Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy left something buried in Logstedshire.

It's fitting, really. At least, he thinks so.

Because, truthfully, Tommy was buried long before Logstedshire. It was like a nail in the coffin, all things considered. He remembers burying it on a sunny day where it was too hot to do much of anything, when he’d been terrified and paranoid, trying to find anything th at Dream couldn't take from him. So, he buried it, agonized over it, forgot it existed, and remembered, sometime after the prison happened and Wilbur came back and Ghostbur died.

But there’s a beginning to the story of burials, he thinks, and it didn't start with that one. 

He started to dig up the dirt when the first war started. 

At first, Wilbur did his best to shield Tommy from the conflict. He did a shitty job at it, but he tried. Wilbur was always the incarnate of passion, he loved with the strength of a million suns and fought just as hard.

And Tommy was there, because of course he was. He always would be. He loved L’manburg, he loved his brother, he loved the bits of conflict. But when the war started, that conflict changed. It wasn't fun anymore, there weren't instant respawns and laughing and ducking behind trees.

It wasn't a game. It was life or death now, with canon kills, and he was always in danger. It was when he first started to cultivate that instinct, that always-looking-over-your-shoulder fear. It was well warranted at the time, and it helped Tommy survive.

What kept him going was Wilbur’s dream. What kept him going was the hope that he shared with Tubbo and Wilbur for a better future. For somewhere that they could all have. Even if it took his loved ones. Even if it took his disks. Even if he had to rip out his very heart and soul to keep L’manburg standing. He hadn't known, at the time, that it would all be for nothing. 

He threw himself into the ground during Pogtopia.

It was because of Wilbur, really. It was because of their dream being dashed, because of the cold nights in the ravine, because of the late fading from Tubbo’s eyes. 

And he was scared there, in the ravine with Wilbur, but not for the reasons you’d think. He wasn't scared of Wilbur, even with the person his brother was becoming, he didn't believe that Wil would hurt him. He was more terrified that Wilbur would hurt himself .

That he’d do something stupid and fucking crazy in his effort to burn the world away and go down with it, and really, Tommy should have noticed sooner that Wilbur didn't even want L’manburg anymore. He wanted peace, and he wanted to find that peace in death.

And at the end of the day, there was nothing Tommy could do about that. Tommy didn't recognize himself after it was all over. He didn't think he’d ever be anything resembling that blond smiling boy from before, and well. That was the end, wasn't it? Done with, he told himself. Tommy is buried, and only the shell remains. If only it had been that simple. 

He lost himself to the earth when Tubbo betrayed him.

Despite it being “over with,” some part of him had still held out hope. Some part of him had still wanted to believe that he wasn't completely alone, that he couldn't be. And then, in his time of need, Tubbo abandoned him. Tubbo told him that it wasn't worth it, and it was more painful then the previous half-resignation and sinking down lower.

It was fire and pain and useless suffering. It was painful to lose himself, to see Tubbo go through the same thing. To watch everyone abandon him, and then all he had was Dream, which was… Prime, that was it's own full can of worms, huh?

Tommy came to accept his death during exile. Tommy began to be at peace with the fact that the old Tommy was dead and buried, gone and done with. That he’d never again be Wilbur’s goofy little brother, that he’d never pull pranks on Tubbo.

That the old Tommy was useless and stupid, and that nobody wanted him back, least of all the person that he was now. He was fine with belonging to Dream, because what else was he meant to do, as this shadow? As this walking shell of a person that didn't exist anymore, that had long since been lost to worm and grime and dirt.

His escape from exile had been an escape in some sense, but not really. It had planted a seed in his mind that maybe he’d be fine being this new person if the old one was buried, right? 

He was numb to it during Doomsday. 

It cracked something when Technoblade betrayed him, he thinks, but not something new by any means. It drove the nail further, showing him once again that the trusting child he once was had been dead for a long time now.

They sang one last time for L’manburg, and he sang for himself. He had buried himself, but never taken the time to mourn before. It was nice, despite how useless it felt. So he sat there while bombs came down and the world almost ended, holding his best friend while Tubbo sobbed into his shirt. He had envied Tubbo then, but most of all, he pitied him. Pitied him for not realizing earlier that it wasn't worth it, going on like that.

Making these attachments and keeping them. For not realizing that in some way, in some way he was right. But after that final hit… things got… they got complicated. The final disc war changed a lot of things.

He put Dream away, he repaired his friendship with Tubbo as much as he could, he found old friends and made new ones. For a minute there, it really felt like he was more than a walking corpse. Part of it was probably because he went to therapy. Puffy helped him through some things, even if he never fully bared his soul to her.

Things seemed to be looking up, for all of like… seven minutes. 

Then the prison happened, and Tommy doesn't have much more to say about that. 

Now he stays at Tubbo house with Ranboo, though he still lives at his little dirt shack for the most part. He just sleeps over at Tubbo’s a lot, stubbornly tries to move on as this haunted shell of a dead boy. He can get up, most days, so Tommy’s fine.

It's fine. But then he remembers what he buried at Logstedshire, what he buried there and never dug back up again. At night, he tossed and turned in his bed, aching and tired, but unable to fall asleep, because it was still there , wasn't it? For weeks, it's agony.

He does nothing but think about it at night, try to forget about one of the countless things he left behind.

One night he manages to go to sleep, and he’s thankful for that.

Right up until he wakes up after a nameless nightmare, heart beating in his ears, tangled up in the sheets of his bed. Tommy wakes up in a cold sweat, shoots up in bed, and he knows, he just knows, that he has to go back.

He has to dig it up, he has to see it, hold it in his hands again. Only through digging it up can he bury it again, this time forever, and finally, finally let go. So Tommy jumps out of bed, silent so he doesn't wake his housemates, and throws his heaviest cloak on. He takes a weapon and some potions, because Logstedshire is somewhat of a trek, but not too far.

He should be home by morning, and then he can explain it away to Tubbo and Ranboo. Say he went mining or something. It's raining and thundering, and that used to scare him, but it doesn't anymore. There’s determination thrumming under his veins now, and he will go back. He has to. 

Tommy wishes he could lie and say that stumbling into the ruins of Logstedshire doesn't hurt. Wishes he could lie and say that this means nothing, but his hands are shaking too hard for him to deny anything. His heartbeat gets louder when he notices the patch of grass where it's buried a little ways from the tent, where a stick still sits inconspicuously atop the even dirt. Tommy falls to his knees in front of it.

There are flowers growing there now, he notes idly.

A veritable garden above where it's buried. And then, the waiting is done with, and he starts to dig. He should have brought a shovel, but he didn't want to, so now he digs with his bare hands like some kind of rat, like the raccoon Techno used to joke that he was.

He shovels handful after handful of dirt, animalistic in intent, and he doesn't flinch when his hands slam into a rock or two laying under the surface. He doesn't care about the dirt under his fingernails, doesn't pay attention to the way the wet soil feels on his skin. Suddenly, the heartbeat in his head becomes the roar of the thunder in the night sky around him, it becomes the tempest breaking not too far off from here.

Finally, there, in the mud and the grass and the dirt, he sees it, flashing red against the brown. It's his bandana. The one Wilbur gave him as a birthday present, the one that Niki showed him how to sew little hearts onto, the one he would wear around his neck so he could reach up and touch it when he got nervous. It's still red, still an incredibly ruby color, despite the dirt on its surface. And Tommy isn't sure what he expected to find.

Maybe nothing. Maybe this remnant of the person he used to be had rotted away already. Maybe Dream had found it. Maybe animals had dragged it away. Maybe he expected not to find a bandana in the dirt, but the body of Tommy Innit, Tubbo’s best friend, Wilbur’s little brother, Tommy.

Maybe he expected to find his own rotting corpse, or just the bones. But instead, it's his bandana. That's what he finds. A little worse for wear, really, a few rips and tears. But it's his bandana regardless. It's still there. It's still there . 

A realization creeps up on him by surprise, and he can hear his heartbeat again. His heartbeat. Tommy-goddamn-Innit’s heartbeat, Tommy the bane of the server, Tommy who fights too much, Tommy who’s too loud and too bold and two outspoken. A little worse for wear, really, a few rips and tears. But it's still him, isn't it? Isn't it?

Tommy takes the bandana in his hands, sits back on his haunches, and laughs. He laughs where no one can hear him, he laughs instead of sobbing, he laughs and starts as just a chuckle before he’s giggling and breathless, laughing in a way he hasn't since- since he could remember. 

And he realizes something. Since when was TommyInnit dead ?

Since when did people stay one way their entire lives? Since when did his experiences ruin him, kill him for good, because as far as Tommy can tell, he’s still fucking here, isn't he? There was no burial. There was no gravestone, there was no body, there was no “boy he used to be” because he’s still here .

And yeah, he’s a little worse for wear, really, a few rips and tears. Maybe he’ll never be the same again, but why does he have to be? He’s not fucking dead yet, is he? Tommy has all the time in the world to live, and as long as that’s true, it's not over.

He’s not stopped fighting, he’s not stopped living, even at his lowest fucking point he has struggled through with bloodied hands and broken bones, Tommy is still here . He is not lost. He is not ruined. And when he thought he had buried himself for good, there was no body in that coffin . 

The laughing begins to die down to little hiccups, but he’s not done.

“You son of a bitch!” he shouts gleefully, into the sky, to Dream, to the gods that made his life this fucked up, to anybodies who’s listening. Tommy shakes his head, pushes back the cowl of his cloak, lets the rain fall into his hair and his face. Tommy stands, shakily, but still standing, and laughs at the cruel joke he almost fell for. “Y-You had me for a minute there,” he says, clenching his fists.

“You had me believe I was dead and buried, you had me believe that the person I used to be is lost, you had me believe that I could never come back from this, but guess what motherfucker! ” he shouted to the sky, spreading his arms, smiling into the clouds.

“Tommy’s not dead! He’s right fucking here, he’s me! I'm the one who suffered through the revolution, i'm the one who watched Wilbur lose his mind, i'm the one who had my world turned to dust, i'm the one who you tried to break, and I'm the one who fucking made it, you bastards!”

His voice is hoarse now, and he doesn't care, it doesn't matter. “I am the Tommy who’s too loud, and too angry, and too annoying, and too me, but that's not gonna change any time fucking soon, goddamn it all! I'm gonna be me, and I'm gonna be here, and I don't care if it's going to be hard, I don't care if it's going to hurt, because I'm still here. So take that, bitch. Take. That.”

He stops, panting in the rain as the sun starts to rise.

And rather plainly, it hurts. And it's gonna hurt again. But it's gonna get good again too.

Besides, he thinks with a smile, walking away from the ruins of Logstedshire and back to his friends.

As long as i'm here, that's a victory already, isn't it?