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There are four houses in the arctic. Two sit beside each other, a part of each other, very similar but different enough to balance rather than clash. One sits further out, made of dirt and grass, nothing proper but made with the idea of becoming something more eventually. One is made of the same wood as the balanced duo, but far enough apart to be completely different. Tommy steps into Ranboo’s poorly insulated shack with trepidation he usually reserves for skeletons, creepers, or other assorted green men. A low groan sounds through the dark, cold house like the winds from outside have stepped in right beside Tommy. He closes the door. He shivers.
There is no banister, so Tommy keeps himself firm against the wall to hold him up as he ascends the steps. He goes up louder and slower than he would care to, but his feet feel heavy with worry for what he’ll find at the top. The only warning he got was, “Tubbo’s uh… He’s not doin’ so hot,” from Technoblade as he held the toddler crying for his father. No other explanation but the shot to Tommy’s heart. Tommy almost wanted a hug in that moment as well, but touch still brings him back to a place he would rather not be. Being there, already so overwhelmed with the something wrong with Tubbo, would break him completely.
He stormed out of Technoblade’s cabin with his heart beating out of his chest. A snowstorm made it practically impossible to see, but Tommy followed the trail of torches toward the little shack Tubbo resides as the ghost haunts their other home. He slipped on slush and fresh snow, he listened to skeletons rattle in the distance, and he pushed against the winds that threatened to topple him. Nothing in the world would stop him from getting to his best friend.
But now, in the darkness of the shack, with a rattle in Tubbo’s breath Tommy can hear from halfway down the stairs, Tommy wants to turn back. He wants to go back to Technoblade’s warm cabin and worry himself to death about whatever has Michael sobbing, Technoblade worried, and even the weather so upset. He doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t know if he can handle knowing, he has to turn back, he has-
“Tommy,” Tubbo’s pathetic little voice croaks out. All of Tommy’s selfish fear is pushed down at the pain Tubbo sounds like he’s in, and he runs up the rest of the stairs. He trips on the final stair, finding himself tumbling right beside Tubbo’s bed. He rests his arms on the bedsheets, finding Tubbo’s arm and gripping it.
“I’m here, Tubbo, I’m-” Tommy’s voice shakes at the sight of his best friend. He looks even worse than Tommy was expecting. He’s laid up, body half-covered in a shitty, thin blanket. His skin is as stark-white as the snow outside. His eyes are open but half-lidded and fixated on the ceiling. Tommy grips his arm tighter. “What’s going on, Tubbo? Are you- I mean, you’re alright, aren’t you? You’re-”
“I’m dying, Tommy,” Tubbo confirms the worst of Tommy’s fears. Tommy takes another shaky breath, settling his forehead against the bedsheets. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening. They lived through Dream, they lived through Technoblade, they lived through Wilbur, but there’s always something on the other side, isn’t there? There’s always something against them on this fucking server.
“How?” Tommy demands. He lifts his head, and Tubbo’s eyes are on his now. Despite everything else, they look as bright and alive as ever. It gives Tommy hope. “What happened, man, who-”
In a voice barely above a whisper, Tubbo says, “I need you to promise me something, Tommy.”
“Of course,” Tommy’s voice breaks. “Anything, Tubbo, just say the word! But we have time, don’t we? We can still fix this? I mean, what even-”
“No,” Tubbo dashes his hopes. Tommy doesn’t have a lot of those left. Tubbo lifts himself up a little, head leaving the pillow, practically begging, “No, Tommy, just- you have to promise me you’ll take care of my kids. Please? For me?”
“Yeah, yeah, obviously, Tubbo, I’ll take care of Michael. Of course I will.” Tommy hasn’t been the best uncle, but he’ll do everything in his power to make sure that kid has a good future. Someone on this Godforsaken server has to get a happy ending, and Tommy will be damned if it isn’t Tubbo’s kid.
“Both of them,” Tubbo begs, making Tommy’s brows furrow. “I need you to take care of both of my kids. Michael and Bofa.”
“Bofa? Tubbo, when the fuck did you get another-”
“Bofa deez nuts...” Tubbo says the last word with a dramatic wheeze, before slumping back against the pillow. Tommy is knelt next to his best friend’s dead body, still holding his limp arm in his hand, feeling like he truly understands the meaning of buffering now. After a few moments, after Tubbo’s dead face can’t help but start to smile, Tommy pulls the pillow from beneath Tubbo’s head and starts whacking him with it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tommy yells as Tubbo cackles. “I thought you were actually dying, you moron! Do you know what that does to a man? I was ready to be a father you fucking prick! You’re dead to me! You’re actually dead to me! I’ve already started grieving, so I’m finishing the fucking job, I hope you understand.” Tommy tries to shove the pillow onto Tubbo’s face, but Tubbo yanks the pillow from his arms and twists Tommy until he’s in a headlock. Tommy squirms, but Tubbo’s grip stays firm.
“Michael gave me a cold,” Tubbo complains. Considering Tommy has Tubbo’s arm digging into his breathing places, he thinks he has far more reason to fucking complain right now. Tubbo’s voice is haunted like the veteran of war he is as he says, “I can’t breathe out my nose, Tommy. Two whole days a mouth-breather.”
“It’s that you deserve,” Tommy hisses. “I hope you never breathe out of your nose again.”
With a gasp, Tubbo cries, “Surely you don’t mean that!”
“I do! I mean that, Tubbo, and more! I hope you can’t breathe out of your nose, then your mouth, too, until all you’ve got left to breathe out of are your feet .”
“But that’ll smell so bad!”
“It’s what you fucking deserve.” Tommy tries to punctuate his point by biting Tubbo’s arm, but he predicts it and just shifts Tommy’s chompers further in the air.
“It was a little funny, though,” Tubbo says in that Tubbo-way of his. Tommy hmmph’s. “Aw, c’mon, it was a little funny!” His voice goes slightly higher, as does the arm on Tommy’s throat. This has become a comedy hostage situation. “A little funny, Tommy, say it was a little funny.”
“You’re a little funny in the head,” Tommy says. Tubbo puts his other arm against Tommy’s neck. “Alright, alright, alright! Okay, man, it was a little-” but before Tommy can affirm Tubbo as the master of comedy, he gets flipped into Ranboo’s bedside table. The lamp shatters against Tommy’s back. It was ugly as fuck anyway. Tommy groans. “For a dead guy, you are really fucking annoying, Tubbo.”
“You’re just easy to toss around,” Tubbo says with a flippant wave of his hand. Tommy writhes on the ground, trying to fight against the pain. “Skinny and all.” Tommy grips the bed, pulling himself up and tossing himself right next to Tubbo. Proving his point, he supposes.
“You’re easy to toss around. Small and all.”
Tubbo says, “Michael likes being tossed. Throw him on the bed and he goes fucking nuts for it. Gotta do it a thousand times before he gets bored.” Tommy knows that because he’s been right at Tubbo’s side tossing Michael a thousand times before, but he likes the fond curve of Tubbo’s smile as he talks about it.
Tommy promises, “I’ll toss him when you die.”
“Aw.”
“Off a cliff.”
“Not aw,” Tubbo says with a faux-serious deep voice. He tilts over the bed to grab the pillow he yanked from Tommy earlier, giving him a proper whack with it. “Not aw at all.” Tommy just makes an indignant screech from the attack. Tubbbo shoves the pillow behind his own back, then in a much sweeter voice asks, “So, how’s your day going?”
“Well, my best friend died.”
“Oh, that’s just awful, Tommy,” Tubbo says with a sympathetic pat to his shoulder.
“It is, it really is,” Tommy agrees. With a little hum he amends, “Pretty epic, though, ‘cause I get all his leftover widow money.” He gets a little kick in the shin for that.
“Say, Tommy, we’re rather good friends, aren’t we?”
“No.”
“Say it, Tommy,” Tubbo urges. “Say we’re rather good friends.”
“No, I hate you. I’m declaring a war on your little shack, actually, because I hate you so much.”
In a robotic voice, Tubbo says, “Fail RP.”
“Ugh! Fine,” he makes his voice high and fake to say with as much sarcasm as he can muster, “We’re rather good friends, Tubbo.”
“How about we be best friends? Split the widow money?”
“Oh, I just don’t know,” Tommy says with a sorry little sigh. “This money meant a lot to him. I think I need to spend it all myself, to really celebrate his life. He worked so hard for it. Married the most annoying enderman to get it.” Tubbo kicks at his shin again, a little harder this time, with a laugh that turns into a cough. Tommy decides, “Guess we can split it. Since we’re rather good friends and all.”
“Best friends, now,” Tubbo reminds him.
Tommy’s back aches. He’s cold, annoyed, and exhausted from the emotional turmoil Tubbo has put him through in the past five minutes. God, he wouldn’t have it any other way. In the bed of their dead, shared friend, he agrees, “Best friends, Tubbo.”