face-to-face with Wilbur.

“Tubbo!” Wilbur sings, face breaking into a wide smile. “It’s been ages, man!”

“Holy fuck, Wilbur, you gave me a heart attack.” Tubbo presses a hand against his chest, takes deep breaths to calm himself down. Then realises what Wilbur’s implying. He looks back up at him. “Right. It has been a while, that’s on me, sorry. Technoblade has me planning the festival, and I’ve been trying my best to get away—”

“The festival?” Wilbur echoes. He looks—not angry, for once. Which is strange. His eyes are wide, brows furrowed in some weird state of confusion. Tubbo frowns back. He nods.

“Yeah. It’s scheduled for the sixteenth, it’s two weeks from now—”

“Technoblade’s planning a festival,” Wilbur repeats. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Tubbo nods again. He told Wilbur about the festival. Wilbur looks up at him. “Why?”

Propaganda, probably, Tubbo wants to say. To show them he’s a better president than you were. But the last time Tubbo was here, Tommy had mentioned that Wilbur gets all weird now, whenever he’s reminded of L’Manburg. Gets angry and resentful and says things Tommy refuses to relay back to him. So Tubbo shrugs his shoulders and says, as nonchalantly as he can, “I don’t know. Wants to please the people, I guess.”

And it should be the right thing to say. Tubbo may not be Wilbur’s brother, may not have grown up with him, but—they fought for L’Manburg together. They know one another.

Wilbur pauses. He looks up sharply, narrows his eyes.

“And are you?” he asks, much, much quieter. “Pleased? By this festival?”

Tubbo is—what kind of question is that? “I—”

“You’ve been gone for two weeks, you know,” Wilbur continues. “You’re our only link to the outside world.”

Tubbo nods slowly. “I’m aware.”

He startles as Wilbur claps his hands together.

“So tell me then, Tubbo!” Wilbur smiles, and Tubbo thinks he might know why the ravine’s gotten colder. “Tell me. Are the people pleased? Are you—happier?”

“What—” Tubbo bristles, “Wilbur, no! I’m not—happier with him, he’s the man that threw you and Tommy out, I’m not gonna—”

“You’re planning it, you said,” Wilbur interrupts coolly. The smile drops. “You were gone for two weeks, planning it.”

Tubbo splutters. “Yeah, because I had Technoblade breathing down my neck!” Wilbur cocks his head. “I’m not—I’m not happier about it, boss man, I’m not, like—excited, that we’re doing this. But I’ve got a cover to keep, and I need Techno to think I’m on his side—”

Techno, Wilbur mouths absentmindedly.

“—and I can’t always meet with you on time.”

Tubbo stands back and looks Wilbur in the eye, begging—whatever this is to subside. Wilbur stares back. Pogtopia is eerily silent. There’s only the occasional sound of water dripping, something falling, someone cursing. They’re quiet for so long that Tubbo opens his mouth to speak again, before Wilbur suddenly raises his hand.

“Okay,” he says, voice normal once more.

Tubbo blinks.

“Okay?”

Wilbur grins. His teeth gleam. “Okay, Tubbo. I trust you.” He says it casually, flippantly, like he hasn’t just spent ten minutes questioning Tubbo’s loyalty. “Thank you for telling me this. I’ve heard all I need to know.”

Tubbo studies him, looking for an expression, body language, something to betray that Wilbur’s lying. The words don’t sound right. Nothing about this sounds right. A breeze whistles through the ravine, and Wilbur doesn’t so much as react. Tubbo, much more warmly dressed, has to fight not to shiver.

“Can I see Tommy?” he finally decides to ask, once Wilbur’s form remains perfectly impenetrable. “I’ve got a meeting very soon, but just a minute or so—”

Wilbur holds his head to the side and frowns. It looks mocking.

“I’m afraid he’s busy right now.” Then he smiles, apologetic. “I’m sorry about that. Maybe next time, yeah?”

Tubbo stays quiet.

“Hurry off to Technoblade, why don’t you?” Wilbur suggests. There’s a calculated, sharp undercurrent to the words. “Don’t risk your cover.”

He looks Tubbo right in the eye. Tubbo forces himself not to swallow.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Give him my best.”

Tubbo has thirty minutes to get to the meeting. He cannot afford to be late, not with Technoblade waiting. He climbs back up the stairs, decidedly less careful than he was on the way down.

He does not hear Tommy coming out of his room. Does not hear the ensuing fight with Wilbur, spittle and shouting and angry, angry eyes, when he realises his older brother lied and sent Tubbo away. He does not hear Wilbur shout that they’re being double-crossed, that Tubbo is a liar and a fraud, that Technoblade is doing a good thing, a great thing, even, that they, Pogtopia, are the disease.

Tubbo’s smart, though. Always has been. So he has a pretty good idea.

(He does not hear Tommy plead his case, does not hear as he fails. He does not hear Wilbur’s flinty laughter, does not watch as his eyes cloud over, does not hang back for the villain’s soliloquy. He convinces himself it ends there. Tubbo leaves Pogtopia and runs to catch his meeting, and convinces himself that the worst is over.)

He’s coming up to the Manburg border—fifteen minutes left—when someone roughly pulls him to the side.

Tubbo doesn’t scream. He turns, focus sharp, one arm on his sword and the other reaching for his shield, and—

“Tommy?” Tubbo asks, doing away with the weapons. He looks awful. “Didn’t Wilbur say—”

He gets shushed. “Not now, Tubbo,” Tommy hisses, keeping an arm on Tubbo’s shoulder. He’s heaving, face pale, eyes frantic and wide. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, behind Tubbo’s back. “I don’t have a lot of time, alright?”

“Tommy, I’ve got a meeting in less than fifteen minutes—”

“Don’t come back,” Tommy blurts out. “Don’t come back here, alright? Wil doesn’t trust you anymore—”

Tubbo snorts. “Yeah, I could tell.”

“No—Tubbo, man, I’m serious!” Tommy shakes him a little. “I—I’m trying, I am, but he’s saying a lot of scary shit right now, and I’m not sure what he’ll ask me to do if you come back, and—”

Tommy’s shaking. Tubbo frowns and grasps the arm holding his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Tubbo says. He smiles, keeps his voice confident, and the shaking eases up. “I won’t come back if you tell me not to.”

Tommy sighs, relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He looks up at Tubbo and smiles himself, a small, tentative thing that makes Tubbo grin. “Let’s meet up tomorrow, yeah?”

Tubbo nods. “Hell yeah.” He looks down at his watch. Ten minutes. Shit. “But, Tommy, I’m gonna be late to the meeting—”

It happens in a flash—Tommy reaching down to hug him, Tubbo on reflex hugging him back. “Be safe,” he says, and Tubbo promises he’ll be careful. They part ways, and the minute he’s crossed the border, Tubbo throws caution to the wind and runs.

He makes it back in time for the meeting, but only just. He bursts in—hair windblown, shirt horrifically rumpled—to find them settled around the table. Technoblade’ swatching the clock, eyes narrowed. Quackity’s organizing some new stack of paper. It is exactly 6:29 P.M.

He might have made it. There’s still a chance he’s thrown off suspicion.

The door swings into the wall, and everyone turns to Tubbo.

“You’re late,” Technoblade deadpans, and Tubbo wilts, knowing he's already failed.

Technically, though—he’s not. Late, that is. But— and it doesn’t have to be the end of the world, but it could be, it could be—Technoblade’s tone does not invite argument.

“I know, I know,” he replies, forcing a breathy laugh. “I got sidetracked at the apiary, you know how it is. I’m very sorry, bossman.”

Tubbo’s hands are stained with cave dust. He keeps them balled at his sides. Rolls back his shoulders, keeps the easy smile. Quackity frowns. Fundy looks terrified. His own heart hammers.

Technoblade stares for so, so long.

Tubbo is—he has to let the smile drop, when a minute passes. He has to look scared. He has to make it believable.

“Tell me, Tubbo,” he eventually says. “Do you value our cabinet meetings?”

Tubbo goes rigid once more.

What sort of question is that?

“I—of course.” Tubbo hesitates. He says it again, louder. More conviction. “Of course, sir. It was honestly just a mistake—”

“Do you find that our meetings help Manburg?”

Tubbo does not hesitate this time. “Yes. Definitely.”

Technoblade tilts his head. The braid swings with the motion.

Tubbo feels very, very exposed.

“Don’t be late next time,” Technoblade says, and they leave it at that.

They breeze through the meeting—this week’s list is extensive, but relatively easy to address. Citizens are requesting shop permits. The SMP lands want to rework their trade policies. Fundy needs to start collecting taxes. Tubbo nods when Quackity does, and shakes his head when he doesn’t, and offers his own input whenever it makes sense. A little over two hours pass, and the meeting is adjourned. They gather their things and say their goodbyes; Fundy and Quackity leaving first. Tubbo steps halfway out the door.

“Wait,” Technoblade says, “Tubbo. I need you to stay back a little longer.”

Tubbo stops breathing. He does his level best not to shiver.

He puts on what he hopes is an innocently confused expression, and turns around. “O-oh?”

“Sit,” Technoblade orders. He gestures to the chair on his right—the vice president’s chair. Quackity’s chair.

Tubbo does not swallow. He nods tersely and pulls out the seat. There’s an awful grating noise as he does. His head hurts.

“You know, Tubbo,” Technoblade begins, “I find you to be a really valuable member of Manburg’s cabinet. You’re outspoken, creative. Observant. Good traits for a leader to have.”

It is a compliment, Tubbo tells himself. It is a good thing. Technoblade does not know. Cannot know. Tubbo is so careful; with his words, his body language, his trips to Pogtopia, everything—there’s been no room for error. There’s been no proof.

“Thank you,” he says. It comes out hoarse.

There’s a water jug here, usually. Someone removed it. That’s shit. Tubbo could really use some water right now.

“Anytime, anytime.” Technoblade—smiles? Smirks? He looks—resigned, almost. Beset by some grand realisation. He chuckles, quietly, to himself, and every muscle in Tubbo’s body tenses. His eyes are the same red as Tubbo’s tie.

It’s quiet, when it’s just them in the room. And dark. The meeting was meant to conclude just before sunset. The whole castle must be empty by now. And Technoblade’s nails are—talons, really. Deadly sharp. He taps his pen against the table, and the sound reminds Tubbo of a gunshot.

“Now, I won’t lie to you, Tubbo,” he says, so suddenly that Tubbo startles.

(His heart is racing.)

Technoblade drawls. “I’ve been hearin’ things about you.”

(There is no proof. There is no proof.)

Tubbo’s voice cracks anyway. “What sorts of things?” He laughs. It’s not convincing. “All good, I hope.”

For a moment, Technoblade considers that. For a moment, it seems like he likes Tubbo’s answer.

The president shrugs. “Nah.”

An axe blade is levelled at Tubbo’s throat. He doesn’t even get the chance to scream.

“Tell me, Tubbo.” Technoblade rises. The axe goes up with him, and Tubbo scrambles to follow. The netherite cuts into his chin. There’s—that’s blood. On his neck. He can feel it, thick, warm, viscous. He wants to vomit. “How long were you plannin’ on spying for the enemy?”

Technoblade is tall. Fuck, Technoblade is so tall, and when he stands he towers and when he speaks he bares his tusks—and Tubbo doesn’t say anything. Tubbo backtracks, desperate, his heart is hammering and one misstep on Technoblade’s end could fucking kill him—

His back hits the wall. He flinches. There’s nowhere to run. There’s nowhere to run. Why the fuck is there nowhere to run?

“I asked you a question,” Technoblade drawls. And it dawns on Tubbo, then, that Technoblade knows. That Technoblade has known, for god knows how long. He orchestrated this, probably—the surprise meeting, the evening hours, the confrontation. Tubbo, cut off, alone, in an empty room in an empty palace.

He doesn’t even have any proof.

“I’m not—” Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut as the axe comes even closer. He opens them, meets Technoblade’s own, puts every last shred of himself into the answer. “Technoblade. I’m not a spy.”

Technoblade responds with one short, cruel laugh. “Try again, kid.”

And—and Tubbo’s fucking terrified, but this cannot be how it ends. It can’t. Wilbur will think he was right. Pogtopia will fall. Tommy has one life left.

“I’m not a spy,” Tubbo insists, even as his voice shakes. His hands curl into fists. His pulse thrums in his ears. “President Technoblade, I—I promise you. Whoever told you that was lying. I would never betray Manburg.”

Technoblade tilts his head. His crown catches the light. It almost blinds Tubbo.

“I had Fundy tail you,” he says, nonchalant. Tubbo’s blood runs cold. “He said he followed you all the way to spawn. Heard a few voices talkin’. Said one’a them was yours.”

“Technoblade—”

“I dunno, man,” Technoblade drawls. Then his axe presses in—how much further can an axe press in?—and Tubbo can’t speak, can’t close his eyes. He stands, frozen, desperate. Technoblade’s voice hardens. “Seems like betrayal to me.”

And what can Tubbo say to that?

Suddenly, the blade recedes. Technoblade stands back and regards him, cold. Tubbo all but crumples against the wall. He heaves, eyes darting from president to bloodstained netherite. The window is closed. No-one will hear him. He’s freezing. He shakes all over, adrenaline flowing with nowhere to go—and Technoblade sees that, the asshole. And Technoblade killed his brother on a decorated stage. And Technoblade is the bloodied general, is the last man standing in the midst of a massacre, and Tubbo is going to die and die and die.

“Move,” he orders, pointing the axe toward the door.

Tubbo is out of options. He walks himself down the empty hallway.

Their footsteps echo, not unlike the way they do in Pogtopia. Tubbo recalls another man, every bit Technoblade’s equal, telling Tommy he was a traitor. Glaring at him just this morning. And—he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t; Wilbur is nothing like Technoblade, who’s cape drags against the floor, the sound drowned out by the march of heavy boots. Technoblade, who killed his family for power. They come up to Technoblade’s office, and Tubbo pauses.

He swallows. Surely, surely he will not die here. Technoblade receives citizens in this room. Surely he will not stain it with Tubbo’s blood.

He doesn’t. “Left,” he grunts, and Tubbo silently obeys.

The room they come up to is—new. It is the farthest room west, guarded by a heavy iron door. Tubbo distantly remembers Quackity talking about cells being built for criminals. The president’s idea, in case a traitor should reveal themselves. Technoblade gives him the instructions. Tubbo undoes the latch.

There is a cot, a toilet, and a sink. A window, reinforced with iron bars. Walls lined with blackstone, and—no. No. Tubbo whirls around desperately. His voice cracks. “Technoblade. Please.”

Technoblade is unmoved. He stabs the axe into the ground, both hands on the handle. The stone does not crack. With his foot, he nudges the door until it is almost shut.

“You have one chance, Tubbo,” he says. “Tell me where the rebels are.”

Not rebels, Tubbo, despite everything, wants to shout. Tommy. Wilbur. Your family.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he offers.

Tubbo looks up sharply. He doesn’t dare hope.

“You—you won’t kill me?”

Technoblade shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how I’m feelin’.”

And Tubbo hates himself. Hates himself. It’s a fucking maybe. Maybe won’t help him. Maybe won’t save him from the price Manburg extracts from traitors. Tubbo hates himself and considers it anyway—Schlatt. Pogtopia. All of it. Considers airing out his secrets for all the world to see, considers losing his leader and his best friend.

(Tommy is on his last life. Wilbur’s nation has abandoned him.

Tubbo has a home. Tubbo has two more lives to spare.)

“No.”

He barely hears himself say it.

Technoblade tenses. “Think of the choice you’re makin’, kid,” he warns. “I don’t want to kill you.”

(He has. He’s going to die a traitor.

Distantly, like he's not himself anymore, Tubbo thinks it over. He might just cry.)

Tubbo laughs, breathless, and stares Technoblade right in the eyes. “Yeah? You don’t wanna kill me? That’s rich, isn’t it? Technoblade.”

The president growls.

“I—I know you’re lying. I know you are.” Tubbo grins; disbelieving. He feels reckless, in this moment. He feels like he could run right into Technoblade’s axe, shrieking. He’s glad. “Execute me, like you did Wilbur. Your brother. I’m not telling you anything.”

Technoblade, for the first time since Tubbo’s met him, looks furious. Tubbo grins. He closes his eyes, waits for an axe or a crossbow—

The cell door slams. Tubbo opens his eyes. Technoblade is nowhere to be found.

“Kill me like the rest of your family!” Tubbo screams after him.

There is nothing but silence in response.

(Tommy waits for an hour, and any hope he had dies when Wilbur shows up to bring him home.)

When the time comes, Tubbo is expecting it. He’s waiting for it, dreading it, welcoming it like he would one of Wilbur’s hugs. He welcomes it like one of Tommy’s schemes. The cell door swings open and there stands Niki, pale, black and white hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her netherite armor gleams with enchantments. Her cape is emblazoned with a golden sun over ice blue. Because at the end of the day, Manburg is nothing more than another city in the Antarctic Empire.

Her expression is sad. Her hands are steady, however, as she secures shackles around Tubbo’s wrists.

“We’re going to get out of here,” she murmurs. Tubbo’s chest seizes, and he very suddenly wants to cry.

“I’m not,” he says. He smiles, and Niki just takes a deep breath and ushers him out the door.

Niki looks very official in her new armor. Like a proper general. She’d climbed the ranks quickly, despite her distaste for violence. She and Tubbo were in cahoots, of sorts—they both knew they were doing it all for Wilbur, but in vastly different ways. Tubbo thinks that Wilbur would see Niki as nothing but a traitor clad in purple, blue, and gold.

Then again, Wilbur sees him as nothing but a traitor in a nice suit. Maybe today will change his mind.

The festival is tomorrow. Technoblade is bold—but also clever. The festival will most likely overshadow his execution. His death is not going to be a publicly advertised affair, but the festival is plastered on the windows and walls of every storefront in Manburg.

Niki leads him down the hall, and away from the courtyard where Tubbo knows the chopping block is. His throat tightens.

“Niki,” he whispers. The horror bleeds through his voice. They are both going to die.

“Shh,” she murmurs, putting on a stern expression and wielding her shield. She leads him along by the manacles.

To her credit, she looks very official. None of that matters, however, when they both see Technoblade coming around the corner. Niki’s shoulders stiffen. Tubbo closes his eyes.

They are both going to die.

They keep walking, but their footsteps slow. Niki’s boots make a nice clanking noise against the smooth tile floor, he notes. If things were different, he would comment on it. Tubbo’s eyes open when her footsteps stop, and he halts behind her. Technoblade is looking at them, eyebrows raised.

“What,” he says, unphased, “is goin’ on here?”

Niki tilts her head. Tubbo catches a glimpse of cold professionalism in her eyes, and he can’t help but shiver.

“Is the execution still happening in the square?” She asks, voice steady.

Tubbo thinks she may have made a better spy than him.

“The courtyard,” Technoblade says. “Don’t wanna make it a spectacle.”

Niki nods, and turns them around. Tubbo blinks back tears as he turns, chest tight with fear. Just their luck—and to think, to be so stupid, to believe for even a moment that would have worked. To have that kind of hope, it was a fool’s errand. They are both fools for thinking they could escape.

Tubbo bites his tongue and swallows his tears, and marches forward. He’s not going to die a coward.

Niki’s thumb brushes against his wrist. He thinks it’s supposed to be comforting, but it just makes him sad, instead. The hallways are a blur of smooth tile and dark walls, and then Tubbo is blinking in the sunlight as he emerges into the courtyard.

He is pulled up onto a plain wooden stage. Niki’s grip on his shackles is tight, and Tubbo can feel the tremor in her fingers.

There is a pause where they are the only two in the courtyard. Tubbo wishes he had wings, like Philza, or—or something, anything that could get them out. If he could get out of these shackles, he’d just run for it, but that would ensure a quicker death.

“I’ll try,” Niki says, softly. “I promise I’ll try, Tubbo.”

Tubbo shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Just keep yourself safe.”

The brief moment of privacy is finally broken as Technoblade strides in, joined by Quackity and Fundy. Fundy’s tail is between his legs, Quackity’s wings are pinned against his back. They both look intensely uncomfortable at the sight of Tubbo, chained, in the middle of the courtyard.

“Alright,” Technoblade says, voice low and rough. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tubbo catches a glimpse of something flashing up in the ramparts above. He tips his head back as if grieving himself, eyes slitted so he looks like he’s closed them. There, on the deepslate walls: Tommy. And behind him stands Wilbur.

It’s a bright autumn’s day. Cold, but the sun is blinding—the kind of light that falsely promises warmth. The kind of light you relish because it’ll be gone by winter. The kind of light that, sometimes, plays tricks on your eyes.

This must be one of them, then—Tommy above him, struggling. Wilbur, wrenching him back. Maybe not the second one, actually. Tubbo’s throat tightens. He drops his head back down, keeping his gaze steady as he looks Technoblade in the eye and kneels.

Technoblade nods to Niki, and she brings out her axe. The netherite blade glitters coldly in the chilly autumn air. That’s funny, Tubbo thinks—just a few weeks ago it was one of the hottest days of the summer.

“This is what happens to traitors,” Technoblade says.

Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for an axe blow that never comes.

“Isn’t there another way he can be punished?” Niki says, voice startlingly loud in the silent courtyard.

The silence turns heavy. Tubbo opens his eyes, looking up at Niki with fear. He shakes his head, but she isn’t even looking at him—just staring Technoblade dead in the eye. Her axe is still poised above his throat.

“We aren’t here to teach him a lesson,” Technoblade drawls, “we’re here to make an example.”

There is a single, terrifying moment where Tubbo thinks he is going to die.

And Niki throws her axe down onto the grass.

“No,” she says, voice hard, “this isn’t right. You know this isn’t right."

Technoblade stares at her. Tubbo thinks he ought to scream and fight out of his chains. There is movement on the ramparts, and out of the corner of his eye Tubbo spots Wilbur hauling Tommy back.

“Nihachu,” Technoblade says, slowly, “I gave you an order.”

Niki’s shoulders are tense. Her voice is hard when she speaks. “And I think your order was shit. You’re nothing but a bully who thinks he knows better than everyone else. L’Manburg was better when Wilbur was in charge.”

There’s a gasp. Silence falls across the courtyard.

“We all think it,” Niki snarls, snatching up her axe from the ground. “Wilbur was a brave, strong leader. He fought for a peaceful future. He was involved with his citizens’ lives. You do nothing but sit in your ivory palace and get others to do the work for you.”

Technoblade draws his crossbow, slowly. Niki holds her chin high.

“Are you going to kill me, too?” Her tone is challenging him. Tubbo can’t speak.

“Nah.” Technoblade steps forward. “I’ll just kill him in front of you.”

Tubbo doesn’t even have time to react. It burns, for a moment, and it’s loud. It’s explosive, concussive, leaves his ears ringing.

He can’t hear anything when he sits up in spawn. The forest is deathly silent around him, even though he should be hearing birdsong, or at least his own heartbeat. He realizes, suddenly, he can’t even hear himself breathing.

It hurts. Why does it still hurt? Tubbo can hardly keep himself upright, but he pulls himself to his feet anyway and begins to limp toward Pogtopia. He doesn’t know what happened to Niki. He should probably help Niki, shouldn’t he? He staggers, crumpling to the ground—his vision blurs dangerously, but suddenly sound rushes back in and he is all-too-aware of his breathing, harsh and loud. There is blood in the grass. That’s odd, shouldn’t his wounds have healed when he respawned?

“Oh my God,” a vaguely familiar voice says. Tubbo can barely turn his head.

Hooves. Curled horns, firm hands sit him upright. He hears his name, repeated a few times, but all he can manage is a weak grin and a hey, bossman, before he slumps forward into Schlatt’s arms.

Everything goes dark.

“They actually killed him.”

Schlatt’s voice is hollow. Wilbur can’t help the way the glee fills him—Schlatt, finally rattled by the situation. Schlatt, finally looking something other than bitter and smug. His expression is painfully raw, eyes wide with disbelief and what one could possibly interpret as horror. Perhaps concern, even, fear for a child that may not be Schlatt’s, but one he’d grown fond of regardless. Wilbur thinks that may be a stretch, though—the senseless, public act of violence would get to anyone. It would certainly get to J. Schlatt, businessman, a fellow who keeps plenty of distance between himself and outright violence.

“Same way they did me,” Wilbur says, nonchalantly. “Crossbow bolt between the eyes. Was a bit more explosive, this time.”

“Firework rockets?” Schlatt seems to snap back into himself, suddenly, and his expression twists into a sneer. “This is where your leadership’s gotten us? Tubbo, dead?”

All the delight that came with seeing Schlatt rattled abruptly vanishes, and Wilbur frowns. “He’s got a life left, still—”

“He died on your watch, Wilbur!” Schlatt throws a hand outwards, towards the caverns of Pogtopia where they both know Tubbo is resting. “He was your responsibility, and he died! You’re doin’ a shit job if that’s your idea of a fucking victory.”

Wilbur’s scowl deepens. “It wasn’t a victory.”

“You looked pretty damn pleased a second ago, you fuckin’ psychopath,” Schlatt says, biting.

“As if you wouldn’t have done the same fucking thing,” Wilbur snaps back.

They stare at each other for a moment, tense, poised for… something. Action, of some kind. Ready to tear into each other, perhaps, physically or verbally. Wilbur is hit with the urge to rip that look off of Schlatt’s face, suddenly, and it takes all of his willpower to steady himself.

Because the unfortunate thing is, Schlatt’s right. Tubbo died, and it was Wilbur’s fault for not saving him.

(There was nothing you could have done, some part of him whispers, but was there?

He doesn’t know. Maybe there was. He has to live with it, now.)

“I’d like to see you do better in that situation,” Wilbur snarls, eyes alight with anger. “Why don’t you try being the one standing there, watching your little brother get slaughtered like a fucking sacrificial lamb?”

And the words little brother slip out like a stream over pebbles, quiet and full of history, and Wilbur bares his soul for just a few seconds. His brother. His brother, who Wilbur deluded himself into believing was a traitor. There was an argument, a speech, terror unlike anything he’d ever seen in Tommy’s eyes. There was laughter, low and sharp and cruel, when Tommy came back hyperventilating, when he said do whatever you want to me later, when he begged to go save Tubbo. It’s enough to shift something, within these caverns, and not in a good way. Because if Wilbur let someone he views as a little brother die, then what else could happen within these walls?

(There’s a timeline where it’s Tommy who stays behind. Does Wilbur do the same thing?)

It was a failure, in every sense of the word, and Wilbur is beginning to think that his very roots are failures, rotten down to the soil.

“I know damn well,” Schlatt says, voice low, “that I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, and I’m beginning to think that somehow, I’ve become a better man than you.”

Wilbur laughs, at that—sharp and loud and startling in its intensity, its mania. He has to wipe his eyes, still giggling.

“Oh, Schlatt,” he says, grinning. He looks anything but pleased. “I don’t think that was ever even a question.”

Tommy has always prided himself on being… not versatile, but rather—he’s able to roll with the punches. He’s able to spring back to his feet after being knocked down. Albeit, lately it’s more like he claws his way back up over the edge of a cliff with bloody fingers only to be immediately knocked back down, but he’s still getting back up again. He’s still forcing himself to his feet and taking up arms.

One of them has to stay optimistic. Tubbo is terrified, Wilbur has all but given up hope, and Schlatt has always been a cynical asshole.

He hasn’t been feeling very optimistic lately.

Tommy isn’t sure what it is that makes him tail Wilbur this evening. There’s a look in the ex-president’s eye that sets the hair on the back of Tommy’s neck prickling, and suspicion makes him leave Pogtopia a few minutes after Wilbur sets up the stairs.

He trails after Wilbur all the way down to the river. He perches in a tree as Wilbur pauses on the bank, arms crossed.

Waiting for something.

His stomach drops when Dream steps out of the trees on the other side. Wilbur throws his arms open wide, and Tommy can see the glint of his grin in the low light of sunset.

“Ah, my hero!” he crows, and Tommy flinches. “Hello, Dream.”

“Wilbur.” A nod of the head. “What can I do for you?”

Tommy’s breath catches. Wilbur called this meeting? His mind begins to race, a dozen different possibilities flicking to the forefront, and he—he doesn’t want to believe this, doesn’t want to think that they’re actually asking Dream of all people for help. Dream’s an asshole. He’s a villain.

(Tommy, are we the bad guys?)

They are not villains.

“I know you’re a man with quite a few resources,” Wilbur says, and there’s that bravado in his voice, that grand note of showmanship that Tommy has learned to be wary of. “I’m looking to make a bit of a deal. Give you something you might be particularly fond of.”

There is a pause. A moment of silence and Tommy hopes, foolishly, that Dream will simply turn around and leave.

“What are your terms?” he asks, instead.

Tommy can see Wilbur’s smile, a twisted and unhappy thing. “A bit of the old trinitrotoluene. As much TNT as you can give me, and I’ll rig Manburg so that it can never be built up again.”

For a moment, everything stops. It’s like the world itself puts itself on pause to digest that information. Tommy is painfully aware of the silence, his breathing loud in the absence of everything else. There is no birdsong. The rush of the river is startlingly quiet. The buzzing of insects fades as if there was never anything in these woods except for Wilbur, Dream, and Tommy. His heart hammers in his ears.

He cannot let this happen.

“You want to destroy it?” It seems Dream is taken aback as well. Tommy doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he does anyway.

“I want chaos,” Wilbur says, giddy. “Dream, I want to be your vassal. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Dream, I know you don’t want Manburg to be powerful. I can take all that power away. Not even my leadership can bring it back from a crater.”

There is silence, again, as Dream studies Wilbur from across the river. Tommy holds his breath.

“It’s a deal,” Dream says, and Tommy’s blood runs cold.

He swears, for just a moment, that Dream’s gaze meets his. He covers his mouth with one hand, trying not to make a sound. Wilbur laughs. He’s saying something, but Tommy can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears, something about you have made me ambitious, Dream, and all Tommy can think is I don’t recognize my brother anymore.

Numbly, Tommy watches the explosives trade hands. Numbly, Tommy trails Wilbur back to Pogtopia, stepping in front of the door before Wilbur can pass.

His crossbow is levelled at Wilbur’s forehead. Wilbur’s eyes are wide, his smile is coy.

“Wilbur,” Tommy says, proud of how his voice doesn’t shake, “hand me that TNT.”

A glittering netherite blade falls between them. Guarding Wilbur. Protecting him. Dream’s figure is imposing, the breath catching in Tommy’s throat.

“Tommy, I’ll have to step in.” His voice is cold, demanding and dark, and Tommy has no choice but to back down.

He flees down the steps of Pogtopia, and does not look back.

The caverns are cold tonight, and Tommy is all skin and bone and shaking limbs, feeling like an especially frightened child as he runs—runs away from Wilbur. He’s scared. He’s scared of Wilbur.

Schlatt, drawn from his brooding perch by the sound of uneven footsteps and breathless panting, receives an armful of trembling teenager as Tommy stumbles right into him. It is nowhere near a hug, mind you—Schlatt is drawn out merely by curiosity and Tommy is running without an end goal in mind, and it is more akin to a collision as Tommy’s elbow digs into Schlatt’s gut.

And Schlatt, to his credit, isn’t great with kids, let alone frightened ones. He still grabs Tommy’s arms on instinct, eyes wide and confused at the look on the kid’s face.

“What’s going on?”

Tommy’s shaking. Tommy’s scared—and that’s not right, because Tommy, out of all of them, doesn’t get scared. He’s TommyInnit, bravest man in the world (in his own words), and it is not like him to stare at Schlatt like he’s just watched Tubbo die in front of him again out of nowhere.

… that raises the question—”Is anyone hurt?”

“Wilbur,” Tommy gasps at the same time, and Schlatt’s heart sinks like a stone if only for a moment, before Tommy continues. “Wilbur’s gone fucking crazy, Schlatt.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Schlatt says, voice flat. Tommy’s fingers curl into his sleeves, knuckles white.

“He talked to Dream.” Tommy’s still shaking, Schlatt notes. Fuck, how do you comfort kids? “He—he’s gonna blow it all up, Schlatt, what the fuck do we do?”

The last thing they needed thrown into the mix was explosives. Or maybe they really, really needed them. Fuck if he knows. Truth be told, Schlatt isn’t exactly sure what the goal is anymore. Tommy wants Manburg back, Wilbur’s goals and desires seem to change depending on his mood, and Tubbo is in no state to really say what he wants, considering he’s still on bed rest.

Schlatt’s not even sure why he’s here anymore.

… and for a moment, he looks at Tommy and can only imagine what it would be like if he wasn’t here, if Tommy was alone with Wilbur, who is so clearly deteriorating, crumbling under the stress of it all, burning away to ugly ashes. His gut turns at the thought of it, Tommy trapped beneath all that smoke.

He tightens his grip on Tommy’s wrists, firm but not unkind. “Hey, kid. Look at me.”

Tommy’s eyes shine with unshed tears in the lantern-lit corridors. The blue almost looks grey, a shade or two lighter than the stony walls of their base turned tomb. The shaking has lessened a tad.

“We won’t let him,” Schlatt says. The words taste sour. He can’t even tell if he’s lying or not. He doesn’t know who he’s even trying to comfort.

For a moment, the only sound is Tommy’s harsh, ragged breathing and the steady drip, drip, drip of water leaking from distant stalactites. Just a few weeks ago, there had been the twang of an out of tune guitar and rough laughter. A day or two ago, it was filled with low voices and Tubbo’s pained cries.

There are still bloody footprints stained into the steps.

“We’re going to stop him,” Schlatt finally continues, “we’re gonna knock some sense into him, alright? He’s being a fucking idiot.”

Tommy nods the slightest bit, eyes wide. “Y-yeah.”

Schlatt nods back. “Good. Now go the fuck to sleep, it’s like midnight or something.”

“The sun went down like an hour ago,” Tommy mutters, but doesn’t quite argue. “Go fuck yourself, you’re not my fuckin’ dad.”

“Thank fucking god,” Schlatt says.

(He can’t help but smile a little at Tommy’s affronted shout as the kid storms up the stairs toward Tubbo’s room.

That’s more like it.)

Of course, that does… leave the issue of one Wilbur Soot, stood at the top of those same stairs, watching Tommy brush past with lidded eyes. All is silent for just a moment, Schlatt watching Wilbur and Wilbur watching Tommy. Schlatt clears his throat after a moment, once they are left alone. Wilbur’s gaze drifts down to meet his, and Schlatt suppresses a shiver at the look in his eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, scowling.

Wilbur shrugs. “Does it matter, man? This’ll end, and you can be on your merry way.”

“You’re crazy,” Schlatt mutters, shaking his head. “This isn’t you, Wilbur.”

“Don’t claim you know who I am,” Wilbur hisses, “not anymore.”

Silence falls, unsteady and unstable, and Schlatt feels more out of place here than he ever has before. He swallows, unease settling in his stomach and making him nauseous. It’s been a long time since he considered Wilbur a friend. It’s odd, really, how Wilbur has changed so much. What happened to the kid who cried when he stepped on a worm on the sidewalk? Who rescued a baby bird from the ground and got upset when Schlatt made fun of him and said the mother wouldn’t want it back, since it had Wilbur’s scent on it? What happened to the boy with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart?

(The same thing that happened to you, Schlatt’s mind whispers, just worse.)

Fundy is there when the last autumn leaf falls.

There is no struggle, no hesitation. No silent-scream pause as the last leaf stem shudders. There is a leaf on the tree, and then there is not, and it breaks hard and it breaks fast, and Fundy curls his tail around his leg and thinks, it’s barely even November.

An attendant sweeps open the palace doors. Fundy shuffles inside, and only feels even colder.

The Antarctic Curse, some particularly brave Manburgians call it. There was a piece about it last week in the paper—a deep-dive in President Technoblade’s roots, a retelling of his time as Antarctic Emperor, side-by-side with Fundy’s grandfather. There is magic in their family, said the article—except it used malediction and not magic and it used lineage and not family, because rebellion these days only ever comes in bouts of two-syllable words—and the curse follows them. And the curse gives way to cold, and the curse brings winter early, and the curse is snow and blizzards and midnight-black birds. Fundy doesn’t know how Technoblade felt about the article, doesn’t know if the author is writing or jobless or exiled. But for all of Technoblade’s subtle attempts to negate it, it’s obvious the story’s true.

It is the first week of November, and all the summer leaves have died.

He makes it to the meeting fifteen minutes early. Tubbo’s negligence is what got him killed. Fundy will not suffer the same fate. He walks through the door—cold, cold, cold, he treads on marble tile toward Technoblade and all he feels is ice—and he takes his seat, and he and Technoblade greet each other and nod. Quackity arrives exactly one minute later. There is a third chair, positioned neatly beneath the wood. Technoblade has not yet found a new occupant. No one will take the job. For nearly three weeks it has sat there, gathering dust.

(Tubbo was killed in secret, on a morning that was not the sixteenth. It was Sunday, a day for sleeping in.

Still, a nation like theirs did not survive because it was lucky. It survived because its citizens planned, worked, communicated as one.

And among retired revolutionaries, the rumor of a boy’s senseless murder spreads like wildfire.)

Technoblade pulls out a sheath of papers, and the meeting begins.

It’s—formal. And that’s if Fundy’s trying to be nice. The dialogue is succinct, clipped, every word spoken as if it’s leaching the life force out of them. Quackity stares at the wall. Fundy stares at the table. Technoblade looks up from his documents, and stares at the both of them, and Fundy swears the one clock they have stops ticking.

“Everythin’ okay, here?” Technoblade asks, eyes scanning the meeting room. Scanning for what, Fundy doesn’t know. Even Niki—the only person who could have interrupted these meetings, being general—is gone. Quackity looks up sharply. “I’m gettin’ some weird energy from you two.”

“Everything okay?” Quackity repeats, a mockery of a smile ghosting his lips. He laughs to himself. Fundy staves off the panic he feels. “Is everything okay? Let’s see.”

Fundy counts: one, two, three, four, five, before Quackity speaks again.

“Well,” he begins, counting on his fingers, “we no longer have a general, the press keeps talking shit about us, and you killed our secretary of state!” He looks Technoblade dead in the eyes and grins.

“So if you ask me, President Technoblade, we’re doing great.”

“I see,” Technoblade replies, and Fundy thanks every deity above that Quackity is a good liar. Then Technoblade turns to him. “What about you, Fundy?”

Fundy ducks his head down again. At least he has his excuse prepared. “I’m just—it’s like Quackity says. I’m worried about the rebels. Their numbers—they’re, um. They’re growing.”

Technoblade snorts. “Don’t worry about that, kid. I’ve got it all under control.”

He turns back to the sheath of papers, and, quick as lightning, Fundy and Quackity make eye contact across the table. That’s one thing they’ll have to follow up on. Quackity nods once—let me do it; Fundy agrees—and they go back to the meeting, twin pulses thrumming. With any luck, they’ll have something to tell Wilbur at the end of the hour, and they’ll find something nice to bring Tubbo while they’re at it, too. God knows he deserves it. Technoblade keeps talking, so convinced that he knows his allies from his traitors, his citizens from his rebels, and Fundy clings to that, thinks of we’re here to make an example, and makes himself look even more terrified than he feels.

Because here is the first fact: Fundy revealed himself as the Pogtopians’ spy last week. Wilbur might never forgive him, and Tubbo can’t look him in eye, and Tommy latches onto him like glue. Fundy’s trying to be okay with it.

And here is the second fact: Quackity has had enough. He is the only one, as far as Fundy knows, who hasn’t been secretly rallying for Pogtopia all along. He switched sides last night. He and Schlatt keep trying to talk to Wilbur.

And here is the final fact, Fundy thinks, as his president ends the meeting: Today, Technoblade stands alone. Today, there are no Manburgians left. Today, the Antarctic chill has become absolute, and the last leaf has snapped from the branch of the last tree.

Wilbur has given them an ultimatum: two weeks, or they lose their country. The sixteenth looms ever closer.

They start preparing for revolution tonight.

One for sorrow, two for joy—that is the saying that often accompanies Philza’s crows.

There is only one crow, at least only one that Wilbur can see. A bad omen. For who, he doesn’t know—all he knows is that right now, he’d quite like to see his father. He misses him, much as he hates to say it. He’s not a child anymore, but Phil still makes him feel safe.

And Phil is the only thing that keeps him, Tommy, and Techno from tearing each other apart in the midst of Manburg.

He stands before the three of them—or more between, really, as Techno keeps his distance, eyeing them warily. Wilbur stares back, unflinching, and Tommy’s glare could melt the ice around the emperor’s heart with its ferocity. Phil glances between them, very clearly unsettled, his feathers ruffling.

“Alright,” he says, slowly, “one of you explain.”

“Wilbur and Tommy are tryin’ to take over my government,” Techno drawls, and fury simmers in Wilbur’s chest.

“You publicly executed me,” Wilbur snaps, “on stage, in front of everyone, and stole my fucking country out from under my corpse.”

Technoblade looks unimpressed. Tommy still pipes up anyway. “Wilbur’s telling the truth.”

Phil, somehow, just looks tired. “Jesus.”

The tension does not subside. Wilbur feels itchy, almost, and begins to fidget, foot tapping against the cobblestones. Phil’s wings are right there, spread at just the right angle for a hug, and Wilbur is just so tired and frightened and he wants nothing more than to curl up in his father’s embrace. Instead, he clears his throat, steps forward.

“I—my letters, Phil,” he says, quietly. “I wasn’t entirely honest in them. I only started Pogtopia because we got kicked out. Techno—he took it by force.”

Phil surveys the country. Tommy looks hopeful. “We—we could really use your help.”

“You’re tryin’ to recruit Phil for your revolution on my land?” Techno scowls. “They were weak, Phil. I made them stronger. Wilbur himself said it, I’m better for this country than he ever was.”

Wilbur looks away as Tommy turns to him with a protest, but it dies on his lips at Wilbur’s expression.

“Wil,” Tommy says, quietly.

The crow was an omen for us, Wilbur thinks, glancing up at the bird still perched on the stage. It cocks its head, peers at him. There are so many warriors at his back. He is letting down an entire revolution in a single breath. He can practically feel Niki’s eyes burning into the back of his coat, Eret and Fundy’s hopeful gaze, Quackity’s stare seeing down to the bone. Schlatt, breath bated and eyes narrowed. Wilbur closes his eyes, tipping his head back.

“It’s true,” Wilbur mumbles. Phil raises his eyebrows.

“Then just give up your revolution, Wil.” He gestures vaguely to the rest of the land around them. “People are just gonna get hurt, mate.”

Tommy begins protesting, at that—loud and angry and full of swears, and Wilbur feels oddly numb as the negotiation devolves into an argument, as so many conversations between the four of them often do, and Tommy is alone in his defense of their cause as Techno and Phil begin tearing into him. Wilbur closes his eyes. He thinks there may be something wrong with him, but he doesn’t quite care to figure out what the issue is. He has a promise to keep, regardless.

Somebody draws a sword. The people charge, and the war begins. His family doesn’t join the fight, opting to keep arguing instead. Wilbur snorts. Typical. Cowardice is, after all, hereditary.

Still, he won’t complain. They’re really yelling, now—it’s the perfect opportunity.

It is remarkably easy to slip away as Phil and Tommy shout at each other.

Wilbur shakes everyone else off his tail and does a wide loop around L’Manburg, just for good measure. He has to be certain he’s alone.

The button room, at the end of the day, is a horrid tomb. But it’s better than the alternative, strung out on the walls of the Antarctic Empire for all the world to see and learn, this is what happens to those who try to play hero. Wilbur hasn’t given up—he’s just changing the melody. It’s his symphony, after all, and not even the sharp violin of Technoblade’s dictatorship can drown out the dying throes of Wilbur’s guitar.

He will make his last performance a grand one. If he has to die a martyr, so be it.

The heavy scent of gunpowder almost makes him woozy. He smiles, demure and mocking at the sound of fireworks above his head. That, too, will be drowned out by his melody.

Fingers ghost over the button. He wants to do it. He has to do it, he’d promised Dream—one way or the other, he would be pressing the button. No matter who won. He’s doing Pogtopia a favor, really, he’s saving them from an awful end. He’s nipping the problem in the bud so it can no longer blossom.

They should all thank him, really, for this.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

And everything begins to crumble down around him.

Wilbur whirls to face Tommy, feeling like a child who’s been caught wrist deep in the cookie jar. The cookie jar, however, is several tonnes of explosives, and his hand was merely poised over the button that would set it off. He grimaces, and Tommy just stares, blue eyes wide and—and afraid.

He’s scaring him. He’s scaring Tommy again.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, but Tommy just tenses further. “It’s the only option we’ve got left, Tommy. It’ll be better this way.”

(And it’s not, there are better ways, better timelines, but Wilbur has resigned himself to the fact that he is not a brave man and there is nothing else for him to do except ride the coattails of this explosion into the night and into the dark embrace of death.

He admits it: he’s frightened. He wants to leave it all behind.)

“Wil,” Tommy says, sounding like he very much wants to cry, “Wil, please, think about what you’re doing, man.”

“I’ve thought about it!” Wilbur cries, slamming a fist against the wall. Tommy flinches, badly, but Wilbur steamrolls forward. “I’ve been here—seven or eight times I’ve been here, Tommy, and I have thought about this. I’ve thought—” his voice breaks. “I’ve thought about it. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“We can win it back—”

"Tommy!" Wilbur shouts, nearly drowned out by the sound of fireworks detonating.

"Fucking—listen to them! They're losing, aren’t they?” Tommy stiffens. Wilbur grins. “I fucking knew it. They're losing. And of course they are, it's fucking Technoblade and Phil—"

"No, no, Wil, we haven't lost yet! We're so close, man, you can't just give it up now—"

He laughs, bone-chilling, a mania laced through his voice. “We're not getting L’Manburg back, Tommy. I mean, surely you know by now. We're never getting it back."

“Wilbur,” Tommy pleads, but he has all but made up his mind.

“Tommy,” he says, softly, “remember what Eret said?”

“Wil.” Tommy’s voice breaks. He stands, hands hanging limply by his sides.

Wilbur has won.

He swallows, stepping forward with a smile and lifting one hand in a salute.

A pause. There is the sound of a firework overhead.

“It was never meant to be.”

There’s the click of the button, and Tommy’s horrified no, no, no—

The both of them go down. Hard. Stone bites into Wilbur’s shoulder blades and he can feel where bruises will certainly begin forming as Tommy shoves him further back into the tunnel as the room begins to crumble around them. Part of him is almost disappointed that Tommy did not leave him there. The rest of the world is drowned out by the noise, and Wilbur grimaces at the vengeful blast of heat. Flames lick the edges of his coat and recede, leaving the ends of it tattered and ashy. All he can hear is a sharp ringing below his heartbeat, pounding in his ears, and the heavy breathing of himself and his brother.

Tommy crouches over him, staring at the stone wall. Breathing hard. He shivers, pulling back and turning, slowly, to stare at the wreckage. Wilbur closes his eyes, certain that the grin on his face is nothing less than manic, but not quite caring—allowing himself a moment of relief and glee as the sound of explosions fades back in.

He’s done it. He’s done it.

Wilbur giggles, breaking out into full-on laughter. Delighted, he pushes himself to his feet, stumbles forward. He hooks a hand around the still-hot stone, swings out so he’s half-hanging off the edge of the now blown-open room.

“My L’Manburg!” He croons, eyes wide and wild. “My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!”

Tommy is staring at him, fearful, and Wilbur cannot find it in him to care. Not anymore. He grins, giddy and free, and he whirls towards Tommy eagerly.

“If we can’t have it, Tommy,” he says, darkly, “Tommy, if we can’t, no-one can, do you hear me? No-one.”

And in another life, Tommy would have had something to say. By the gods, he would have said it—would have talked Wilbur down, would have been able to convince him otherwise.

But that was not the hand the world had dealt him. All Tommy can do is stare.

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, suddenly. “Tommy.”

A sword clatters to the ground between the both of them. It takes everything in Tommy not to scream, then and there, months of pent up grief and fear as he watches Wilbur finally crack and crumble under the pressure of it all.

“Tommy.” All good things come in threes, and Wilbur recites his little brother’s name like an invocation, a prayer. “Kill me.”

Tommy chokes. “Wilbur—”

“Kill me, Tommy, kill me—they all want you to.”

Tommy shakes his head, horror rising in him. “You’re a brother to me, I can’t—”

Wilbur growls, slamming a fist into the stone. “Do it! Kill me, Tommy, fucking kill me.”

It is a horrible thing to ask a teenager to do. It is a horrible thing to ask anyone to do, but it is especially horrible to ask it of your little brother.

Even moreso, your faithful little brother, who would not deny you anything in the world. No matter how much it pains him. Arms trembling, Theseus shoulders the weight of the world and the weight of his brother on his blade. This is not the role he was written for. This is not who he is supposed to be. But part of him is pleased, a bitter sort of pleasure as he looks up to meet Phil’s eyes, a silent is this what you wanted?

Father and brother in the crater are stunned into silence, and so Theseus lets out his single, hollow wail.

(And the universe says you have played the game ̷ ̴ ̴ ̵ ̷ ̷ ̴ ̴ ̷ ̴ ̷ ̵

w̴r̸o̶n̷g̴. Shall we try again?)