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“Ghostbur, Ghostbur- I don’t want any of his things.”
The rain is cold. Tommy wants to peel off his soaked shirt, completely battered and freezing from the horrible weather- but it has to stay on. He doesn’t have another shirt to spare.
“Wilbur, Wilbur! I said I don’t want any of Dream’s things!”
Tommy spits the word Dream out like a curse. It leaves a sour feeling on the base of his mouth. Dr-eaaa-m. He wants to rip the name off his tongue. Set it ablaze as the biting chill of wet fabric presses up against his ribs; burn it till there’s nothing left save the acrid stench of pity in the air.
Tommy decidedly lights the stack of obsidian gifted to him on fire.
He pretends it’s Dream.
There’s a little flower of guilt budding inside Tommy at how easily Ghostbur listens to him. He's too hopeful for this predicament, Tommy thinks to himself. Ghostbur wants to build a house. Tommy wants to go home.
The fire roars, eating through the obsidian with terrifying ferocity. There’s nothing left of Dream’s pity gift in seconds, and Tommy is more than happy to allow that.
Ghostbur stares at the flickering flames going out on the ground. He murmurs something unintelligible to Tommy’s ears and turns on his heels to leave, presumably going to chop some more wood.
The clanking of golden armor fades into the back of Tommy’s subconsciousness. Tommy looks away, trailing his gaze over unfamiliar landscapes and muddy ponds, hoping to find some sense of belonging, something to anchor down on-
-he sees nothing. The fog-covered scenery before him is just what it is: nature. There are no memories to dig here; only dirt, flowers, and stone covers the uneven grassy ground.
A broken sob rises from the back of Tommy’s throat.
“What the fuck?”
He would cry, but tears make no difference amidst the pouring rain.
“Where are we?”
Tommy is vaguely aware of Ghostbur trying to cheer him up. Lads on Tour, or something. But no matter how hard Tommy squints his eyes into the distance, he can’t find any permanent solutions to their miserable situation.
He tries to assure himself that things will turn out alright. That things will be okay.
(Tommy knows that he’s lying to himself.
But lies should be kind. Lies are why people shy away from the truth because the truth is hard to bear. So he feeds himself the simplest lies. The warmest ones, the ones that say he’ll work things out in the end.)
“It’s going to be fun,” Ghostbur laughs, and Tommy doesn’t know how to answer.
“Lads on tour,” the ghost repeats, and Tommy is starting to lose it. “Lads on-”
“What the fuck!” Tommy snaps, slamming his fist into an oak tree far too harshly. Ghostbur jumps. “This is not- I don’t want to be on tour right now!”
Tommy attempts to steady his breathing. In, out. In, out. He takes in another large breath, lungs shuddering. “What’s Tubbo doing?” he finally grits out, fingernails scraping against the wooden bark.
“He’s busy being president,” Ghostbur reminds, and Tommy is tempted to punch the tree again. He ends up chopping it as a sign of truce. The frustration boiling through his veins does not dissipate.
Tommy begins heading back to their ramshackle dirt house and swears for the upteenth time that day.
He knows that home is far away. He doesn't want to know how far, but he ends up checking out of sheer curiosity. It's farther than he wants to believe.
Two thousand blocks away.
His chest tightens. Two thousand blocks.
“Two thousand goddamn blocks away,” he grimaces, slapping a hand over his tired eyes. “TWO THOUSAND BLOCKS!”
He yells into the sky. Not like anyone can hear him here- two thousand blocks, Tommy’s still processing that - since he’s been exiled to a random place with no way back. He can kick and scream all he wants. No one will come for him.
Ghostbur, who is also near the pathetic dirt shelter, tries to compromise. A little country in this soggy grassland, he says. In this stupid area where plains roll for miles yet bear no sight of what Tommy’s grown used to.
He stares at the darkened sky. He stares harder. Tommy thinks there are shadows of angels dancing back at him.
(They look like Tubbo. Or maybe it's just the rain in his eyes.)
Ghostbur notices Tommy’s silence. He tries to bring the blond back to the present but is met with an enraged, “HOW IS THIS REAL?”
Ghostbur enters a stunned silence.
Tommy thinks he’s crying. He can’t tell. His face, outfit, hair, everything has been drenched by water. A little more can’t hurt.
“I- oh my god.” His voice cracks like eggshells beneath his tormentor's heel. “I should’ve never burned down George’s house.”
“You burned down George’s house?” Ghostbur whispers from inside the hut.
Tommy winces. “A little bit.”
“You know, that’s probably why they don’t like you.”
There’s buzzing in Tommy’s ears.
It’s loud. It hurts.
“Wow.”
The rain stops, and the sickening rays of too-warm sunshine sets into the stuffy ground. The air becomes unbearably humid.
Ghostbur might as well have poured fresh lemon juice into a festering wound. Tommy turns to grab the brown-haired man by his corporeal sweater, hurt brewing like a storm in the pit of his stomach. An icy feeling lowers itself onto the linings inside Tommy’s gut.
“You’re Wilbur, right?” he spits, curling his hands around the yellow fabric. Ghostbur nods, and Tommy snarls, “then let me ask you something. Why did you make Tubbo the president?”
Ghostbur shakes his head. “I- I didn’t, that was Wilbur-”
Tommy’s eye twitches. “THINK!” he roars, fingers tightening around the translucent cloth beneath it. “Why? Did you do this on purpose?!”
“No! I don’t want to make anyone upset, I just- I-”
Ghostbur tries to form a coherent sentence. Tommy slackens his python-grip around Ghostbur's clothes, his used-to-be bright features now blocked by a shadow.
“Look, come on, Tommy- I found some clay. We can build a nice birch and terracotta house, it’ll be in blue…”
“No,” Tommy cuts off, and Ghostbur blinks at him in confusion. “No, I mean- I like the idea, but we’re not making a house. We’re going to build a campsite. Not a house.”
“But why?” Ghostbur questions. Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose.
“We’re going back,” he explains, slapping an exasperated hand over Ghostbur’s shoulder. “We’re going back, okay? We’re not staying here for long.”
Believe that lie.
He’s not entirely talking to Ghostbur, no. He’s talking to himself.
Believe the lie. Because the truth is bitter, the truth is cold.
We’re going back.
Tommy will get to punch Dream in the face, too. This exile can’t last too long. This exile won’t last long. He’ll be okay.
Things will work out in the end.