Chapter Text
Dying,
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell .
- Sylvia Plath.
Tommy's descent into… whatever this was, was gradual, but didn't go unnoticed. He thinks it started when he came out of prison, white streak in his hair and bags weighing down his eyes. (Tubbo noted, looking back on this day with the clarity of, yknow, not being terrified of… whatever he thought Tommy was back then, a hallucination or a ghost perhaps, that there was blood crusted on his pale skin and bruises painting the grey canvas various shades of purple, blue, black. It's something he can't unsee now, even when his best friend is smiling.)
In hindsight, screaming and running away and borderline stalking an emotionally unstable, recently deceased teenager wasn't the best idea, but he wasn't really thinking straight. He had been told that Tommy was dead, and here he was, walking along the prime path, asking about his hotel, the works. Except he was without his usual TommyInnit charm, he was quieter, talked in hushed whispers and frantic sentences that was laced in melancholy. He was terrified when he took damage, the same way he was terrified of firework rockets.
That had been the first time Tubbo had really noticed something was wrong.
From there, after Tubbo had gotten over the initial shock of seeing a dead man walking, he went back to his life as usual, while also trying to help Tommy find any sense of normalcy.
Tommy was eventually told of his and Ranboo's marriage, and while Tommy smiled and said in a soft tone that he was happy for him, he could tell his best friend was hurt. He supposed that he would be hurt too, if he was dead for three days (he tried to ignore the fact that for Tommy, it was three months) and came back to see Tommy with a new person, spouse or best friend.
Then Tommy met Micheal, and was completely amazed by the kid. He showed no feelings or sadness or jealousy around the child, just amazement and fondness. Tubbo thought, previously, that he saw a lot of Tommy in the boy; loud, excitable, a little obnoxious. But when they were sat next to each other, Micheal rattling away in Piglin and Tommy staying silent, but smiling and nodding at all the right times like he could actually understand him, it showed Tubbo just how drastically Tommy had changed.
Tommy was quiet. Tommy was quiet. Tommy was...a doormat, to put it lightly. And Tubbo was freaked out by it, if he was being completely honest. So when Tommy started getting distant, he thought nothing of it (Maybe he did. Maybe he just convinced himself Tommy was fine because a small, selfish part of him didn't want to see Tommy, see the consequences of his actions because, well, would things have gone differently if Tubbo hadn't exiled him?).
Tommy announced he was moving houses. Tubbo mentioned how he thought it strange - Tommy had lived in his little dirt hobbit hole since the beginning of the server, why did he want to leave? But Tommy smiled and waved a nonchalant hand, stating that he was tired, wanted a change of scenery, and that the old base (old. Old.) reminded him too much of the L'Manburg days.
Tubbo clapped him on the back, trying his best to be supportive and ignore the flinch that ripped through Tommy's body. He'd been doing that a lot recently.
Tommy moved to a small, one story house in the middle of a flower field, a bit away from the Esempii. Tubbo and Ranboo helped him move his stuff over (which wasn't a lot) and Tubbo memorised the way from Tommy's home to Snowchester, just in case.
Tubbo visited him quite a bit in the first few weeks, not wanting Tommy to feel isolated. He'd often find the boy in the field, looking at the beehives Tubbo had set up or lying down, basking in the hot sun. One time, when Tubbo and Ranboo asked Tommy to babysit Micheal, he had come back to find them sitting on a picnic blanket, surrounded by tulips and sunflowers. Micheal was clapping and bouncing happily, a daisy crown sitting crooked on his head, listening to Tommy's fingers stroke softly at a blue and yellow acoustic guitar (Ghostbur's, his mind supplied) with a matching flower crown amongst blonde hair.
"I'm living the dream" Tommy had been singing, the song one of Ghostbur's too, just like the guitar, "You could consider the dreams to be haircuts and apathy, and if you think that it gets better, darling take a look at… me."
Tubbo didn't want to interrupt this sweet moment, even though he had to meet Quackity in half an hour, and the walk from here to Las Nevadas was at least twenty five. Some selfish part of him had missed this side of Tommy - he was taken back to the early L'manburg days, when he and Tubbo would sing Hallelujah to the flowers around the Camar-Van, hoping it could make them grow. Prime, he wishes he could go back to those days sometimes.
"I'm in too deep, it's the same hairstyle that I've had since I was seventeen," Tommy's singing, just like everything else about Tommy recently, was more softer compared to his memory. Back then, it was obnoxious, now it was genuine. "And I don't know why, Father, are you proud of me?"
Micheal didn't take the circlet of daisies out of his hair until they were brown and wilting.
After that day, Tubbo was swamped with work. Things for Snowchester, things for Ranboo and Micheal, he was still trying to get himself away from the presidency of a country that technically didn't exist anymore. So Tubbo didn't have time to visit Tommy.
He had told Tommy, of course, Tommy giving a small, comforting smile and telling him it's okay, Tubs, you'll always be welcome here whenever you're free.
One thing led to another, and, well…
It's been a month.
He had never intended for it to be this long without visiting his friend. He didn't. But that's why he's on his way to Tommy right now. To rectify things.
The walk was long, about halfway through Micheal demanding for Tubbo to carry him, but eventually the goat hybrid saw the familiar dark oak and cobblestone cottage.
As he expected, Tommy was in the flower field behind the house, back towards him. The piglin child sitting on his hip wiggled out of his father's arms, running up to the moobloom hybrid, excited to see his uncle. However, Tommy didn't stir as the toddler tugged on his sky blue cardigan.
Tommy looked the most domestic Tubbo had ever seen him. His green bandana that Tubbo gave him all those years ago was tied around his head, just below his horns. His scars were looking more healthy than Tubbo had ever seen them, and his clothes were clean and in one piece, unlike how he saw his clothing after Pogtopia or Exile. However, Tubbo's breath was stolen in horror as he turned to see his face. His eyes were more grey than the bright blue they were supposed to be, and they were distant, unseeing even as Micheal waved a hand in his face. His legs were drawn up to his chest, lanky arms wrapping around them. His face was pinched and the hair that fell in front of his face was completely white - what once used to be a couple strands amongst a sea of golden hair turned into a white mass, no blonde to be seen.
He hated to think about what the implications of that was.
Micheal looked up to him with teary eyes, still tugging on the boy's cardigan, warbling in piglin, what he could only assume was asking what was wrong with his Uncle Tommy.
"I don't know Micheal, but we're going to help him, so can you back up a bit so Dada can get to him?" Micheal nodded, scooting away, sniffling, as Tubbo tested the waters, prodding Tommy's arm and calling his name. No response. He moved on to holding Tommy's hand and giving it a squeeze. Nothing. Prime, whatever thought had a vice grip on Tommy's brain wasn't going without a fight. Tubbo brushed the pearly strands of hair out of Tommy's eyes (the stark-white was a startling contrast to the golden horns adorned with violets and forget-me-nots and alliums) and shuffled as he threaded his arm underneath the Moobloom's knees, placing the other around his back and pulling him up off the ground.
(Tommy was shockingly light, he had always been, but with Tubbo's height and overall lack of upper body strength, it still took a struggle to pick him up. Now, it was next to effortless, and that scared Tubbo.)
Tommy crumpled like a rag doll in Tubbo's hold, effortlessly conforming to the hold, eyes still distant. The three made their way around the house to Tommy's front door, where Tubbo asked Micheal to take the key out of Tubbo's jacket pocket (considering he couldn't exactly reach) and open the door, which the child did hastily.
Tubbo all but rushed inside, placing Tommy on the sky-blue couch and rushing to the kitchen, leaving Micheal clamouring onto the seat next to the previously-blonde boy. Water, he needed, a glass of water, that was simple enough, the tap. And crackers, because Tommy may get hungry and not be able to stomach anything else. And also a coke can, because what if it was low blood sugar, and some hard candies from a dish on the side, because he had just read an article about how things like that can bring people down from dissociation.
He turned to leave the open plan kitchen before doing a double take and glancing at something on the island. A small, circular birthday cake. It looked professional, no doubt the work of either Niki or Fundy, and it was complete with candles in the shape of '18'. Tubbo's heart hurt and the cake sat, untouched.
A swell of guilt attacked his stomach as he waddled over back to Tommy as quick as he could with the haul he had in his arms, placing the stuff on the dark oak coffee table.
"Micheal," he said, unusually out of breath. Push the feelings down, Tubbo. Now isn't the time. His son immediately turned to him, alert, "Can you go get the First Aid kit for me, bubs? It's under-"
But Micheal was already racing down the hall to the bathroom.
"You're gonna be okay, Toms," Tubbo found himself whispering, "I'll fix this."
He promptly pulled his communicator, as old and dirty as it was (the sight of the stickers Tommy had placed there before the first L'manburg War made his heart ache), out of his pocket and started typing.
You whisper to Ranboo: Come to the Cottage. Tommy's in trouble, mentally I think. Maybe physically.
Micheal bounded back down the corridor, green plastic box in hand, and thrust it into Tubbo's lap. As he opened the box, his communicator buzzed, Tubbo unconsciously smiling at the fact that Ranboo was quick with messaging and he cared about Tommy's wellbeing. He glanced down, a simple message illuminating the screen;
Ranboo whispers to You: omw.