Archive of Our Own

Tubbo spends most of his time sitting in the lawn now. 

In the early mornings he doesn't really wake up, mainly because he doesn't sleep, but he'll rise and shuffle to the front door. He'll grab a coat and pull it on and head out to a spot in the grass. He'll sit down, cross his legs under himself and stay there until noon. 

It's the time of the sun's highest point, and yet, Tubbo never feels the rays. He's always cold these days. There's nothing to feel warm about. 

He breathes in and breathes out, and then does it all again. There are times when he has to manually remind himself to do it, because his lungs will stutter and stop, like his body almost doesn’t want him to go on. 

He can’t exactly blame it. 

This is life now, dull and grey. There’s no chance of it changing. Tommy is gone. 

Tommy is gone, and there’s nothing Tubbo can do about it. 

… 

Ranboo reads too much. 

He doesn’t mind which type of reading it is- articles, blog posts, novels- he’ll take it all. He dives head first into whatever he can, trying not to think about- things. Trying not to think about- 

Warm smiles and loud, loud, loud laughter. A head of golden curls slumping towards him, trusting and trusting, a baby bird just learning to fly. Hands that reach out- to the dirt, to the sky, to Ranboo. Freckles dashed across smile-stretched cheeks, colors that shouldn't fit, going together perfectly. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. 

Ranboo gasps a ragged breath. He turns a page. 

There's a nice book about spirits that Ranboo's always been meaning to check out. He hasn't yet because anytime that he's picked it up someone- Tommy- would pull him outside. Someone- Tommy- would push their head into Ranboo's lap. Someone- Tommy- would ask him a question and offer his full attention, letting Ranboo go on and on and on. 

Now, he has all the time in the world to read it. He won't be interrupted ever again. 

Ranboo opens the book and turns to the first page and- he just stares. He tries to make himself look past the first sentence. He tries to make himself absorb the words and understand them. He can't. 

He wants a hand to tap at his shoulder. He wants a pair of bright blue eyes to smile at him and then pull him away, pull him outside. He wants a single peal of laughter, a single elbow nudge, a single midnight whisper. He's desperate for it. 

He'd never read again if he could have Tommy back. 

Ranboo takes a shuddering breath, swipes cold tears away and makes himself focus on the words in front of him. He's got books to read. 

…

There's a pot clanging in the kitchen. Wilbur stares at the ceiling. 

The blankets are heavy over him. He hasn't moved in days now- or, was it weeks? How long has it been? How many- 

Wilbur needs to get up. He needs to do things. There's cleaning, he thinks. And writing. He writes, right? He should probably do that. It's his job. He's- he's got people relying on him. He's-

He had Tommy relying on him. 

Wilbur's chest hurts. 

It's interesting, because when you're young and you're in pain, you think it's the worst feeling that you'll ever experience. When you're young, you fail a test or you are dumped and it's like- God, nothing will ever heal this. Nothing will ever feel this agonizing again. 

Well, Wilbur is twenty five. Wilbur has been dumped and failed classes and disappointed his parents and lost money. He's felt pain that made him shake and brought him to his knees and made him feel like he couldn't go on. He knows that mindset- he knows how fickle it is. Pain doesn't last forever, they say. 

They fucking lied. 

This feels like someone has taken a lawnmower to his chest. There was a garden growing there- sweet and colorful, just barely blooming- and then, the weed whacker. He's aching, aching, aching. He's in such a state of pain that his fingers are numb. 

He lays in bed, under his too heavy covers and stares at his ceiling and- 

And nothing. 

…

Phil pulls a pot down from atop the cupboards. 

Boiling water, salt, noodles, cheese, he thinks. Boiling water, salt, noodles, cheese. Macaroni. It's not much but it's something. It's something. 

He fills the pot three quarters of the way and then sets the stove top to medium heat. While the water is heating, he turns and tends the plants in the kitchen. He can't look at them directly, nor for very long, but he gets them taken care of. He gets them watered and fed and makes sure to keep the curtain open. 

The sun is dim, but every little bit helps. 

When he's done, the water is boiled, and he opens the box of noodles. He pours them into the bubbling water gently. He waits and stares for a bit. 

Tommy loved macaroni and cheese. 

There was one time when he came over to Phil's house, all chuffed because he was always chuffed to be at Phil's. He said that he loved it- he said that something about Phil and Kristen's house was cozy to him, and Phil couldn't stop smiling for the whole day. But, Tommy came over, somehow bouncing around in excitement and tucking his limbs close to his body, like he was afraid to touch anything. 

They played games, they talked, and then Phil made some macaroni for dinner. The three of them sat down to eat, and at the first bite of pasta, wildflowers were blooming all over their table. Tommy's fork clattered into the bowl and he stood up, rushing to brush them away, cheeks red and apologies spilling from his lips. 

Phil caught his hand. Asked him why he was saying sorry. Tommy turned redder and then looked away. 

I just really like macaroni and cheese. 

"Phil." 

Phil startles, blinking down at the over boiling pot in front of him. He looks up, and Kristen is standing there, a concerned frown on her face, a hand outstretched and reaching for him. Phil looks back down at the pot of ruined pasta and bursts into tears. 

"Oh, oh no," Kristen says, and of course, she doesn't sound surprised. She saw this coming from a mile away. "Phil, baby, come here, come here." 

He lets Kristen curl her arms around him and pull him close, turning him away from the ruined meal. 

"I- I've got to help Wil, he needs to eat, I-" 

"I'm worried about you right now, honey." She says firmly. "We can remake the food. We can help Wil in a second."

And so, with his wife's permission, he shudders and shakes and falls apart in her arms. She holds him steady,  keeping him upright, keeping him breathing. He can't even imagine what he looks like- all purple and blue and black. It's how he feels on the inside. His heart is one big bruise. 

He cries until he can't cry anymore, and when he pulls away, Wilbur is standing on the doorway to the kitchen, staring at Phil blankly. Kristen frowns and steps back, watching carefully. 

"I- I burned the pasta." Phil admits, voice warbling and wet. 

Wilbur opens his mouth to talk, but must deem it too much effort, because he just steps forward and reaches out. Phil lets Wilbur wrap his arms around him and in return, squeezes the burnette's middle. 

This is the hard part, Phil thinks. This is the part that gets you. Going on when everyday tasks bring you to tears. 

He presses his face into Wilbur's shoulder and breathes.

…

Tubbo blinks, and realizes that the sun has set. 

The sky is still light, but the sun is halfway gone and Tubbo didn't even feel it. He stands up and methodically brushes himself off and goes inside. His parents have been hovering. His sister, sobbing. He hasn't seen Ranboo in days. 

He doesn't know if he wants to. 

There's a missing piece in his heart. A loud, gangly growth that's been snipped out. Tubbo doesn't know how people can stand to lose something that they cared so much about. 

Inside, Tubbo seats himself in the kitchen, at the counter. He thinks about cooking- remembers doing that for Tommy. He stops thinking about cooking. 

He lays his head in his cold arms. Cold from the marble counter, cold from the heatless sun. Everything freezing, always. His exhaustion will kick in soon, once the sun fully sinks, then Tubbo will trudge over to bed and sit there. He won't sleep, because in his dreams he feels Tommy by his side, warm always, glowing. 

Tubbo is the sun, but Tommy was his warmth. Now, all Tubbo can be is cold. 

He's about to stand and go to bed when a box falls down from the top of the refrigerator. Tubbo startles, then stands, walking over, peeking around the corner. 

"Ranboo?" Tubbo calls hoarsely. "Lani?" 

No one is there. 

He looks down at the box. It's just some crackers, Tubbo's favorites. He likes to put them with peanut butter or sometimes with cheese. Eat them as a snack, share them with- 

Well. 

He bends down and picks them up. He's about to put them back where they came from when his stomach suddenly twists. He's hungry, he realizes. Oh. 

He should eat. He should take care of himself. Tommy would want him to. 

Tommy would want him safe and healthy. Tubbo takes a breath. If he imagines that he's doing it for Tommy, then he can manage just about anything. 

…

Technoblade means to go. 

That’s his plan. Everyday he wakes up, and he thinks, today is the day that I’m flying over- today is the day that I’m heading to the UK. He packs his bags, he checks his flight, he calls an Uber. 

He stands there, outside, the wind whipping fiercely, and doesn’t waste any time getting into the car when it comes. He wants to go. He does. Then, like clockwork, the second that he gets out of the car at the airport, the rain is going. A steady stream of it, much more than a drizzle. 

He pushes on, rushing inside. His flight is supposed to leave in thirty minutes. He gets in, making it through security and baggage claim and all of that without a hitch. And then, as he’s sitting to wait those last ten minutes for docking, the intercom crackles. 

All flights for the rest of the day have been cancelled due to outstanding weather conditions. The woman says. Please make your way to the front desk for refunds or ticket re-issuings. 

Technoblade looks out the window ruefully, tired. The wind and rain are smacking against the giant glass windows. He can see people on the tarmac in ponchos running to get inside. 

The sky simply opened up, one woman says as she bustles by, a phone pressed to her ear. The weather forecast didn’t even call for rain. I mean, come on, it’s been like this for three straight weeks now. It’s like God doesn’t want us on these flights. 

Technoblade looks down at his hands, lax. The palm lines, weathered. He’s tired. 

Tommy’s dead. 

He needs to get to the UK. He’s got to talk to the kid’s parents, to Phil, to Wilbur. He needs to check on Ranboo, on Tubbo. They should hear from him. They should know that Techno cares. He thinks that Tommy knew. He hopes that Tommy knew. 

Technoblade sighs and turns, heading with everyone else to the front desk. He’ll try again tomorrow.

… 

Wilbur doesn’t sing much anymore. 

It’s his passion, so he doesn’t not want to do it. He just can’t. He’ll sit on the floor in his guest bedroom with a pencil and a notepad and write half-formed lyrics and bits and pieces of phrases. When he cobbles up enough together to make a song, he’ll send it over to Joe, who reassures him to take your time Wilbur, don’t even worry about the new album. It’s a sweet sentiment, but after the first month, Wilbur’s recognized- the band is made up of four people. He’s not the only one suffering from inactivity. 

He’ll write and write and write, but he won’t touch his guitar nor will he open his mouth to sing a single note. It hurts too much. 

When he sings, greenery bursts from cracks that Wilbur didn’t even know existed, flowers show their cores from the ceilings, verdure climbs over surfaces, reaching towards him, trying to get to him. It’s overwhelming. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin. 

The life looks like Tommy, the beauty feels like his brother. 

Wilbur wouldn’t have this magic without him. Wilbur doesn’t want this magic without him. 

He’d rip every root from the Earth, claw the shine off of every star to have Tommy back. Tommy, tucked into his side at one am watching movies; Tommy, turning and looking at him with wide eyes when he sees something exciting at the market that he’s going to try to convince Wilbur to buy; Tommy, stealing Wilbur’s clothes right in front of his face shamelessly. Tommy in his house, in his home- Tommy, Wilbur’s home. 

Wilbur lets his guitars and keyboards gather dust and lets his plants die. There's no reason to fret over them anymore. 

…

Ghosts are not just whispers of the person they're preceded by. They are the soul transcended. 

Ranboo needs to stop reading, he thinks. 

His readings, which started out as well off distractions from the after-images of Tommy on his eyes, were now skewing towards one topic- one subject. The magic of ghosts. The spirits of the afterlife. The distance between the living and the deceased. 

There's a question that Ranboo isn't looking directly in its face. There's an answer that he's seeking, that he doesn't want to find. 

It hurts. It hurts more than remembering now. 

He thinks about Tommy, a ball of life, shining from everywhere, as a dull wisp, and his heart hurts. 

The wind blows, the pages of the book in his lap flip rapidly, stopping at one. Ranboo blinks. 

They're the soul transcended. 

Then it hits Ranboo- how is the wind blowing? His windows are closed. The door is shut. 

He hesitates, not wanting to get his hopes up. "Tommy? Is- is that you?" 

Then there's a knock at the door. Ranboo startles, but it cracks open and out peeks Tubbo. He looks- dull still, pale, but better than that first week. 

"Ranboo." He says, then pauses like he doesn't remember why he came in here. Again, the wind. From behind Tubbo this time, nudging him closer. He starts again. "Ranboo, do you-uh- wanna sit outside with me?" 

Ranboo blinks down at his book. At the words on the page. He looks back up at the one piece of his soul that's still here, that's still hurting. 

He should stop reading. 

"Yes," he whispers. "I- yes." 

…

"Don't push yourself if you can't," Phil is saying, his voice crackling over the line. "Seriously Techno, if- I understand, Wilbur understands. We all understand if you can't." 

Techno stares out at the sea, at it's endless restless churning. It's not a good day. 

"But I should- I mean, I owe it to him, don't I?" 

"You don't owe anyone anything, Tech. Tommy wouldn't want you to feel like you need to do anything." 

A gust of wind comes by, blowing weirdly cold for California, bringing over the smell of fresh flowers, of plants. It curls around him like a hug, and then blows one gust rapidly, yanking away the plane ticket that he's got in his hand. 

"Shit," Technoblade curses, but doesn't chase after it. It's way too far gone already. 

"Techno?" Phil asks, concerned. 

"No, it's alright, I'm-" He sighs. Collects himself. "How's Wilbur?"

"Wilbur is...doing what he can. He's up and moving and writing, I think. He's- I don't know if he's cried yet." Phil whispers. "I don't think he's letting himself." 

Technoblade can't blame him. He didn't really cry. When he got the news, he threw up, and when he picked up his head, torrents and torrents of rainfall were soaking California- a hurricane began brewing in the distance. He sat there, cross legged in front of his glass balcony window and watched the weather shake the building all around. He saw there and watched his own grief happen right before his eyes. 

"What are you gonna do?" Technoblade asks. 

Phil sighs. He sounds exhausted. "I'm gonna be here until he gets sick of me. And then after that I'll still be here. I'm- Tommy wouldn't want me to leave him." 

Technoblade's heart squeezes. The wind blows again, another wispy hug. "I'm sure he wouldn't." 

…

There's a knock at Wilbur's door a couple days later. 

He sighs and stands, shuffling over to it. He just managed to get Phil and Kristen out of his house with the promises that he'd call if he needed anything, but he wouldn't be surprised if they decided to drop in for a visit just a day after they left. 

“Phil,” Wilbur sighs as he swings the door open, “I am still capable of making ramen on my own- oh.” 

It isn’t Phil. Or Kristen. 

Ash stands there,  half shrouded in shadows as always, face pale and eyes downcast. 

“Ash,” Wilbur says, stunned. “What’s- what are you-” 

He looks up. “I thought you’d need me.” 

Wilbur’s frown deepens. “You thought I’d need you.” He repeats incredulously. Ash’s head bows. “You thought I’d need you. Ash, I- God, maybe I needed you a few weeks ago when I couldn’t get out of bed. Maybe a week before that when I tried to go to rehearsal and broke down crying in the recording booth and needed Mark to help me home. Ash, I did need you. A while ago. And you weren’t there.” 

Ash doesn’t move, his eyes still lowered, but the shadows around him tremble. “I know. I should’ve stayed. I just- I couldn’t.” Then, Ash looks up and Wilbur has never seen him cry, but his eyes are red-rimmed. “But Wilbur, I lost him too. And I don’t have- I couldn’t stay. You have to understand. I just couldn’t.” 

Wilbur is quiet for a moment, turning that over in his head. I lost him too. Ash says, and yeah, Wilbur can grasp that, objectively. He can turn it over and over in his head and it ends up comes up easily. I lost him too. Yeah, of course. 

But- but. 

Wilbur didn't just lose his brother, or his best friend, Wilbur lost a part of himself. Something was taken out of him, and it will never be filled back up. 

Nothing could help Wilbur with his pain. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't have to leave someone else hurting. 

Wilbur steps aside, and lets Ash in. 

…

Jack's been staying at Niki's house the past couple of nights. 

They don’t really do much- neither of them can fathom creating content when- when- well. It just doesn’t make sense. 

Niki does a lot of knitting, and everyone once in a while, she’ll come out of her bedroom, blink at Jack tiredly, and Jack knows that he’ll have to go out later and get a new ball of red yarn. Jack, on the other hand, does a lot of cooking- sauteed vegetables and smoked meats and he even tried his hand and fresh baked bread once. 

He keeps switching recipes and cooking styles and picking up new seasonings that he’s never tried before. He finds cooking appliances and buys them only to use them once and never again. He watches baking competitions late into the night, early into the morning, all so he can make the best, most flavorful meals ever, but no matter what he does, it never works. 

Everything tastes grey. Food doesn't taste like food anymore. 

Back before, back when Tommy was- back when, they'd go to the market and Tommy would throw every single green thing into Jack's cart. Stuff he'd never even heard off before. He remembers Tommy, very vividly going, rhubarb, this will be good tonight, we can make it like this- 

They would stand together in the kitchen, side by side, elbows nudging, trying to figure out how to properly slice and season an artichoke. They'd poke at kitchen appliances that are over complicated for no reason, trying to figure them out just for fun. 

Tommy's favorite was the melon-baller. He liked scooping up the fruit, saying he would juggle the watermelons and honey dew. It fit him, those colorful, sweet spheres and the bright red scooper. 

Jack spends all his time chasing that life now- willing it back to him. He doesn't want to believe that it's truly been snuffed out. 

He still wants to believe he can still make something happen that isn't sadness.

…

"It's cold out here," Ranboo notes, because the silence feels too silent. Nowadays, it is too quiet- it seeps into the cracks of the home and the fissures of their hearts and weighs everything down. 

Tommy wasn't quiet. Every breath he took, every move he made- even when he was unsure- spoke volumes. He stepped a beat into their home, a thrumming heart. And when he went, he took it with him. 

"I know," Tubbo whispers. "I can't seem to get warm. Sorry."

Ranboo's heart bobs in his chest. He scoots closer so their sides are pressed together. "Don't say sorry. I'm- I get it, you know that I get it." He hesitates. "I miss him. A lot." 

Tubbo's head dips in acknowledgment. "Yeah." 

Right on Ranboo's tongue is, I missed you too- don't let me lose both of you, don't leave me to myself- but he doesn't say it. 

"What would he do?" Ranboo asks instead. "What would he do if he was here?"

Tubbo laughs sadly. "He'd live. He'd keep living. He's stronger than all of us." 

Ranboo tilts his face into Tubbo's hair. "Let's live then. For him."

…

Ash doesn't speak much, which Wilbur appreciates. Maybe horribly, but- he doesn't know. Tommy always spoke a lot because he hated the silence, so Wilbur doesn't think there should be anything brushing the silence away. If it isn't Tommy, Wilbur doesn't want it. 

Instead of talking, Ash just sits. He stays by Wilbur's side or follows him around the house, giving him things that he thinks Wilbur needs- water, blankets, anything. Something inside of him clings to Ash like a small child, but something bigger and louder and darker just wants to be left alone. 

Alone, like Tommy's made him. 

"Here," Ash says, putting a cup of tea down on the table next to him. "For you." 

Ash begins to walk away, and Wilbur stares at the light brown liquid, a weird sensation welling inside of him. It tastes red, it feels black, Wilbur wants it out, out, out. 

"It's been a week." 

Ash turns. 

Wilbur stands slowly, disregarding the cup- taking hold of the awful dark redness pressing against his chest and clogging up his vocal cords. He hopes it comes through in his eyes, in his stance- the type of person that grief has made him, both angry and unfeeling. A brother without a sibling. A never ending paradox. 

"Why are you still here?" Wilbur continues. "You could be anywhere right now." 

Ash doesn't respond to the bait. "I'm here because I care about you Wilbur. Just like I'm sure that Phil was-"

"Don't talk about Phil!"

"-just like how Tommy would want me to be." Ash continues, almost nonplussed. 

The inky-ness in Wilbur's chest expands. "Don't- fucking, do not-" he inhales raggedy. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't- "- mention him, he's- I'm-" 

Ash takes a step forward and the shadows in the room follow him. Wilbur swallows and stumbles back, bumping into the table and making the tea slosh over. 

"Wilbur-" 

"He's gone!" Wilbur snaps, chest heaving. "He's gone and no amount of fucking tea you bring me or blankets you give me will bring him back!" 

"I'm not trying to bring him back, Wilbur," Ash says, something dark hiding under his voice. Good, Wilbur wants that. He wants Ash pissed off- wants to feel anger. Anger is much easier to feel than anything else. "I can't." 

"Then why the fuck are you here?" 

Ash opens his mouth, and Wilbur can feel the shout that is just about to come, hungers for it, but then- Ash deflates. He closes his eyes, takes a breath. When he opens his eyes again, there's no anger, just calm and sad understanding. 

"I care about you." He says firmly. "That's why. So tell me to go, but I won't. Yell at me all you want, but I'm gonna stay. I love you. You're my friend and I love you and I'm here for you." 

Wilbur's breath hitches, and with it, it feels like all of his fight has been ripped out of him, everything he wanted to happen being taken away. Just like how Tommy was, and God, why can't Wilbur just get what he wants? He wanted a long, long life with his little brother. He wanted sleepovers that lasted weeks, he wanted to buy all of Tommy's favorite foods and have them become his own, he wanted to actually be there, in person, for the walks that Tommy takes in the morning. He wanted to stand at Tommy's side and never leave. That's all that he wanted. 

Wilbur inhales sharply and bends over, arms curled around his stomach, pain like knives jabbing at him. "Please-" he gasps, and Ash steps forward, reaching out a hand. "Please, just- get mad at me. Please, please, please-"

"Wilbur, Wil, no." Ash says, putting his hands solidly on Wilbur's shoulders. He leans down as well, trying to look Wilbur in the eye. "I'm not going to get mad at you, man, why would-"

"Please," Wilbur begs. "Please." 

Ash shakes his head, then pulls Wilbur up into a silent hug. Wilbur lets him, shaking. He hangs there limp for a while, but Ash doesn't pull away and eventually, he sobs. Right there into the fabric of Ash's hoodie, he begins to cry, curling his arms around Ash and holding on tight. 

"It's alright Wilbur," Ash says, rubbing his back as he shudders and cries. "It's okay, man. I know, I know." 

…

"Am I awful for not going over?" 

Dream's on the other end of the line, and Technoblade is, again, outside. He's sitting in the sand, not touching the waves. He hasn't in a while, but day by day he inches closer and closer. He doesn’t know what draws him out- the ocean, or the beach, or the wind that smells like sea-soaked petals. Whatever it is, it’s the only reason he doesn’t spend days in bed staring at his wall. 

“Do you think I’m awful for not going over?” Dream asks. He sounds hoarse- his voice rough. Techno doesn’t think he’s recorded a video in months. Doesn’t think that he will. 

“No,” Technoblade says. “But you- you-” 

“I didn’t know him as well as you did?” Dream finishes, a slight tinge of something bitter in his tone. Technoblade wants to say that's not what he meant, but finds that he can’t. He can’t really lie to Dream- not about something as important as Tommy. “Maybe that’s true. But- I mean, we’re the same Techno. You can feel it can’t you? We’re made of the same stuff.” 

Technoblade’s eyes focus on the ocean ahead- the waves and their gentle crash, like a song. 

It’s true. Him and Dream stem from the same pool, trickle from the same stream. At their core, they are just two sides of the same deep-blue coin. They both love hesitantly- a gentle drizzle of rain. They both love in a rush- a rising, building wave. They only live in extremes. Love or hate, go or stay- there’s never a midpoint. 

“We loved him the same way,” Dream continues quietly. Mournfully. “Maybe other people couldn’t see it, but he knew. I know that he did. And really, does anyone else matter?” 

“No,” he answers- the next day, Techno purchases a plane ticket, and the sky remains clear. 

He doesn’t tell anyone that he’s coming, mainly because he wasn’t sure that he’d make it, but when he touches down ten hours later, something tugs him out of baggage claim and makes him drift to a corner. 

There stands Kristen, no sign, no frivolity, just open arms and a sympathetic smile. Technoblade, wordlessly, falls into them, and she wraps him up as tight as can be.

"I'm glad you're here," She whispers. 

Technoblade's eyes water, and when they go outside, it's only a slight, manageable drizzle of rain, instead of the downpour he's used to. And even then, it's much easier to walk through when there's a hand in his. 

...

The doorbell rings, and Tubbo goes to answer it because Ranboo is half asleep on his couch. 

No one is there- not as if Tubbo expected any visitors- but there's a package sitting there on the porch. Tubbo bends down to pick it up and his heart squeezes when he sees that it’s from Jack. He pulls it inside and over to the couch. 

“Ranboo, hey-” Tubbo gently shakes him awake. “Hey, Jack sent us something.” 

Ranboo sits up, rubbing his eyes. He helps Tubbo cut the tape and open the box, and it’s all fine until they’re pulling back the flaps. When Tubbo sees what’s inside he has to stop. 

“Oh.” Ranboo goes, sounding entirely too calm for what he’s looking at. 

Inside the box, folded neatly, are two knitted sweaters. They’re made with white wool, nice and soft and big- a normal gift that would make sense given the changing seasons- but what makes them both stare are the red flowers embroidered on the wool. Against the shoulder, dripping down, curling around the wrist up to the shoulder, creeping from the hem up the side. 

"That's-" Tubbo starts. He doesn't finish. There aren't any words. 

Ranboo reaches down and pulls out the longer one, unfolding it carefully. A folded piece of paper flutters out. Ranboo grabs it. 

"It's from Jack." Ranboo says. "Want me to read it?"

Tubbo nods, still staring at his sweater just sitting there in the box. Ranboo clears his throat. 

Hey boys, just checking in to see how you're doing and to let you know that you're always welcome. I'm staying at Niki's for now, and we're making it day by day. She keeps sewing these sweaters, trying to make them for you two and I keep telling her they're great but she never believes me. I guess that saying about how an artist's harshest critic is themselves is true then, huh? Anyway, I'm sending these for her because otherwise she wouldn't, and you deserve to see them, if not to wear them. I'm also sending our love and the reminder of an open invitation, always. We love you and we're here. 

- love, Jack

By the end of the note, Ranboo has tears in his eyes and Tubbo is breathing deeply, trying to fend them off. 

“They’re Tommy’s flowers,” Tubbo says shakily, reaching in and picking up his sweater and running his hand over the red poppies and purple violets and yellow-orange asclepias, trailing down the wool like blood leaking from a wound. Flowers pouring like water, Tommy still peaking through in everything. "The ones that he makes." 

Ranboo sniffles, then abruptly pulls the sweater over his head, pulling his arms through the sleeves. Tubbo watches, understanding. It's their piece of Tommy- what little they have left. They'll take what they can get. They'll wear him proudly. 

…

"Phil," Wilbur says into the phone, just a few hours after crying himself out on Ash's shoulder. His voice is still shot and he wants to sleep, but he feels much looser and lighter than he has in days. "Can you come over, please?"

"Of course," Phil answers. "Of course I can- when?"

"Now? Is that-" 

"Yes, I'll be right there." He hesitates a second. "Is there anything I should bring? Anything you need, I'll pick it up." 

"A hug? I think, just- yeah. That would be nice." 

"Alright mate, I'll be right there."

And true to his word, Wilbur's doorbell goes off not even a half an hour later, but when he opens the door, it isn't Phil that's on the other side, it's Technoblade. He looks tired, like they all are, but he's got his arms open. 

"Sorry for taking so damn long, Wil," he says. "I'm here now for what it's worth."

Wilbur collapses into Techno's arms, shattered. Techno wraps him up, pulling him close, pressing his face into Wilbur's hair.

They stand there for a while in the doorway, holding one another, before Technoblade pulls away, his eyes shiny. "Let me in, Wilbur. Let us in, okay? We came here for you."

Wilbur nods, feeling small, and then walks them through the threshold, over to the living room. Technoblade looks at the balcony door, where the blinds are shuttered. 

"Can I open these?" He asks. 

Wilbur sits down on the couch, very aware of Phil and Ash both watching carefully. "Um. Sure. I-"

"It's raining anyway," Technoblade sighs. 

"It wasn't earlier," Phil frowns. "We just walked in- how do you know?"

"I can tell." Technoblade flicks the blinds open and sure enough, the sky is grey and everything outside is wet. Not worryingly so, but just enough. "Yeah. I figured. The plants are being cared for at least." 

Wilbur blanches at that, looking ill. Techno steps away from the sliding door and sits down next to him on the couch. He pauses, thinking, then reaches out to put a hand on Wilbur's shoulder. 

Wilbur meets his gaze. 

"I really am sorry for taking so long. I- I'm not nearly as brave as you are. You'd have been down on the first flight."

Wilbur chuckles dryly, shaking his head. "First week was spent in bed, Tech, don't overestimate me." 

Phil comes over to sit on Wilbur's other side. "I wouldn't have made it over either, I don't think. Kristen's probably the only reason that I was functional. Her and...you, Wil. Her and you." 

"Tommy would've been on the first flight," Techno says. Wilbur jolts. "I mean, you know Tommy's always been the bravest out of all of us." 

Tears well in Wilbur's eyes. It hurts, but Wilbur has to smile, because yeah, he was. He was always the one convincing them to do the things that they thought they couldn't. And it always ranged too, from bits to big life decisions that they've been on the fence about. Tommy was always there, young eyes influencing everything, going, go on, why not? What's the worst that could happen? I think you've got it in you. 

"He was," Wilbur gasps, half laughing, half crying. "He was. He was. God, do you remember when- oh, Ash, before I met you, I was thinking about giving up music entirely for anyone but myself. I was just gonna play it for my friends and little shit on stream, but Tommy wouldn't have it."

"Oh, I remember this one," Phil grins, "yes, Tommy pulled me into a call with no prep and was like, yes, we're telling Wilbur that he's the best at music, so he can keep making it for me, let's go." 

Techno and Ash laugh, and Wilbur's heart swells. "Yeah, he- he was so adamant about it too, you would think that it was his music or something. You would think he was my agent!"

"Well he was practically, wasn't he?" Ash offers. "For Lovejoy, I mean." 

"He did have an inordinate amount of say in our final track lists, that's true." 

"He believed in you guys," Phil says. Everyone goes quiet. "He still does. You know, that belief will never go away." 

Wilbur looks down at his hands. "I know." 

Techno leans a bit, curls his arm around Wilbur's shoulders. "I like to think that his heart is still with us. He's here, right now. There had to be a reason that I finally plucked up the courage to come here, because I know it didn't come from myself."

"You think so?" Wilbur looks up. "You think he's watching?" 

"I do." He says. "And even if he isn't, he's in everything. He's all over our lives. He isn't going anywhere anytime soon. We had a shining star down on Earth with us, Wil, and yeah, maybe he's gone, but you'll never forget his light." 

… 

Tubbo and Ranboo, joined at the hip, go together to Niki's house. 

They don't talk about it, but they both end up wearing their sweaters and when Niki opens the door to let them in, she pulls them into a big hug, tears already in her eyes. Jack gets to them next, holding them both so tight that it almost hurts, but they don't mind- they understand the urgency, the need. Hug someone before you can't- hug them while they're still here. 

"We've got fruits and vegetables and cookies and juice," he says, letting them go. "I can make some tea, as well, if you want. Would only take a second." 

They offer to take some fruit, just so Jack can excitedly explain how he's cut it up into balls, and then they sit there, on the carpet, watching Niki knit in the armchair. Halfway through her explaining what a latch hook and a slipknot are, the doorbell rings and in comes Kristen and Phil, holding hands and a bottle of wine. 

More hugs, and more laughter, and more balls of honeydew are passed around before they all settle. Tubbo's knee begins to bounce after Kristen presses a kiss to his hair in greeting. Ranboo reaches over, puts a hand on the leg, stopping him. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" He asks. 

Tubbo bites his lip. Shrugs. Ranboo frowns disapprovingly. 

"...Tubbo, don't shut me out." He whispers after a moment. "I- I need you. And- and I'm pretty sure that you need me." 

The wind blows. Tubbo catches the scent of daffodils. It spurs him to speak. "I do need you, Ranboo. I do."

"Okay, then tell me what's going on. Let me try to help." 

"What if he doesn't come?" Tubbo asks. "What if Wilbur doesn't make it?" 

Ranboo pulls back a bit, tilts his head, a frown on his face. Then, his troubled expression clears. "He will."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's right at the door." 

Then, a knock, and Jack is getting up to get the door again. Wilbur steps in, long coat on, guitar case on his back, Technoblade right behind him. He looks good- if not good, then better, and that's just one step closer to being good, so Tubbo will take it. He hugs Jack, then Niki, then puts his guitar case down to lock eyes with the both of them. 

"Oh," he says softly, seeing their sweaters. He smiles sadly, a bit regretfully. "You guys look amazing. He'd- he'd love these, you know. He wouldn't stop talking about how you're his biggest fans." 

"We are." Ranboo says. Winces. "Were. Still are." 

Wilbur frowns, but instead of tearing up, he just pulls Ranboo in for a hug. Tubbo blinks. He watches as Ranboo pauses, and then holds Wilbur back, accepting the love. Wilbur leans his cheek against Ranboo's head, and then looks at Tubbo- he looks really guilty now. A bit ashamed even. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers. 

"Why are you apologizing?" Tubbo asks, confused. 

"I'm sorry for forgetting that I have two other little brothers that need taking care of too."

Tubbo inhales, then he steps forward, and lets himself be pulled under Wilbur's other arm right next to Ranboo. It's not the same as Tommy being between them, but the comfort that comes from it- and from the promise that they won't be forgotten- begins to heal what is torn in Tubbo. 

After a while, Wilbur pulls away, and sits down on the floor next to them. Jack starts a story about how Tommy thought sewing machines and whisking machines were the same thing, and then Phil starts another about how he insisted on making his tea out of fresh grown flowers instead of tea bags. Pretty soon they're all talking and laughing and reminiscing, and the melon balls start to dwindle and the juice is drunk. 

Wilbur stays quiet, just listening, smiling and laughing softly, tears in his eyes. Eventually, he reaches over and takes out his guitar- the conversation around him doesn't stop, not when he starts tuning, not even when he starts strumming. 

But then he opens his mouth and sings. 

It's a beautiful song, sung softly in Wilbur's voice, and one by one, they all quiet to hear it: the gentle, mournful, loving melody that could only be sung to one person. They all watch, similarly affected, as he plays like he's in a room all alone. It's beautiful, of course, but then the first blades of grass poke out from between Wilbur's fingertips- moss trails from where his feet touch the carpet to the coffee table and flowers spring out of that, pink and red and yellow, all bright and breathtaking. Vines, from nowhere, curl down around the base of his guitar and dandelions and curly dock spring from his hair, covering him and his shoulders in greenery. 

Tubbo, awed, vision blurred with tears, reaches out to brush his fingers along one of the pink flowers. His eyes widen when the growth jumps onto him, and curls up his arm, matching the patterns on his sweater almost perfectly. 

He looks over and sees violets cupped in Ranboo's palms and clovers falling out of Kristen's hair. It's Tommy's magic- the magic that he left Wilbur with, that he gifted Wilbur with. It's still here. Tommy's still here.

Wilbur's song ends, and all the growth stays, loud and bright and in all the wrong spaces at the perfect time- Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. 

Technoblade, with cosmos flowers all over his jacket, grins. "Tommy's heart. He's left it for us. He's put it with you, Wil. For safekeeping." 

Wilbur ducks his head for a moment, again, that gentle wind comes to blow the dandelion seeds around the room. Then Wilbur raises his head, beaming, touched. "He did. He has. He's right here with us." 

"Making us love each other the way we deserve," Ranboo sighs fondly, "that's our Tommy." 

Tubbo leans over, laying his head against Ranboo's shoulder. "Our Tommy. Loving us from beyond the grave. I wouldn't imagine it any other way." 

And for the first time in a long while, Tubbo doesn't feel cold.