Chapter Text
A punch here. A scratch there.
An echoing thud to accompany the blooming pain.
The bubbling of lava nearby, hot and heavy in the thick air trapped inside obsidian walls.
Tommy is dying.
The crack of bone snapping in his hand as he flails desperately. The stinging pain as a palm smacks against his cheek for his audacity.
More pain.
There’s always more pain.
Tommy is fucking dying.
And so when a fist meets his face and his skull meets the ground, he shouldn’t be as happy as he is about the way the world caves in around him. Because at least that means the pain is over.
Tommy Innit, seventeen years old, dies for the third and final time.
The universe takes a breath, a pause in where infinity stretches beyond and behind. And when the universe sighs, the darkness spits out a soul across the expanse of time and space. All Tommy knows from the moment his vision is shot into darkness is that when he opens his eyes again, he’s met with decidedly not darkness.
Tommy finds himself staring up at a wooden ceiling. Not obsidian, just wood, spruce maybe. And he stares at the grain for what could be hours, the phantom feeling of his ribs snapping like toothpicks pressing down into his lungs until all he can manage are shallow wheezes. Where- His mind produces a question, barely audible even within his own brain, too weak to muster more than a shudder as he lets his head loll to the side.
The wood of the ceiling above meets a very familiar room that stares back at him.
It's… It’s his bedroom.
It’s his room, not from the Dream SMP, nor from the few servers before that.
No, it's his childhood bedroom.
It’s his bedroom in the way his dirty clothes are heaped into a corner, it’s his bedroom in the way there are scratches in his door frame for every year he’s grown thus far, it’s his bedroom in the way it breathes chaos and cries familiarity.
Tommy feels like he’s dying. Which is weird, because he’s already dead.
Is this limbo?
He barely feels his wide-eyed expression pull taught into a grimace on his face, but he does shake his head weakly to try to puzzle through the fuzz on his brain and body. He’s on his bed, he notes, lying on top of the covers and half tangled in their soft reaches. It’s been a while since he had sheets this soft, since… probably before even L’manburg. Maybe, and he hates to think this, maybe this time of his life was the only time he had had sheets so kind to him.
He wants to relish it, but all he feels is the heavy weight of dread on his chest.
He’s dead.
This is limbo.
On shaking arms, Tommy attempts to rise, momentarily losing his grip on himself and falling back to his pillow with a sharp gasp that sounds too high to be his. He looks down at the offending limbs and scrunches his nose at the pristine skin he finds there. He turns to the side, lifting a hand and staring at the full set of fingers that seem fit to taunt him staring back. Was this even his body? He ducks his head to spy his legs and sees his lanky form replaced by another. Instead, he wiggles his toes and finds himself unbearably small.
Was it actually his? He finally hauls himself upright, sitting in bed and tilting his head to the side to spy the sunshine drifting in through the half-closed curtains beside him. He doesn’t bother trying to look at what's outside, he just lifts his hands to his face and cups his own cheeks. He thumbs at his jaw and finds what was once twisted and scarred now bare of even pimples or sunspots.
He’s young, whoever he is now. And if he’s in his house, his childhood house, then…
Tommy’s eyes flutter closed, and he drops his hands to his chest, holding desperately onto the fraying stitches mentally keeping him together. He grips at the fabric of his shirt tightly, breathing in and out for a few moments that seemed to stretch on forever. Fuck. Fuck, this was…
Rather than wake to the reality of his new limbo, he instead swings his trembling legs off the side of his bed and settles his bare feet on the cool floorboards. He startles at the sensation, cold and vivid as it was, a welcome relief from the heated feeling of obsidian still lingering at his back.
As the blonde boy stands, he momentarily stands frozen, trembling in place with hands outstretched to sway as his vision and body swim through murky static. It’s strange, he can feel everything in vivid detail, but his limbs still feel alien and numb, like they’d fallen asleep in his brief reprieve between alive and dead.
He’s dead.
This is limbo.
The thought almost comforts him, weirdly enough, and though Tommy doesn’t smile, he does huff and run a hand through his hair. It catches on a knot, and he cringes, but his attention is quickly captured by a distant noise so achingly familiar it makes him freeze.
It’s a humming song, to the tune of a man’s voice that Tommy didn’t think he’d ever hear again.
He starts walking before he even registers what he’s doing. He’s weak to the song brushing against his ears and blessing his heart with something warmer among the icy cold of shock. He’s horribly weak, but he somehow doesn’t stumble as he walks for his door, sliding the handle with aching numbness and opening to the rising of the tides of music.
He walks down the hallway, absentmindedly skipping the floorboards he recognises as loud even though they look the same as any other. Tommy walks, and when he comes to the top of a staircase, he doesn’t hesitate to drift down it, slow, methodical, and not at all like him. The humming welcomes him, cooing with a soft gaze and letting him fall into its awaiting arms with sweet comforts he’d long since given up on. With lidded eyes and heart slow, Tommy hits the ground floor and raises his head from the floorboards to take in the sight he already knows lay in-front of him.
He doesn’t quite see the way the couch is facing the fireplace, nor the familiar patterned blanket draped over the back. He doesn’t quite see the carpet spread by the front door, nor the patched hole near its wooden handle. He doesn’t quite notice the plates laid out on the dining room table to his left, or the smell of pancakes in the air, because the kitchen was behind it and there he is.
His brother.
Wilbur.
The humming filters through the air in a jumble of melodies that somehow make sense as his curly haired brother sways in his spot in front of the oven. He's wearing his yellow sweater, the one Ghostbur likes, with the sleeves rolled up so he doesn't get pancake batter on them. Wilbur nods his head to his tune, a soft smile on his face as he mindlessly pokes at the bubbling breakfast with a spatula. He seems to find what he’s looking for, because he lifts the pan and skilfully slides the pancake until it flips with a flop and the golden brown on the other side is exposed. His melody pitches high in happiness, and the sound makes his onlooker suck in a sharp breath.
It’s just barely loud enough for Wilbur to tilt his head his way, and the moment those molten eyes find Tommy, high pitched ringing swells in his ears.
“Good morning Toms!” Wilbur greets with a splitting smile before he looks back down at the bubbling pancake batter, “You’re up early. They’re almost ready, just give me a minute.”
Tommy blinks slowly, painfully, and there’s the phantom taste of potato under his tongue as he tries to open his mouth to reply. It dies in mute agony inside his throat, so he closes his jaw with a click and continues to stare wordlessly.
“Tommy?” Wilbur’s head rises again upon the extended silence, eyebrow furrowing in confusion as he studies his expression again, “...You must be sleepy if you haven't yelled at me yet.” He jokes.The ringing noise in the boy’s eardrums only seems to increase, and Tommy raises his shaky hands to press the heels against his ears to block it out. Wilbur blinks at the movement, cocking his head almost worriedly as he settles the spatula aside before gliding his way over.
“Tommy?” he asks, and it’s not that Tommy hears it, but his name is as familiar in mouthed silence as it is screaming in his face. It’s followed by a question, but these words lack the familiarity, and when Tommy doesn’t reply to them, Wilbur’s face drops.
Tommy presses his hands harder to his ears, harder and harder until his jaw aches and his mouth falls open with a breathy cry. His eyes burn and before he knows it, something cracks deep within, like a rib shattered to clenched fists, and tears start to drip down his cheeks. This time Wilbur cries out, grabbing at his hands and rapid-fire words falling from his down-turned lips.
All the dead boy can do is turn inwards, drop his jaw, and scream. It rips his throat on the way up, and the sound of it sends his brother flinching back, but just as quick he’s back and even more frantic than before. Blind to the world and deaf to the ringing, Tommy just continues screaming.
There’s supposed to be words, some sort of fashion of “I’m dead!” and “I’m fucking dead!” But words don’t exist within the soul deep grief born from dying. He can’t speak, so he screams.
And screams.
And screams.
And screams.
And when his eyes roll back into his head and he crumbles to the floor like a puppet without its strings, a boy without his oxygen, he falls into the awaiting arms.
He wakes up to someone dangerous at his bedside. He knows this distinctly, with not even a sound or a sight to clue him in, just a feeling of knowing that forces his eyes to flutter open and blearily fix on the figure beside him.
“Tommy!” The blur lurches forward, and up close there’s ragged brown curls and wide scared eyes, “Tommy, are you okay?! What the hell happened?!”
The blonde blinks slowly, focusing on the brother leaning on the edge of the bed, looking down at him with the worry of a brother once dead.
Tommy was dead.
This was limbo.
Right?
He looks up at his brother and finds himself wanting. Even if it was a lie, even if this was the man who had hurt him in Pogtopia, or the ghost that let him suffer in exile. Even if this brother was pretending for old times' sake. Or some other ghost entirely.
Tommy wants to pretend too.
He shudders, eyes fluttering closed again, and when a hand comes to cup his face, he curls into it even when it feels foreign without the rough texture of scars on his cheek.
“Are you okay?” Wilbur repeats, and it's only then that the blonde realises he probably should reply.
“I-I’m fine.” He rasps, throat burning from distant screams, and the sound of it makes them both wince, “Quit being a needy bitch,” he tacks on with a Tommy like snark and a curl of his lip, “It’s not a big deal.”
But his brother's face still falls, “Tommy... you passed out.” He says, not rising to the bait as his eyes swim noticeably and he runs his hand through the child's blonde hair, “You were screaming. That’s not...”
The dead boy that was Tommy shrugs and manages to place his elbows under him to lift himself upright, though his brother jerks forward as if he was going to pass out the moment he does. He scrunches up his nose and waves him off, but curses himself when the hands withdraw “t’s fuckin’ fine, just had a nightmare, big man, you ‘no how it is.”
“A nightmare.” Wilbur repeats flatly, full of disbelief and just the barest hint of annoyance. The sound of it makes Tommy tense a tad. The brunette's eyes flick to the blonde’s ears before he hesitantly asks, “Did you… hear something?”
Tommy tilts his head, squinting at his brother in his turn to be confused, “No?” he answers, though it doesn’t sound quite as confident as he’d like.
Wilbur laughs, a bit too high and hysterical before he turns his head away, “R-Right, of course not.” and then he settles his hands on his lap, held together tight with fingers entangled, “Uh- breakfast is in the fridge if you still want some.”
The blonde tilts his head in response, watching as his brother noticeably avoids his gaze before standing up sharply, chair scraping painfully on the wood before he turns tail and leaves out the door with one last thrown, “If you take too long though I’m not going to leave you any!”
Tommy only gets time to blink before Wilbur vanishes around the corner, and the sound of him heading down the stairs is all that's left behind.
What was up with him?
He looks down at the chair his brother had sat at briefly, frowning at it like it’d tell him the answers. But instead he grumbles and throws the sheet from his body and turns to follow.
Maybe this Wilbur was bad at acting, whoever it was, and maybe they got a bit angry, or something? It would make sense after Tommy had the nerve to go inconveniencing him like that. He nods to himself at the thought, satisfied with that truth as he heads for the kitchen without another thought spared.
“If you eat all my pancakes-” he shouts down the stairwell, voice hoarse and cracking audibly, “I’m going to stab a bitch!” And when he heads down the stairs and spots Wilbur watching him, he’s relieved to find the man has returned to a smile.
The other actor was noticeably relieved, their smile edging on something awkward as they shoot him a halfhearted glare, “As long as it's not me, I don’t care!”
“Well who else is here!” Tommy throws his hands in the air, “You expect me to stab one of our chickens or something?!”
And from there it devolves into a mess of banter that fits in like the missing puzzle piece of this home alone in the woods.
Was this really limbo?
Later, after breakfast when he’d been elected dish duty, as was the agreement on Sundays, he stares out the window and watches the trees sway in the breeze.
Was this really limbo?
He doesn’t feel dead, surprisingly. In fact, he’s feeling more alive than he’s felt in years. He has all his limbs, his heart is stuffed with cotton brought from familiar banter, and there is only a little bit of pain echoing through his head. He momentarily places a plate down before reaching up to brush against his temple with his fingers, it shoots pain under his skin, reminiscent of skull caving in on obsidian, and the reminder sends a shiver up his spine.
“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice draws him from his thoughts enough to tilt his head back to him with a smile on his face, “Yes?”
His brother studies his face for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, before the expression shifts into a grin and he raises his hand to show a wicker basket held between his fingers, “Want to see who can get the most eggs today?”
Tommy almost smashes a plate in his effort to throw the sponge down and dart for the front door with a wordless yell of affirmative. Wilbur beats him to it, bursting out into the sunshine with a cackle as he sprints for the chicken coop. “Fuck you!” Tommy screeches, voice cracking and raw, “Fuck you! You cheater!”
All he gets is a laugh in response, and it’s really not worth complaining anymore after that.
He settles in easily, a life fit for him, with memories unearthed in every corner. He knows this house like the back of his hand, or… well… maybe not that, because he can’t quite recognise his youthful hand here, given its lack of scars. But the sentiment still stands, he knows this house better than even his own body, he could walk every inch of the place and know every little bit about it. It was his home, through and through.
He knows which floorboards creak, he knows the hidden nooks where rats once stayed, he knows how to open his door to avoid it making any noise. He knows the kitchen sink needs to be turned on a certain way to avoid being sprayed with water, he knows if you kick at a particular wood slat in the hallway wall it will open and reveal a thin space between the walls fit for hiding things. He knows his home, and his home knows him.
The routine settles on his shoulders with little fanfare. Wilbur leaves in the early morning for his job in the nearby village, Tommy tends to the animals and the garden for most of his morning before heading into town to bother Wilbur at his second job in the afternoon. He doesn’t hesitate to become the boy his brother expects from him willingly, angry, boisterous and cocky. Singing his own praises even when he internally cringes at how vividly they feel like a lie.
He’s still not sure if he’s dead. Or that this is limbo. But it's easier to pretend, so he does it in a heartbeat.
He’d like to think he was a good enough actor for it, but sometimes he catches Wilbur staring at him like he’s going to fall apart at any moment. Like now, for example, walking back from Wilbur’s job and humming happily as he tilts his head to catch the light flickering through the golden leaves above. They follow the path in silence, and maybe that’s why he see’s his brother's eyes linger on him for far too long, borderline creepy with how stubborn they were. He elects to ignore him, if this Wilbur wanted to play at being a creep, he’d let him. He doesn’t really want to see what would happen if he called the actor out on this weird character of his. Instead, he gets distracted momentarily by a berry bush to the left of the path, and he scuttles over it with hands outstretched to try to steal a few pieces before the other has the chance to stop him.
But before he can get far, his eyes catch something pale on the back of his right wrist. He pauses with his hand outstretched instead.
As Wilbur groans and pulls him away from his abandoned target, Tommy’s gaze is fixed on his arm where the object of his attention sits. It’s a scar, long and thin but so faded he could barely see it even in the afternoon's dying light. His brother pushes him along, muttering something under his breath, but the blonde’s mind is left behind as he tries to puzzle through the appearance of a scar that seems familiar, but out of place on a body so young.
Tommy stares at it for a moment longer, the skin along the scar tingling with something like pain, before he shrugs and drops the worry for a series of insults thrown Wilbur’s way.
He likes it here. In this not limbo with his dead brother and the quiet ambience of the autumn forest. It’s hard to tell what period of his life this was, given the monotony, but he gets his answer when Wilbur, weeks later, one day over dinner asks, “Hey, your eleventh birthday is coming up soon, anything in particular you want?”
Tommy had startled from where he was poking at his potatoes wistfully, thoroughly caught off guard as he gapes at his brother. Wilbur catches the look and raises an eyebrow, “Did you think I forgot?”
“W-Wouldn’t be the first time!” The blonde shoots back quickly, and his brother’s jaw drops in offence before he throws his hands in the air, fork still between his fingers, “You were like three! You can’t even remember it!”
“Can too!” Tommy snaps, leaning over as if to stab Wilbur with a fork, but when the brunette scowls and pulls away, he changes direction and stabs through one of his pieces of chicken to steal. His brother glares at him for the offence, but eventually settles for rolling his eyes and continuing to eat.
“So… what do ya’ want?” Wilbur grumbles around his food, and this pauses Tommy from where he was going to shovel the stolen food into his mouth.
He hasn’t had presents for his birthday in at least a few years, his last one spent in exile, and the one before that spent in Pogtopia. The reminder makes him cringe, but under the watchful eyes of his brother he has to smooth it out into something thoughtful, even if every thought makes him want to retreat into the safety of his room.
“Uh…” he starts slowly, drawing out the word as he fumbles for an answer, “Some d-discs or something?”
“Discs?” Wilbur echoes, having swallowed his bite in time to cock his head, “Like... music?”
Tommy flushes but nods, shoving his mouth full of chicken rather than entertain his brother's question any longer.
The brunette’s face falls into mock distress at his answer, “Is my music not good enough for you!” he cries, draping himself over the table dramatically “Am I not good enough for you? What did I do wrong to make you outsource to mass produced tunes!”
The boy scrunches up his nose and glares him down, “’uck off’” he scoffs around the food in his mouth before he swallows to continue, “I just like discs, dickhead, get over yourself! It’s not about you!” And as if for emphasis, he elects to flip the other off.
Wilbur gasps, eyes twinkling as he leans back in his chair like he’d been shot, “My own brother! Betraying me like this!” he wails, “What did I do wrong?!”
He wants to laugh, the irony of that statement just as amusing as it is painful, so he glowers at the other for his shitty acting. The moment Wilbur’s eyes are closed for a moment, Tommy lets his face fall as he breathes in a shuddering breath, unravelling just enough to pull himself together by the time his brother's eyes open again to glare him down.
The glare is not real. It’s as fake as fake can get, but the child still flinches as the hardened eyes echo across the towering walls of an abandoned ravine. The glare quickly drops, and Wilbur blinks a few times, expression shuddering into confusion.
Whoops, guess he broke the immersion again. Tommy sighs and returns to poking at the potatoes on his plate, grimacing at the way they crumble beneath his fork.
He’s not sure if he could stomach potatoes ever again.
Life is good here. Even with his moments, even when he can’t sleep for most nights, even when he struggles to eat potatoes or can’t stand the smell of gunpowder when Wilbur makes his potions. Even when Wilbur looks at him with that same look of worry that pisses him off and terrifies him in equal measure. Even then, life is good.
Tommy’s enjoying this performance of his, humming under his breath as he collects the scattered eggs in the chicken coop. It may not be much, but in the silence of the farm with Wilbur at work, he can take the time to perfect his act. He fiddles with his expression as he continues to steal from their beloved chickens, giggling to himself as he gets pecked for his troubles, but only sticking out a tongue at their offended clucks. He smooths out the ridges of his smile, once brittle and exhausted, into something he thinks this Wilbur would be familiar with. He hopes it passes, because so far his tired eyes of ash have left much to be desired.
He grumbles at the thought, fake smile momentarily falling as he glares up towards the sky. He stands to his full height and tucks the basket against his elbow at his side. He smiles his goodbyes to the various chickens at his feet, as real as smiles can be nowadays, before wiggling out of the coop and closing the mesh door behind him.
Tommy starts to hum again as he heads for the house, only to stutter momentarily when he realises what song he’s singing. He scoffs, something bitter on his tongue as he swallows the melodies of a country now dead. Instead, he tilts his head to the side to try to recall what tunes Wilbur had been singing over the month or so he’s been here in limbo.
He doesn’t get far, because a stinging pain in his ankle sends him careening off balance with a high-pitched yelp and a flailing of his arms.
He hits the grass with a hiss, basket forgotten as his right ankle licks fire at his skin. He scrambles for his leg, gritting his teeth against the pain as he pulls his pant leg up to his knee, desperately searching for the source of his pain. Had he been bitten by something? What the fuck was-
Though the pain didn’t change, the desperation to escape it slowly morphs into complete and utter bafflement. Because there on his ankle was a scar, warped and scattered across the once pristine skin of his leg. He blinks, eyes wide, and leans in closer to try to catch any movement that would explain the way the scar continues to burn even though there was no injury in sight.
It was only a scar. And yet, no matter how much Tommy wiggles his ankle or pokes at the distorted tissue, the pain continues to radiate under his skin. It’s enough for him to grit his teeth, glaring at the offending limb even as he tries to rub away the feeling, though it doesn’t do much.
He catches sight of the thin scar on his wrist and takes to glaring at it instead, Because this was the second scar that randomly appeared on his body. This wasn’t normal, whatever it was. He tilts his head up to the sky and squints at the passing clouds. The sun was still relatively low in the sky, so he had time to sit here and let his ankle calm down, but it still made him click his tongue in annoyance. He had wanted to weed the spice section of their garden before heading into town, but he knew that was an intense job for the midday sun, so he’d just have to suck it up and get going. Phantom pain be damned.
With a loud groan, he throws his head back, leaning back on his hands to breathe in a shuddering breath through the burning. With a newfound scowl on his face, not bothering with acting the part anymore, he grits his teeth and stumbles to his feet. He cringes upon catching sight of the now vaguely wet basket, the cracked eggs visible in even the few on top of the pile. He glares at it for its weakness, but huffs and lifts the basket up onto his arm anyway.
As he limps back to the house, the burning pain in his ankle starts to subside, but even so, there’s a weight in Tommy’s stomach that wasn’t there before.
Maybe… Maybe this was a part of limbo. Some sort of karma or something.
He laughs at the very idea of this, though it comes out a bit sharp and sad, especially when he runs a hand through his hair and thinks of the fact that he recognises the shape of the fresh scar on his ankle.
Filled with stars and gritted texture, it was obviously an explosion scar. Familiar, fitting for Tommy, but out of place on a body so young.
How strange.
With no scars to add to his weird little collection in the following week, Tommy can easily fall back into his rightful place without lingering on the possibility of retribution. He can ignore that he’s dead, and that this is limbo, because he is happy here, and that’s all that matters.
Unfortunately, he can’t quite escape reality like he’s wanting to. Whether it was the lingering set of scars now on his ten-year-old body, or the distraught looks Wilbur keeps shooting him when he thinks he’s not looking. This only makes him angry, makes him snap, but even when he coats it with a Tommy-like attitude it does nothing to deter his brother’s worrying.
He doesn’t sleep much nowadays, a few hours at most a night, so he has a lot of time to lament his acting. He spends his nights going over conversations in his head on repeat, puzzling through the moments he’s been in and trying to understand why Wilbur had acted off that particular time. These moments. As he’s learnt are usually caused by the same few things.
One, Tommy wasn’t loud enough.
It was a result of exile, the newfound appreciation for silence. Or maybe that was an excuse, maybe he just didn’t want to annoy anyone anymore. Especially at the beginning when he escaped, he found himself unable to speak for days on end more often than not. He can’t fall back on old habits here, because if he suddenly stopped speaking, he suspects Wilbur would have a fucking aneurysm out of worry.
Two, Tommy was too loud.
Which is weird, from the impression he got from others, his uncanny ability to project his voice impossibly loud was a defining characteristic of his. He’s always been known for that. But when he thinks back on the moments where Wilbur gave him that particular look, he knows that this reason was probably because it was almost always the result of being caught with reason number one. If he’s caught being too quiet, he usually panics and jumps at the chance to be too loud, and that is not good. It was bad acting to panic like that.
Three, Tommy flinched.
Which was… difficult to stop. Because sometimes he’d see Wilbur's hand out of the corner of his eye and picture a ripped trench-coat, and from there his bodily reaction just couldn’t be stopped. He hated those moments, where his brother's face would fall into devastation that he wants to jump to apologise for. But that would only make it worse, because Tommy never apologises. His best bet to avoid these moments was to avoid all his triggers. Easier said than done though…
Four, Tommy smiled.
Or really, smiled wrong. Because for some reason no matter what he did to fix his face, his attempt at a comforting smile just makes Wilbur’s eyes dim. It hurts watching it happen, but he doesn’t know what he did wrong! Was his eyes not wide enough? Was he not showing enough teeth? Was it something on his face or was he postured wrong? He never knows, but he still spends his nights trying to smile in the bathroom mirror and picking apart all the little imperfections he can’t quite put his finger on.
He could do that now, actually. He’s been wasting time lying on his back and staring at the ceiling for hours. He’d been lost in thought, but that was no excuse. If he learnt one good thing from exile, it was the fact that it was best to always have goals. And right now his goal was to get this acting shit right!
He nods to himself at the thought, sliding out of bed and momentarily sitting on the edge to keep his vision from spinning too badly. It takes a moment longer than expected, and he frowns down at the floorboards beneath his clothed feet. He shuffles his socks against the wood and grumbles to himself about wasting time.
Tommy’s heart skips a beat.
His face drops into a frown in response.
Huh?
He holds one hand up to his chest, running his fingers over the fabric and squinting at nothing as he confuses on the weird hammering beneath his rib-cage. Was he… panicking? He sucks in a breath to hold it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly and letting his eyes flutter shut. He repeats this a few times, but even with his attempt to calm down, the thundering in his chest continues with a newfound viciousness that takes his breath away.
And then his neck starts to sting, vivid, painful, raw, almost like the echo of a knife-
He gasps but the pain continues to curl around his throat beneath the hands he shoves against his neck in an attempt to stop it. But it doesn’t stop, and he can’t breathe, and it fucking hurts- it hurts so bad- there’s something wet now dripping down his chest, but when he desperately tries to spot what it was, his skin is unmarred and dry.
He curls in on himself, clutching at his throat and gasping against the blade pulling from one side of his throat to the other, peeling his oesophagus open and splattering invisible blood to the floorboards.
But there was no blood. There was no wound, no knife, there was only-
Only a thin raised scar beneath his fingers. He gasps on a shuddering breath, chest heaving as he cries out at the sensation of his flesh being exposed to the night air, nerves alight with phantom pain that force him off the bed and onto his knees. He shoves his head against the floor and sobs into the cool gritted texture. Then the relief takes a sharp turn to panic when the sensation warps into something resembling black-stone and he jerks back upright like he’d been shot. He arches his back away from it and heaves out a sob.
This is-
This is-
There are bodies around him. Bodies still warm, bleeding copper and gasping on their own version of death, cut throats and skewered rib-cages. His eyes shutter closed, but even behind his eyelids he can’t escape the white glowing eyes that stare down at him, watching him die with a blank expression on their pale face.
This is actually-
Tommy wails, fingers digging into his throat and choking his sobs before they can drop, but even this isn’t enough to hold him together in the face of a memory burning betrayal. He wails, high and terrified, within the haunting of his own memories.
- actually fucking -
The door to his bedroom slams open, and a dishevelled Wilbur bursts in, cries of worry on his tongue and hands shaking as he runs for Tommy.
All the boy can see is a blue uniform bleeding red, with hollow eyes and pale cheeks, the eyes of a corpse stares back at him. He jerks away from Wilbur’s outstretched hands, wail cut off into a loud cry of, “Please-” that he chokes on, lungs refusing to work as he heaves out what he can, “Please d-don’t!”
Wilbur’s eyes swim as he jerks forward, outlined by the distant light of the hallway as his eyes upturn in terror, “T-Tommy! What’s wrong? Tell me what's wrong!”
Tommy shudders, nails digging into his throat and burning at the edges of a wound that shouldn’t exist, blood coats his hands and drips to the ground, but the brother in-front of him couldn’t hope to see its memory. “I-” the blonde child, once teenager, chokes, “P-Please don’t kill me!” He cries, vision swimming between a black-stone deathtrap and the horrified worry of a brother alive.
Wilbur flinches back at his words, eyes wide, but then with gritted teeth he jerks forward and rushes for him with open arms. Tommy doesn’t have time to startle back, but the image of curly brown hair is momentarily replaced with porcelain smiles, and he screams in icy terror as he is bundled up into the arms of his brother.
He struggles the best he can, but the arms only hold him tighter, and with his own occupied with phantom death and slit throats he can only sob in the other's grip.
“Please don’t-” Tommy fumbles over his words, hoarse and high pitched with fear unbridled, “D-Don’t-” he chokes, “Don’t kill me please! I-I’m so sorry! F-Fuck I-”
A hand comes up and pushes his face into the others shaking shoulder, and all he can do is wail at the feeling, trying to pull himself away but too weak to the icy sensation of bleeding out among his brothers in war.
He shudders, and his fingers loosen a tad on their impossible grip around his throat, leaving only a bruising pain to remain under the indents from his fingertips. He finally slumps down, chest heaving and tears soaking the fabric of Wilbur’s sweater, but it was better than blood, always better than blood. He can feel it sticky and drying on his hands, dripping down his throat and onto his heaving chest, fake and real in the same breath.
“P-Please-” he gasps breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as he sobs, “’m sorry…”
“It’s okay Toms.” Wilbur whispers, voice hoarse as he only grips him tighter, “It’s okay… it was just a bad dream.” He pats at the child’s hair, fingers running through the strands as he hums brokenly, “You’re okay, you’re safe, No-one can hurt you here.”
Without the silence born from watching his friends die, the haze over Tommy splinters and fades alongside the agony of a throat split open. Trembling and gasping for air, he can barely think in the wake of the panic attack's exhaustive effects. But before long his mind is racing just as fast, something cold and bitter welling to fill the gaps it left behind.
A realisation. Icy cold and forcing Tommy’s heart back up into his throat, he chokes his sobs as he drops his hands from his throat to desperately grip his brother’s sweater.
This was limbo.
He was dead.
And he was reliving every moment that bore his scars.
This was his limbo. A world where he has to live through the pain and horror of trauma, all while trying to pretend to be the Tommy of old. This is Limbo, and it was pretending to be a bittersweet hell, just for him.
As he wept, he knows it's with his life lost baring down at him, his echoing fury of a stubborn boy long gone muted beneath the fear of what came next.
Above him, Wilbur curls into him, lost and confused, desperate and scared, he curls around his baby brother and begs the universe for an answer to his woes. The response comes in the form of the weight of his communicator in his pocket, ready to click on at a moment's notice. He ends up taking it with shaky fingers in the few spaces when his brother passes out from exhaustion. He hesitates for a second, but when he see’s his brother's pale face, tense even in sleep, he’s typing before he knows it.
WilburSoot
Phil you need to come home
Seriously
This isn’t a joke
You need to come home
Somethings wrong with Tommy
I don’t know what to do
Please
I’m so scared
he’s breaking down
he’s a mess
I don’t no what tod o
fuc
help
dad please
come hoem
for him
I cant do thi
I think hes hearing things
hes in paoin
help
pls
pls
Philza
I’m coming Wil.
We’ll be there as soon as we can.
Tommy would like to think he is an excellent actor. But when he sits at breakfast after the night spent reliving betrayal and black-stone, he can’t bring himself to play his part just this once. He sets his eyes on his meal and keeps his mouth wired shut, staring at nothing as he picks at the eggs on his plate. Across from him, his brother is slumped, exhaustion pulling at his limbs from his night spent protecting the blonde boy from the horrors of his own nightmare. Or at least, that’s what he seems to think.
Tommy glances up at him across the dining table, studying the other's pale face and blank eyes, eerily akin to the ‘nightmare’ of a sight that had been re-branded into his memory. One where Wilbur lay dead across from him, freshly gutted and slumped on the ground.
He drops his eyes back to his meal, taking a shaky bite and trying to focus on the texture that isn’t the feeling of blood filling his mouth.
“Down with the revolution boys!” echoes in his head in an imitation of a person he’d once called a friend, over and over they say, “It was never meant to be!”
He shudders, ducking his head quickly to avoid the way his brother's eyes leap to him in an instant, Wilbur stiffens in place and leans forward like he expects the boy to crumble before his very eyes. Like his momentarily lapse in his act was a surefire sign he was breaking down this very second.
Tommy isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He just continues chewing on the tasteless breakfast and glares down at his plate. Thankfully, Wilbur seems to get the hint, because he wordlessly slumps and returns to his own breakfast, unwilling to start the conversation that is starting to seem inevitable at this point.
With a newfound awareness about his situation, Tommy dedicates an hour of his time at night to inspecting every nook and cranny of his body. A few days pass like this without a single line or bruise rising on his skin, no scar, no injury, no nothing, and Tommy should feel relieved. He didn’t want to feel the pain of a fresh scar, especially after how vivid the last one was, but for some reason all he feels is dread.
Also, he has to actually wear turtlenecks now. And that shit was embarrassing, even if Wilbur seemed to relish it, cooing at him every time he wore one of his brother's ugly ass sweaters. He puts up with it only because the alternative is seeing his brother's face twist into something unrecognisable upon seeing the base of his throat.
After that night spent bleeding, the moment he had looked at the scar on his wrist, a memory had suddenly jumped to the forefront of his mind. He remembers now, this scar, it was early on after joining the Dream SMP server, where he was still happy and raring for adventure. He looks at the line now, standing by the window and thumbing over the silky scar on his wrist. He had gotten it when conquering a dungeon for the first time. He and Tubbo, side by side, fighting through wave after wave of zombies and relishing in the moment they had thrown light down into the cobbled cave.
He had gotten his discs that day, Mellohi and Cat. He remembers laughing and ducking away from Tubbo’s outstretched hands, sticking his tongue out and darting back to inspect his haul. They hadn’t even noticed the cut on his wrist until the blood had started to drip to the floor, but even that couldn’t put a damper on the joy of a job well done.
And now the scar is here, on a body far too young with a mind far too old, a memory of a moment that no longer mattered. Because he’s already dead.
He lifts his head to stare out the window, where the clouds drifted past the sun, blocking out the world in a thin shadow that sent a shiver up his spine. He can see some of the garden out the kitchen window, and he can also see the dry soil that needs watering. It was worth doing today before heading off to bother Wilbur.
Even as he thinks it, he feels too exhausted to move. All he can manage is standing in place with hand thumbing his scar with his shoulders slumped. He sighs, running a hand through his hair instead before grumbling and turning towards the front door.
Unfortunately, he makes it all of two steps before a shooting pain knocks him sideways against the couch. He gasps, grabbing onto the back of the couch and bending over to try to alleviate the feeling of something being shoved between his ribs. He gags, other hand shooting up to thump hard against his heart, willing it to work enough to get a breath in.
The harsh thud lets him heave in a sharp breath, but he coughs on what little oxygen he gets, lungs stuttering like it were too hard for his body to even attempt. He cries, shuddering and slumped over, and all he can manage to focus on is staying upright even as his vision starts to swim.
Fuck- Fuck, it was like he was just fucking shot-
Porcelain and green accompany that incredulous thought, and he throws his head back and laughs, high and hysterical.
Of course it is.
Of fucking course it is!
Much like a few nights ago, his suffering is interrupted suddenly by the sound of a door slamming open nearby. He drops his head back down, catching the barest glimpse of blonde and green before he’s curling back in on himself to try to fix the ripping sensation in his chest.
“We’re home!” someone calls, “We also brought some- Tommy?!”
He tries to jerk back away from the couch, but his knees give out and he hits the ground with a cry and a raspy “Fuck!” that seems to prompt the intruder into action.
“Tommy!” They call again, and something about the voice makes the blonde boy peek one eye open to look up at the towering figure in-front of him. He shouldn’t have, he really, really should have just stayed down, dying to the arrow in his chest, because the moment he does, the blurry figure rights itself into the spitting image of a father that shouldn’t be here.
“Tommy!” Phil calls, reaching out as he drops to his knees with ebony wings wide behind him and familiar face pale, “What’s wrong?!”
Too breathless to even panic, Tommy screws his eyes shut again and keens, both hands grasping at his heart and holding on tight like he could rip the arrow out with just a little perseverance. He hears footsteps, and then there’s another voice, deep and monotone, “Kid, you need to breathe.”
Like that’d fucking help. He gasps on his own breathes, snapping his eyes open to glare up at the pink-haired man at his father's side, the familiar sight of curling tusks and gold piercings only opening a well of grief in their path. He bares his grit teeth, and the man startles at his blatant aggression, before the boy curls back in and coughs on his measly ability to speak, “I-I-” he rasps, heaving in a breath, “I’m fucking fine!” he hisses out his rage from between clenched teeth.
A hand on his shoulder makes him jolt, and he jerks back away from it, trying to shoulder off the unwilling touch, “F-Fuck off!” He snaps, sucking in another breath before blowing it out as slowly as he can manage. It doesn’t work for stopping the pain in his chest, but it does seem to trick his brain into finally believing there’s no arrow lodged there to stop his ribs from expanding. His legs slide out from underneath him as he presses against the couch, thankfully left alone as he ducks his head into his collarbone to focus on keeping himself conscious.
“That's good, keep breathing just like that, you’re-” Phil’s attempt at comfort shoots vicious fury through Tommy so fast it makes his head spin as he jerks up to shoot the man a scathing glare.
“I know!” He spits, concentration broken in an instant, “I’m not fucking stupid! I said fuck off! I-I-I’m fucking fine!”
Phil winces, but withdraws his hands to his sides regardless, finally taking the hint Tommy had the displeasure of having to drill into him. He glances up at Techno, who’s stood still and watching the blonde boy with a critical eye akin to the feeling of being flayed alive. Tommy doesn’t hesitate to meet it, hiking his shoulders and pressing his hands further into his chest like he could convince his brother he was fine with his hardened eyes alone.
It may have been more aggressive than he’d like, more like the dead Tommy than the alive one, because it only furrows the piglin hybrid's eyebrows deeper.
The staring contest between them gives the child enough time to focus on his breathing, slowly lowering his shoulders and expanding his lungs in a repetitive motion that steadily eases the agony in his chest. He was still shaking, and he refused to loosen his grip on his shirt, but finally he could manage a shaky grin that chips at the edges, “W-What the fuck are you two doing here?” He asks, breaking the prolonged eye-contact in favour of looking at the floorboards, “T-The fuck are you back for?”
“Uh-” Techno starts.
“Well-” Phil attempts.
But they just cut each-other off, and out of the corner of his eye Tommy can see them exchange another confused glance. The boy can’t help but snort, rolling his eyes at their matching awkward expressions. The avian turns back to him with a frown on his face, “Tommy…” he starts, and the tone in his voice is an easy indication of what comes next, “Are you okay, mate? That was a pretty bad panic attack.”
Tommy laughs, loud enough to make everyone flinch as he waves off their mock worries. “I-I’m fine big man, just needed a moment to catch- catch my breath.”
He wishes it were just a panic attack, he knows what those are like. Those were a lot easier to handle than the phantom feeling of being shot through the heart or slit ear to ear.
Without waiting for a reply, the blonde child grumbles and uses one shaky hand to stumble to his feet, Phil quickly rises with him, hands outstretched but thankfully holding back. “T-Tommy-” he stutters nervously, black wings fluttering behind him, “You shouldn’t be moving, you should be resting-”
With rage rekindled, Tommy snaps his gaze to him with a snarl and eyes flashing with fury, “What would you know, Phil?!” he snarls, “How would you know what’s good for me? You’ve been gone for fucking years!”
The avian flinches back like he was the one with an arrow in his chest, eyes wide and face pale as he stutters, “It was only-”, but its Techno that steps forward to cut him off. “Tommy stop, calm down, you’re just being dramatic.”
“Excuse me?!” the boy hisses, hiking his shoulders and baring his teeth, “I’m not being fuckin’ dramatic! You don’t know me! I’m not the snivelling little bitch I was when you two left!” His hand grips tight against the couch, the wood creaking beneath his clenching fists, “Maybe I’m just like this now! Ever think of that, you fuckin’ dickhead!”
“Tommy,” Techno continues, slow and cautious with hands high almost in defeat, “It’s not just us, Wilbur also thinks-”
“He called you, didn’t he?!” Tommy’s head snaps between the two so fast their faces merge at the seams, “That fucking bastard! How dare he-”
Before he can spit his insults and grievances, Techno’s hand snaps out and grabs at his wrist, clenching tight and freezing him in place with the cold wash of mortal terror. “Stop.” Techno hisses, “You’re panicking again.”
He hadn’t even noticed his lack of breathing choking his throat, as focused on riding the wave of rage as he was. He heaves in a breath and stumbles back on shaky legs, but Techno’s ironclad grip pulls him back upright. The feeling only shoots raw panic through his limbs, and Tommy tries to scramble out of his grip. He grabs at the man's wrist and tugs and pulls, nails clawing at his skin as his rage is left forgotten behind the adrenaline starting to pump through his system. He’s fucking trapped-
“L-Let go!” He shrieks, and when Techno only flinches, he jerks forward and goes to bite at the hand on his wrist. This time it recoils quick as a snake, and the boy’s teeth snap against the air, but with freedom unlocked he takes it in an instant. He almost falls to the floor in his scramble to get away, but he manages somehow to stay upright as he desperately retreats back across the room towards the stairs.
“Tommy wait-” Techno calls, voice higher now with guilt, but Tommy pays it no mind.
He retreats, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, he retreats to his room, a sobbing, broken mess of a dead boy. He ends up curled up under his bed for the rest of the afternoon, hands tugging at his hair and mumbling terrors on his lips.
Why were they here? Was a repeat question through gritted teeth.
Why did Wilbur call them? Was another.
Did he do something wrong? He’d sob into the floorboards, cheek smashed against the wood and drowning in his tears. God, did he really fuck up that bad that Wilbur had to call in re-reinforcements to put him back in line? Was he that bad at pretending?