Chapter Text
Tommy remembered the scalding heat. Dream towering above him in manic laughter, holding a potato of all things.
How fitting, to die at the hands of a man who’d tormented him so, to die with one of Technoblade’s favourite things as his weapon.
Tommy would’ve called it poetic, if it didn’t hurt like a bitch.
The heat of lava had sizzled his skin, and if Tommy had known he’d die either way, he’d prefer melting his bones into a puddle. He wouldn’t have given Dream the satisfaction of killing him one final time.
When Tommy closed his eyes for the last time, regret was heavy on his heart. He should’ve killed Dream, he should’ve taken his last life and crushed it under his feet while he still had the chance.
Tommy should’ve apologised to Wilbur’s grave and did what had to be done.
Tommy felt light, airy, cool, anything but the heavy feeling of worn scars and lava in a pit of obsidian. It was off-putting, but was calming enough to convince him it was all a dream.
…
This wasn’t real, was it? Tommy was dead.
Tommy had died for good. He hadn’t lived out his dreams, he never got to feel safe with Tubbo, never got to build his hotel with Sam Nook.
He died.
Tommy felt the plush bed under him, softer and bigger than any bed he’d slept on before. If he’d had this in exile, he would’ve cried.
Tommy opened his eyes.
The ceiling was high above him with delicate paintings of birds and a morning sky. The ends of the ceiling were curved, an impossibility by all means. Ceilings didn’t curve, nothing curved in his world full of harsh straightened lines.
Was this what death looked like? Was this Limbo of some sorts?
Tommy sat up, realising that his body was so much lighter than it had been in years, save a dull throb in his heart, similar to the stabbing pain he’d felt at a certain duel those many months ago.
Had he kept some injuries, even past death? Wasn’t that too cruel? Tommy noticed the cotton covers pooling at his waist. He threw them off and stood, trying to get used to this new body. If this was death, he’d take it with open arms.
But nothing was as kind as it first seemed; he had no reason to believe this wasn’t a trap.
Tommy opened and closed his mouth, ruffling his hair and feeling it softer than he’d ever be able to make it again. After exile, his hair was permanently crackly with a stench of salt, even after submerging in boiling water.
This was nice, he decided.
The walls had arches too, everything had pretty round arches. There was a curved balcony at the end of the room. With every step his heart hurt but the pain he felt here was nothing compared to the ambient agony he’d collected from his time on the SMP. The water that had never quite left his lungs after drowning so many times, each death had left a stain on him, L’Manberg had left a stain on him, Doomsday had-
But that was in the past. Tommy uncovered silk sleeves to reveal pristine, healthy skin, unmarred by war. How pretty, he’d never had skin this soft, even before coming to the SMP. He supposed this was a perk of being dead.
Grand double doors opened behind him and Tommy’s heart sank.
This was his punishment. This was why he could never have nice things.
Wilbur was staring at him, holding a mug in shaking hands, exhausted beyond measure. It took him a second to register his presence. Tommy spoke first.
“Is this where you’ve been?” There was a tinge of bitterness coating his voice.
Wilbur faltered. “Tommy…?”
“You’ve been here.” Tommy waved his hand around to emphasise the space, the grand, luscious, safe place Wilbur had been in. “Here? Seriously?”
Wilbur dropped the mug, letting it shatter as he ran towards Tommy with surprising speed. Tommy screamed, ducking a potential attack but-
Wilbur swept him up into his arms and squeezed him tightly.
“What are you doing?!” Tommy tried to kick him, punch, scratch anything, but Wilbur’s grip was stronger than ever.
Wilbur from L’Manberg used pens instead of swords, Wilbur from Pogtopia was malnourished and thin, a bag of bones and TNT. The Wilbur who left him behind wouldn’t even touch him beyond the occasional hair ruffle, he’d punished Tommy for being on his side, then tried to kill him.
This Wilbur was crying into his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. The bitterness was back. Why hadn’t he had that when he was alive?
Why had death granted him everything he’d ever wanted?
“Get off me!”
“You’re okay.” Wilbur wasn’t listening to him. Also, okay? Had Wilbur forgotten that they both died? Or was death just that much better?
“I said get off!”
Wilbur loosened his grip, still holding him in his arms. His chocolate brown eyes were filled with so much emotion, more than manic anger, paranoia, and everything else that had kept Tommy awake at night in Pogtopia.
“I see you’ve been doing well.” Tommy scoffed, unable to pretend that he was happy to see Wilbur in that state. It wasn’t fair. Tommy would’ve died so so long ago if he knew death was this nice.
Why would he hide something like this? Why didn’t he announce the good news to everyone- right, shit question. He was dead. He couldn’t announce anything.
Maybe that’s why Ghostbur was so fucking depressed under the surface, he’d be too if he had to leave this place.
“Well? Tommy-” Wilbur said his name with so much fondness, with so much love. “Do you not remember?”
A sick laugh bubbled up his throat. “Right- Right, you must hate this, don’t you?” Because even in death, Wilbur couldn’t be satiated. He wasn’t the type to be content with just peace, that was too tall of an order for the man obsessed with conquering. “My bad, I thought you changed.”
“Changed?” he whispered.
“Don’t give me that shit.” Wilbur flinched. “Don’t even fucking start with me, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He pushed Wilbur away, and seeing the man in expensive clothes made his blood boil. “Even this isn’t enough for you? A fucking castle isn’t good enough?” Tommy knew a castle when he saw it; those arches could’ve never been built in L’Manberg, pre or post the wars.
Wilbur was at a loss for words. Good.
“If you care about me, at all, you’d leave me alone.” Tommy laughed, bitterness spreading to his eyes and tongue like a disease. “But I think that’d be too much for you.”
Tommy left into Limbo, Death, he didn’t know. But as long as it was far from Wilbur, he was happy.
He knew he’d regret this after, he always did. He always grovelled to Wilbur for his love, always tried to look at the brighter side of things. Wilbur was his brother, unofficially, but Tommy had been determined to make their bond unbreakable.
Maybe it was his death that was talking. Maybe it was his regret in letting Dream live to save Wilbur, only to find out he was here, happier dead than he’d ever been in the SMP.
Maybe, it was the regret of knowing Tommy almost ripped away one of the few good things Wilbur had ever had.
The hallways were grand but empty. Fitting for death.
What was not fitting was the flora thriving in their own world. The draping wisteria over a gazebo, the beds upon beds of tulips, the rose bushes. Tubbo would cry if he saw this place, with its butterflies and bees that hummed close to his ears.
Tommy was on the first floor, in an open hallway overlooking a garden that begged for his presence. He held the railing and jumped, falling down a floor and crashing ungracefully. His legs throbbed, but they were fine. Legs healed, and he was never precious with his body- why would he start during death?
A person saw him and started screaming, horror all over an aged face. Tommy began laughing, he just had that charm on people. He threw a thumbs up, but that only made the man double over and cry.
“Prime, I know I’m cool but no need for all that.” Tommy laughed, and he’d almost forgotten of the man he’d left behind in that room- of the prison he left behind.
“You’re-you’re-” the man stammered. He fell to his knees. “Your highness.”
Tommy blinked.
“What?”
The man was a bumbling mess. Tommy put a hand on his shoulder, kneeling down to his height. He could see fear, and he knew it so well. He- he didn’t want to cause that.
“My name’s Tommy.” He pointed to himself, but the man didn’t dare look up. “And I’m just me, no need to bow or anything.”
He looked up tentatively. “Your highness, you’re… alive.” He breathed out.
“Am I not supposed to be?” Tommy joked. The man paled. “I- mean, it’s great that I’m alive, innit? It’s a good thing…” right? Was even his death a disappointment, to the point where people would cry at the sight of him being alive?
How much of a fucking menace was Wilbur, to the point where even people associated to him like Tommy, were seen with fear?
“I-I should inform his majesty- does his majesty know?” The man asked, still kneeling.
Ah, kings, how much he fucking hated them. Hated the thought of royalty.
On the bright side, there weren’t many dead people he knew that liked that shit. He doubted Schlatt would be king, he was always more of a president kind of man.
“Sure.” Tommy stood up and offered out his hand. “Let ‘em know, why don’t ya?”
The man took his hand but used only his own strength to stand. A bit useless, but the fear thrumming through the frail old man was enough to make Tommy bite his tongue. The gardener? farmer? sprinted off, leaving Tommy all alone in the garden.
And what a nice fucking garden it was. Tommy had never seen anything so pretty, so safe with tall walls all around it. He’d never had the time to build a garden, never had a secure enough place to bother with anything purely decorative. Tubbo had his bee farms, Techno his potato patches, but never had they made a garden for aesthetics.
… or was that a lie? He supposed Ponk had his lemon tree, but did that count as a garden? How could Tommy compare a tree to this?
The boy breathed out and began laughing, loud enough for it to echo in his ears. He laughed until tears sprung out his eyes. He flopped down on the grass next to the flowers, watching ants cross between blades of grass. He listened to cicadas buzz under the sun, saw butterflies fly over his head.
It was everything they’d ever wanted in L’Manberg, everything they couldn’t have after the war. Because, no matter how many planks they placed, a bomb site remained a bomb site.
Tommy shot up at the sound of hurried footsteps, preparing a low fighting stance out of instinct. Someone threw the doors open, marching out from the ground floor. Tommy’s heart dropped again, as he saw just the person he didn’t want.
Phil. Philza fucking Minecraft.
How did he die? When did he die?
Like father like fucking son. Tommy chuckled, a void in his heart. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of him. He walked towards him in hurried steps and Tommy took a step back for every he took forwards, eyes darting to every potential exit. He’d scale the wall if he needed to, the gazebo was useless to him and-
Technoblade was standing right behind Phil, why wasn’t he surprised?
What did surprise him however, was that Techno had managed to die in the first place. He was infamous for cheating death; he’d heard about the execution- but how was he here?
“Why are you here?” Tommy snarled. Phil stilled. Techno continued walking towards him, big eyes full of so much emotion and Tommy hated it.
Why didn’t he get any of this when he was alive? Why all this when he died?
“That fucking includes you too, Techno.” Why did Techno care when he said that? Why did he show any empathy for him, and actually stop? The real Technoblade wouldn’t give a shit about him wandering about, even when they were at their closest-
“You swore?”
“That’s what you care about?” Tommy made Phil flinch, another person to add to the list. “Just- forget me, I have no reason to be pissed at you.” He did, and he didn’t. Phil was in the air with his broken wings, rearing arrows at his comrades. Phil hadn’t hesitated in setting off withers, Phil had done more than enough to deserve his anger.
But he was never the worst offender on his list. He was no Dream. He was no Wilbur, or a Technoblade.
Hell, even Sam was worse than him-
Tommy giggled again, remembering the fear that had filled him, how much he’d begged to be free of that fucking prison. Who knew that would be a good thing- who’d have ever thought that death was a good thing?
“Are you alright?” Phil approached him gently, as if Tommy was a wounded animal.
“Do I look okay, Philza Minecraft?” Tommy raised a brow. The two of them look taller- now that he thought about it, Wilbur had seemed taller too. “But I guess that doesn’t matter.” Tommy shrugged, he didn’t want to keep dragging his past with him, even into his death. Bitterness flowed off his tongue. “I’m gonna be honest, I fucking hate the lot of you. It’s best that we don’t talk again.”
“What are you talking about?” Phil asked him. Techno had fallen silent. “I understand that I’ve-” he hesitated. “-that I’ve hurt you, and you have no reason to forgive me. But Technoblade hasn’t done anything, he’s been there for you, ever since you two met.”
“Is-is that a joke?” Tommy cackled. “You’re joking? What hasn’t Techno done? Doomsday might’ve been a fucking joke to you, but it wasn’t to me-” Tommy spat out. He stopped himself. “I don’t want to talk about this, especially with you. Go have fun in your perfect fucking castle.”
Tommy turned around and left. The arches weren’t pretty to him anymore. They were a reminder of what everyone had gotten except him, what he could’ve gotten if people left him alone. He could’ve had a castle with great big walls, he could’ve been safe in what L’Manberg was, had Wilbur not thought an election was necessary-
Tommy screamed when someone grabbed his arm. Technoblade seemed just as pained to hold onto Tommy as he cried “Get off- get off!” over and over, digging red crescent moons into Techno’s skin.
“You can’t go.” Techno said, his monotone voice finally showing the affection Tommy craved. His heart dropped. “You’re alive, you can’t leave us.”
…
“What the fuck are you on about? I’m dead.”